#means that thoughts lingers and echos without actually a place to resolve them

[icharchivist]

I'm glad you think of us trying to bully you as a safe space <3

BUT I DO!!!!!!!!!

Bullying from anons warm and cozy, oh to be tormented by people who knows which buttons to press and use this knowledge specifically to make you flustered, happy, and feeling silly. what's not to like!!

But honestly tho, i almost mentioned in the other ask i got today about whether i'm okay with my blog becoming an ask blog like this, but then i didn't bc i thought it might be mean spirited, but now i'm right back on it-- is that one undeniable perk of the anon is that i actually check my dash far less now.

And while there will always be content i will miss seeing (especially information post about irl issues which i do think are important to be aware of, or good arts, or what people i like on here are up to), by god am i not missing reading negative petty fandom stuff.

Even things i agree with leave me with a major bad taste in my mouth because when it's all you see, it just ends up being like poison tainting everything else.

Being able to take a step back, mostly enjoying the things you enjoy, and having the negative stuff being something you discuss with yourself, is much more freeing at the end of the day.

So in the end just genuinely messing around, being silly, making fun HCs just because why the fuck not, is really so, so much more enjoyable to me.

Like, sure, i've been scarred beyond repair by some stuff shared here, but that's the price to pay -- but in the end since i'm having fun, what's not to like yaknow?

so like, i actually genuinely appreciate the anons, they do stop me from doomscrolling and spiraling on most day because everytime it pulls me back into some comfort zone, even if it's to terrorize me in it. Sometimes it can take a bit for me to go back to the headspace needed to answer the anons -- but i take that, everyday, over just reading negative stuff that just ends up leave me spiraling alone with my thoughts yaknow?

So, actually, thanks y'all for deciding to terrorize my inbox -- this is, without a doubt, the best thing that ever happened to me 💞💞

[delimeful]

taking the fall (4)

warnings: pain, injury, mentions of captivity

-

Roman woke to throbbing pain in his leg and an uncannily soft surface below him.

He resisted the urge to groan theatrically as he was unwillingly dragged back to consciousness, and then resisted the urge to groan harder as he recalled just what had happened before he passed out.

He’d been seen. After all his careful planning, his little one-in-a-lifetime excursion had still landed him in the hands of a human. He wasn’t fool enough to believe that Logan had left him alone just because he’d fallen out of sight for a moment and then passed out like a wimp who couldn’t even handle a little bone-breaking.

Humans often lived in blissful ignorance, but not ‘lack of object permanence’ levels of it. Logan had definitely seen him fall, and odds were that he was now in the human’s clutches. Which was bad.

Tiny furniture hobbies aside, the guy was a textbook nerd, which was only barely a step down from an actual scientist. Roman wouldn’t be surprised at all if he woke up in one of those clear glass vials that scientists were always using on TV. Would that be better or worse than a jar? Probably worse, but if he could tip it over…

He dragged his thoughts away from the hypotheticals, well aware that he was stalling. Whatever he was laying on now, it certainly wasn’t glass.

Hesitantly, he peeked one eye open a tiny bit.

A pillow. It looked absolutely bizarre from this angle, his body just barely heavy enough to sink in and cause a few wrinkles in the fabric, but it was still recognizable as one of the huge fluffy pillows that normally rested on the human’s bed.

He turned his head a little further, and found that the pillow was on the desk that he’d previously taken a dive off of. The miniature set was still present to one side, surprisingly enough. Perhaps less time than he thought had passed, if it hadn’t been sent off to wherever Logan had promised to take it yesterday?

Or perhaps Logan had decided to forgo that responsibility in favor of his exciting new discovery. Roman shuddered.

“Hello? Are you awake?”

The voice nearly made Roman jump out of his skin, and he couldn’t help but freeze guiltily, totally giving away his awakeness. He craned his head up and saw that Logan was sitting on the desk chair, pushed back a few feet from the desk, a tiny dresser in one hand and a paintbrush in the other.

That was… considerably less menacing than he’d been expecting. “What are you doing?”

Logan blinked at him, nonplussed. “Wood detailing?”

Roman squinted at him suspiciously, trying to figure out what nefarious plans one could enact with the details of a tiny dresser. Perhaps it was supposed to be a part of some sick enclosure that the human was designing for him? He had wanted Roman to talk about the chair, of all things, so maybe he needed a tiny victim to test out his furniture.

That wasn’t exactly torture, but he still needed to escape. His presence here risked every other borrower in the building and out of it. Growing more somber, he testingly shifted his leg, trying to figure just how effective the human-applied splint actually was.

… Ouch.

“Is it sufficient?” Logan asked, unknowingly echoing his thoughts as he leaned over slightly to peer down at him. Roman pulled on his fiercest scowl, and was gratified to see the human retreat slightly. “I have pain medicine, but I was uncertain about the proper dosage, so I decided to wait until you woke up to see what you wanted to do.”

“Oh, I just bet you want me to take pain medicine,” Roman shot back sharply, ignoring the fairly nonsensical nature of what he’d just said. Like he was helping a human figure out the best ways to drug a borrower!

“... I do?” Logan replied, sounding downright confused by his hostility. “Normally, I would encourage anyone with injuries as significant as yours to seek out professional medical attention, but after witnessing your fear of me, I assumed that you would prefer to not be exposed to more humans.”

“I wasn’t afraid!” Roman snapped indignantly, and then paused as the rest of that spiel caught up with him. He was unspeakably glad that the human hadn’t been dumb enough to waltz into a human sickbay with him, but-- “I would prefer to not be exposed to you, either, BFG!”

“BFG?”

“Big Frustrating Giant!”

Logan looked dubious, but carefully averted his gaze. It wasn’t what Roman had meant, but those huge eyes being off of him were admittedly a relief. He shuffled his body to the side slightly, trying to ignore the sharp pains from jostling his leg.

“I will remind you, you are the one who came into my apartment, not the other way around,” Logan said, frowning slightly but keeping his eyes locked on the furniture in his hand. “Why were you there?”

“I’m afraid it’s none of your business,” Roman sniffed haughtily, ignoring the way his heart had sped up in his chest at the idea of making the human angry.

“Apologies, I don’t mean my apartment. I’ve already discerned that you likely find sustenance and other helpful items in human living spaces, going by the ease with which you traverse large terrain and the repurposed human items that make up your belongings,” Logan clarified, casual as anything. “I was asking why you were in my stage miniature. There is no food in it, and you must know that I would notice if anything went missing.”

Roman stared at him, feeling the blood drain from his face at the offhand way that the human had correctly guessed a lot about how borrowerkind survived, all from Roman’s unconscious presence.

It was beans like this that the rules had been designed for, so of course he would be the one to catch Roman. He set his jaw, resolving not to say anything else that might give anything away to this wannabe Sherlock.

-

Logan glanced up from the layer of drying varnish that he’d been staring at for the past thirty seconds, wondering if maybe the tiny person had fallen back into unconsciousness.

But no, despite their silence they were still awake and glaring at him, brow furrowed and arms crossed firmly. He tilted his head curiously, trying to indicate that he was listening, but it seemed they didn’t plan to answer at all.

“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine,” he said, hurriedly looking back to the miniature he was fiddling with in an effort to not stress the tiny person out any further. “I simply wanted to see if there was anything you needed that I could provide you, since I’m partially responsible for your injury.”

“Partially?” they echoed, incredulous.

Logan nodded. “I startled you, and your attempt to flee led to injury. I should have known better than to move so quickly, particularly with the disparity in our sizes.”

“That was a strategic retreat,” they emphasized, “and you never would have caught me if you’d moved slowly. I’ll have you know I’m no slouch.”

Caught them…?

“My intention wasn’t to grab you,” he said. “I was reaching for one of the chairs to try and compare the scale. If it was incorrect, it would have been obvious when put side by side with you.”

“Yes, yes, I already guessed that you have nefarious furniture-related plots for your poor captive, you don’t have to explain it.” They were rolling their eyes when Logan glanced at them, and seemed to be an inch or two away from where he’d originally placed them on the pillow.

It felt to Logan as though they were talking cross-ways, even more so than his usual pop culture reference confusion(and didn’t it just figure that a tiny person that lived in the walls was more familiar with human colloquialisms than him?) during conversation. Perhaps it was due to their less than fortuitous first meeting?

“It seems like there might be some misconceptions here,” he tried. “I’m not keeping you captive.”

The stranger lifted a skeptical eyebrow, spreading their arms to gesture at the surrounding area. “Aren’t you, though?”

Logan followed the gesture, eyebrows drawn in. As far as he knew, a pillow on top of his desk hadn’t turned into an impenetrable prison within the last few moments. “No. I’m not.”

“So if I were to, say, walk out right now, you’d just be all peachy-keen with it?” they asked, almost condescending in their doubt. “You wouldn’t try to stop me from leaving?”

Logan paused, a firm denial on the tip of his tongue. “Are there others like you nearby?”

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say, going by the way their tiny hands went white-knuckled for a moment.

“No,” they answered mulishly, “I’m the only one of my kind. And I’ll have you know, if there were others-- which there’s not-- I would never sell out my hypothetical fellows for my own freedom!”

“That’s…,” Logan sighed, deciding not to mention how incredibly dubious he was of the likelihood that there was only one of a species. “That’s not what I meant. You clearly pursue an active lifestyle, I just wanted to ensure that there would be someone to support you and help you recover from your injuries. You won’t be able to even walk on that limb for a fair bit of time without permanently damaging it.”

Logan thought for a moment that he’d gotten through to them, witnessing the way trepidation lingered in their expression when they looked down at their leg, but then they shook their head firmly.

“That’s just an excuse! I know that you’re planning on keeping me, humans always do. I’d rather deal with a permanent limp than be a pet in one of your little dollhouses,” they spat, vitriol in every word. “So either let me go or admit your foul plans!”

The words were sharp, designed to incite, but Logan was used to scanning for the tiniest of flaws in his work, and he could spot the subtle signs of fear that his tiny visitor was just barely concealing. Clenched fists to hide shaking hands, the curl to their shoulders that suggested they wanted to curl up defensively, even their expression wobbled slightly when Logan spent a moment too long looking at them.

He took a deep breath, trying to ease the tension in his own frame and put them a little more at ease. An impossible task, considering they expected him to-- to know that they were a talking, feeling person and try to ‘keep them’ anyhow, but it helped clear his head.

“What will it take?” he asked, keeping his voice even.

“Um, what?” they asked, thrown off.

“To get you to stay here, just until you heal. I’m asking this of you, so it’s only reasonable that you ask for something in exchange,” Logan said. “If we can’t come to an agreement, I’ll leave you to your own devices, but there has to be something you want badly enough to remain here for a few weeks.”

“And what, you’ll just give it to me and let me leave after I’m all healed up?” they asked, continuing their trend of acting like a future in which he acted with normal human decency was an impossibility.

“Yes,” Logan answered, as earnest as he could manage. “That’s part of the arrangement. I would also like to know your name and pronouns, though that is secondary to being allowed to treat you.”

“What if I said you weren’t allowed to grab me? Or touch me at all?” they asked.

“That would be acceptable,” Logan replied without hesitation, mentally trying to figure out how non contact would alter a treatment plan.

“And you… you aren’t allowed to take notes on me! Or pictures!” they continued, watching him intently. He kept his expression agreeable, only nodding. “And you have to give me food, you can’t withhold it or make it part of another deal.”

“Medical treatment for someone on bedrest also includes things like meals and mental enrichment,” Logan replied, concealing the displeasure he felt at the idea that someone else would have tried that in his position. He really did hope these were all hypotheticals.

“And… and…,” they cast about, looking for something else to add to their ‘ridiculous’ demands, “I also want a sword!”

Logan paused, admittedly caught off guard. “A functional one?”

“Yeah-- yes, that's right! I want a sword perfectly sized to me, entirely functional, or the deal is off!” they replied, smug as though they thought they’d finally found something he’d refuse.

Unfortunately for him, Logan wasn’t the type to be deterred by a challenge. “I’ll have to go through some prototypes, but it can’t be too different from some metal decor I’ve worked on in the past.”

“Sorry, what now?” they asked.

Logan was already reaching for a post-it to jot down ideas for the base source of metal-- A nail? Or perhaps a piece of old silverware?-- eyes bright with anticipation. “I’m saying that you have a deal. You’ll stay here, and I’ll make you a sword.”

Caught up in schematics as he was, he completely missed his guest’s exasperated groan.

[wesimpforxiao]

Say My Name, and I’ll Be There: 2.2

"We're here," Zhongli nodded approvingly as he soaked in their surroundings.  "The hidden pools of Huaguang Stone Forest."

"I never would have guessed something like this was hidden here," Aether marveled at the sight before him.  "This world truly is beautiful."

Indeed it was.  Zhongli had led them to an underground cavern that held glowing pools of water.  The space was illuminated by tens of geo crystalflies floating about, mostly because they didn't know the way out of the cave.  The entrance was at the base of one of the several stone pillars erected into the sky, hidden behind layers of vine.

"Paimon didn't know this existed, either!" Her eyes sparkled as bright as the crystalflies.  "Could you imagine how much mora could be made off of this tourist spot?!"

"These mineral pools date back several millennia.  Many gods used to use this as a sort of vacation spot or to heal injuries received from battles--"  He turned to look at you, "--which is why I thought to bring you here.  The medicinal properties of these pools will remove any lingering soreness in your leg."

"T-thank you, Mr. Zhongli."  You bowed, your face heating up from the awkwardness you felt.

"It's a little warm in here, don't you think?"  Childe pulled at his collar with annoyance.  He had returned from his homeland in order to travel with Aether, so he was still getting adjusted to the warmer weather of Northern Liyue.  Sweat dripped from his brow.

"Indeed, the spring months have begun to warm the cavern.  In the summer, it acts as a sauna." Zhongli removed his gloves and trailed his fingers across the surface of the water.

"Well it's a good thing it's not summer," Childe let out a laugh of relief.  He started unbuttoning his top and removed it altogether.

"T-tartaglia!" You yelped and hurriedly faced the opposite direction.  "You can't just--"  Your objections were interrupted by Zhongli and Aether also removing their shirts.  "You too?!"

"Paimon doesn't see the problem! They're baths, right?"

"Paimon is correct.  Is it not common courtesy to remove one's clothes to bathe and relax?"  Zhongli retied his hair and looked at you from his peripheral vision.  

"I-I mean...you're right, but..."  Your eyes landed on Xiao, who was the only one of your teammates that kept their clothes on.  "I'm the only girl on the team and--"

"I'll cut them if they so much as look in your direction," Xiao conjured his lance and set it beside him to prove he was serious.

"We wouldn't do that!" Aether winced at the echoed sound of the lance hitting the stone floor.  He hopped into one of the three luminescent pools.

Zhongli was indifferent as he lowered himself into another one of the pools.  He watched the crystalflies floating around before closing his eyes.  Childe, on the other hand, scoffed at Xiao.

"I see what you're doing, yaksha.  Trying to play the nice guy so you can get a peek for yourself, are you?"  Sharp eyes lingered over Xiao.

Xiao didn't take the bait and remained silent.  He knew all too well what the Harbinger was trying to do.  

"Hmph.  Thought so," Childe resumed his normal composure and joined Zhongli in the pool.

"You should get in.  You won't have to ride my back anymore."  Xiao briefly glanced your way before picking his lance up and facing the pools to make sure no one--mainly Childe--would try to watch you.

"O-okay," you hesitantly began to move.  You hid behind a large slate of rock and removed your clothes with unsteady hands.  Once down to your underwear, you quickly moved to the empty pool with your back facing your teammates.  You pulled your knees to your chest since the dim light of the cavern was still bright enough to illuminate your bare skin.  

The water was as clear as glass, and you could see a faint blue glow around your wound that was coupled with a ticklish tingling.  The dull ache was gone in nearly an instant.  You were too busy staring at the glowing water to notice that Paimon had joined you.

"Wow, so it really works! Paimon loves this place!"  She plopped herself into the water fully dressed without a care in the world.  "Hey Xiao, are you gonna join the rest of us?"

"I have no need for this luxury," he answered.

"Vigilant Yaksha," Paimon muttered under her breath.

"Paimon! The cabbages!" Aether warned.

"Oh! Uh, right!  Sorry Xiao!"

"This is nicer than I expected," Childe sunk into the pool until only his head remained above water.  "I can feel all the tension leaving my body."

"Yes, it is quite relaxing."  Zhongli answered without opening his eyes.

You finally gathered the courage to ask yourself.  "Are you sure you don't want to join us, Xiao?  It's nice to relax every once in awhile."

"I...have no need."  Childe and Zhongli picked up on the hesitant answer, the latter finally opening his eyes to sneak a peek at Xiao's face.  Did his resolve just weaken over the fact that it was you who asked him?  The yaksha stood up straighter as if he noticed Zhongli's thoughts.  "It is not in my contract with Rex Lapis. I will do no such thing."

Zhongli let out a low chuckle at this.  "Very well then."

I guess it was worth a try, you thought to yourself, still oblivious to the fact that Xiao had actually considered your proposal.  Wait, why did you feel bummed out from his answer?  It wasn't like you were trying to get him naked--though the thought did bring a blush to your cheeks.  

A splash to the back of your head interrupted your embarrassing thoughts.  "Hey!"  You spun around and peeked over the small wall that acted as the barrier for the next pool over.  Childe was grinning mischievously at you.

"Why don't you join us over here?"

"No thank you!"  You flushed red and sunk back into your pool.  You knew he got a rise out of messing with you.  Another splash of water enveloped you.  "Childe, I swear--"

"Oops," he said unconvincingly.

You nearly got up to splash him back, but stopped yourself just before you rose over the wall--you realized you'd be giving every guy in the room a sight to behold if you went through with your revenge.  You returned to your original position with a huff.  "Ugh, just screw off and let me be already!"

So that's the angle you're playing at, Xiao narrowed his eyes at the Harbinger.  Since he was still standing in the same spot, he accidentally got a view of your side rising out of the water.  "I suppose I'll join you after all."

"Oh?" Zhongli opened one eye to address the adeptus.  "What changed your mind?"

"Nothing."

You blushed and looked the other way as Xiao removed his clothes and joined the pool they were in.  He sat so that he was the closest one to you, with your backs facing one another.  He had conveniently sat in Childe's line of fire so he couldn't provoke you further.  A cold look passed over the Harbinger's face before he looked away.

Xiao's actions didn't go unnoticed by the previous Geo Archon.  Zhongli could feel the tension between his subordinate and the Fatui agent and closed his eyes once again.  She may not have noticed, but Xiao has grown rather fond of her these past few months.  His actions speak more than he does.  He stole a peak at the annoyed Harbinger.  This may pose problems for the group though...this may ignite a fuse.  Or perhaps he has another motive for antagonizing the girl?

[qqueenofhades]

... Remember the Russian Revolution au? Which ended with Fedyor's sister very sick and Fedyor searching for Ivan in hopes of getting help for her from him? Fedyor finding Ivan and offering to do "anything" in exchange for his sister's medical treatment? Ivan secretly wanting Fedyor, but refusing to take what he wants like that? Soooo... I would also like the big the big 3 of your coming projects to happen, but... y'know... just.... wanted to bring this au up again... ;)

Behold, the oft-requested follow-up to the first two Russian Revolution au ficlets. Ahem.

Fedyor does not sleep that night. He does not even think about sleeping. He only leaves the army headquarters long enough to think hard about what he is proposing to do, wonder if it is worth it, and decide that it is. Katya needs the medicine, he has no other recourse, and he is categorically unwilling to return home to his family as a failure, when they have placed all their trust and hope in him. Ivan has hinted that he might be able to obtain it, and so that, no matter what it takes, is what Fedyor will have to get him to do. And for that…

He knows that he is not unattractive. He has dark eyes, dark hair, a dimpled smile, a personable and friendly manner that, in happier times, attracted the attention of many an eligible young lady who wished to ice skate or promenade around the park or take a carriage ride, as courting Russian couples are wont to do. However, while Fedyor was perfectly happy to chat with ladies, or escort them to a ball, or fulfill his essential chivalric duty, he was not otherwise interested in wooing them. It was partly for that reason that he signed up to the military, where an enterprising young man can have other opportunities in the darkness of the barracks. So long as his family was kept conveniently unaware.

For all that the Bolsheviks have overthrown the government without a clear plan as to what to do next, and accordingly plunged them all into this miserable civil war, Fedyor does secretly sympathize with certain of their beliefs on the remaking of family life. They say that marriage is outdated and bourgeoisie, that monogamy is unnatural, that women should not be subject to patriarchal systems, and that homosexuality is an equally valid state of nature. Such a possibility of sexual classification and divergence is much discussed in Europe these days, and there is even a small but growing scholarly literature, written by eminent scientists. Sexual Inversion by Havelock Ellis, published in 1896, argues that the man-loving man is indeed even a possibly improved form of human, associated with superior intellectual and artistic achievement, and that nothing about his attachment is wrong or abnormal. Two years before that, Edward Carpenter wrote Homogenic Love, and in 1900, the German Elisar von Kupffer published an anthology of homosexual poetry, Lieblingminne und Freundesliebe in der Weltliteratur. Such texts are relatively easy for an educated, French- and English- speaking young Russian intellectual, such as Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky, to lay his hands on. He is not sure what can come of it, but at least he knows that he is not alone.

The question remains as to Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov’s proclivities. Unless Fedyor is very much mistaken, Ivan was at least considering the possibility of accepting his offer, and turned it down for honorable, moral reasons, feeling it unjust to sexually extort a young gentleman in exchange for his sister’s care, rather than physical horror at the idea of such a coupling. If he’s a Bolshevik, he’s probably acceptably tolerant of their philosophy on an abstract level, but it’s less clear as to whether that extends to its personal practice. If Fedyor turns up in his bunkhouse – which, come to think of it, is probably shared, curse these Bolsheviks and their dratted communality, highly inconvenient for a midnight seduction attempt – scantily clad and willing, will Ivan’s objections hold out then? Or… or what?

Fedyor doesn’t know, but the uncertainty adds to the frisson of shameful excitement, rather than detracting from it. He searches through the streets of Chelyabinsk for some bread (it does not seem in much greater supply than in Nizhny Novgorod) and waits for the sun to go down. In March, the days, though getting steadily longer, are still short and chilly, and it’s bitingly cold when it gets dark. Then he pulls up his muffler, tells himself not to be unduly precious about it, and heads for the makeshift army quarters on Kirovka Street.

The buildings in downtown are beautiful, built in the Russian Revival style of neo-Byzantinian splendor, though the onion-domed Orthodox churches have all been converted into stables and armories, and anything that whiffs of an ideology contrary to the Red one has been economically discarded. Fedyor reaches the door, knocks, and when a disgruntled sergeant comes to answer it, expecting him to be a soldier out too late and in line for a ticking-off, Fedyor raises his hands apologetically. “I’ve come to join up,” he says. “The great socialist cause of the world’s workers is the only true one for a patriotic Russian man, and I vow it my full allegiance, if you will have me. I was speaking to my friend earlier, Ivan Ivanovich, and he suggested it. Is he still here?”

The sergeant eyes him squiggle-eyed, but they cannot afford to look gift horses too closely in the mouth, or turn aside willing recruits. It takes a while, but he shouts for someone who shouts for someone else, and this finally produces the startled personage of Ivan Sakharov, who clearly thought it was for the last time when they parted several hours ago. Upon sight of Fedyor, he stops short, looking alarmed, angry, and wary all at once. “What are you – ?”

“Can we talk?” Fedyor is resolved to do this, he truly is, but he feels it best to get it over with before that wavers in any degree. Whether he wants it too little does not seem like the problem; on the contrary, he fears that he wants it too much, and if he stops to reflect on it or delude himself with any nonsensical notions of it being more than once, that can only hurt the cause. “Somewhere… private?”

Ivan hesitates, as if asking to commune out of sight of the others is tantamount to heresy (though it’s not as if these damn hypocrites didn’t plot in secret, away from their own countrymen, for months and months, Fedyor thinks angrily). Then he jerks his head. “Fine. Five minutes. This way.”

He leads Fedyor up a few narrow, creaking staircases, past closed doors that echo with snorting and snoring and coughing, the cacophony of his comrades, none of whom seem to be enjoying their glorious victory quite as much as they thought. Ivan, however, appears to be sufficiently high-ranking in the Red Guards that the room they finally arrive at, though not much larger than a closet, is at least private. It reminds Fedyor forcibly of Ivan’s room back in St. Petersburg, the one they slept in together, that first night after the Winter Palace. It sounds more intimate in his recollections than it actually was. Nothing happened, of course. But Ivan was kind to offer it, kind when he did not need to be, when a young tsarist soldier alone in the ferment of riot and revolution, such as Fedyor was, would not be likely to see the new red dawn. It is that which Fedyor keeps in mind as he shuts the door with assumed casualness, then turns around, meets Ivan’s eye in a significant fashion, and shrugs off his coat, cap, and muffler. Then, unmistakably, starts to unbutton his shirt.

He has almost gotten to the bottom by the time Ivan, who is staring at him as if he’s lost his marbles (it is unclear if this is an encouraging fashion or not) finally recovers his sense. He strides forward and covers Fedyor’s hands with his own large, callused rifleman’s fingers, sending a shock of attraction burning through Fedyor from head to toe, along with the death of any more illusion that he could continue to be casual about this. “What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Fedyor’s throat is as dry as a bone, but he forces himself to speak. “I said that I would do anything for my sister’s care, if you would help.”

He lingers suggestively on the word anything, just as he did before, in case there was any doubt (as if the undressing wasn’t enough) what he means here. Ivan looks like a cornered bear, but as his eyes catch Fedyor’s and flick across the lean, muscled torso thus revealed beneath the shirt, he swallows hard and has to glance away. The attraction trembles silently in the air between them, tense as a piano string, tuned to snapping. In the old days, that is, when people played pianos, and did not burn them for firewood, as Fedyor’s parents were preparing to do with theirs when he left home. It chokes raw and painful in his throat. He is attracted to Ivan – desperately attracted, in fact – and yet he still hates what the Bolsheviks have done, even if the Romanovs and the Provisional Government were no better. The deposed Tsar Nicholas II is under house arrest with his wife and five children, the four tsarevnas and the tsarevich, in Yekaterinburg. Little sick Alexei Romanov, whose hemophilia opened the door for Grigori Rasputin to control the queen, the royal household, the government of Russia, and so bring about the end of their house. He was like something from a fairytale monster, that Grisha. The rumors of his death, not quite two years ago in December 1916, is that it almost did not happen, he was so hard to kill. A demon. A beast.

“You cannot do this,” Ivan says, his voice too rough, his eyes still struggling to remain decorously averted. “It is not – it is not right.”

“Not right?” Fedyor flares. “So a little spot of armed treason and overthrowing the man who, however deficient he might be, was the heir of one of the oldest and greatest empires in the world? That part was entirely aboveboard, but this, when you want this – don’t lie to me, I’m well aware you do – to help my sister? That would be a sin?!”

Ivan backs up a step, glancing around shiftily. These walls are thin, and he clearly does not want his beloved brothers-in-arms to hear this. “Fedyor Mikhailovich – ”

“Have me.” Fedyor is done playing games. “I’m here, I’m yours for the taking. You can do whatever you want to me, as long as you give me the medicine at the end.”

For a long, spellbound moment, he thinks Ivan is on the brink of agreeing. Then once again, he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I could not in good conscience consent to this. But I will fetch you the medicine. You do not have to give me anything in return.”

Fedyor gawks at him, shocked – and, it must be confessed, more than a little disappointed. “I thought it was fair trade,” he says. “Tit for tat.”

“It is…” Ivan shakes his head, eyes once more straying to Fedyor’s bare chest. “Button your shirt up,” he says, half-laughing, not angry, breathless and soft. “It is very distracting.”

“Good.” Fedyor takes another step. “I think you deserve it, you obnoxious bastard.”

“Be that as it may.” At least Ivan has the good sense not to dispute it. “I cannot do this,” he repeats, more gently. “You are a fine young man, Fedyor Mikhailovich. Perhaps in another life… but it would not be honorable to trade your virtue for this.”

“My virtue?” Fedyor has to laugh. “What makes you think I have that?”

Once again, Ivan wavers. But to give him (loathing) credit, he will not be swayed. “Button it,” he repeats. “I will arrange to have the money and medicine sent by your lodging by tomorrow, if you give me an address in the city.”

“I don’t have one.” Fedyor folds his arms. “Only here.”

Ivan looks even more startled. His lips part, he takes a step forward, and for a brief, wild, exquisite yearning of an instant, Fedyor thinks he is actually going to kiss him. They’re almost close enough – not quite, but almost – for it to happen. Then Ivan says, “Your family must be very proud of you.”

“I…” It catches in his throat. “I don’t know. I hope.”

“I would,” Ivan says. “I would be.”

And that, somehow, is all that seems to matter. Even as Fedyor spends a night in Ivan’s narrow camp cot of a bed, Ivan insisting on taking the hard floor out of an excess of gallantry, an echo of their first night in St. Petersburg. Ivan does as ordered, gives Fedyor some rubles and some medicine and a train ticket back home to Nizhny Novgorod. He personally escorts Fedyor to the train station to make sure he does not come to grief, then stands on the platform, staring after him like Vronsky watching Anna leave one more time. The train begins to huff and puff, spitting soot and embers, and Fedyor keeps his nose pressed to the glass, leaving a smudge, until long after, as it seems he is never destined to do anything but, Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov has vanished into the mist.

[cherryplasmids]

☆ the lives you’ve left behind ☆

pairing: donny donowitz x reader

fandom: inglourious basterds—post-movie sequence

anon request: hi girl! i love your writing and i was wondering if you still write for donny donowitz? if you do i was wondering if you could do an angsty one? that's all i ask, you could take that and run with it however :)

notes: the reader has a kid  — aldo is referred to the reader’s child as ‘uncle’ but that doesn’t mean they are actually related. also, aldo is married to a girl name jenny

— the child is a boy named Alex for filler purposes

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"That's your daddy," You whisper, pulling the tiny bundle of joy closer to your chest. 

The infant, swaddled in a pale yellow blanket decorated with small brown bears, yawns but does not take notice of your words. Instead, Alex twists, stretches his arms out and settles back onto your chest. Without a care in the world, he just relaxes in the warmth that you've given him. An inkling of envy flashes through you—you would do anything to be that carefree again. But the war ruined everything, including your unbridled youthful attitude. 

"Handsome, isn't he?" You question as if the little one will respond. You'd be more scared than anything if he does. You wave the 4x6 photo forward to entice your baby to look. "The most handsome man I've ever seen. Everyone thinks so too, even your uncle Aldo but he won't admit to that.

"But don't worry, baby. You'll be just as handsome and charming as your old man was." 

As if he understands, the boy babbles happily, spit freely spilling over his lips and onto his cheeks. Grabbing a Kleenex from the bedside table, you wipe his face. It doesn't deter him. He continues to express his enjoyment through spit bubbles and random giggling. Your heart swells at the sight—his happiness contagious enough to erase your woes for the night. 

When the sun rises, you'll tell Aldo all about the affection your newborn has been showing. He'll run down the street to coddle his nephew. 

You don't continue until your baby boy calms down enough to the point where spit no longer seeps out of his mouth. By then, sleepiness is taking hold of him. He gives out a deep yawn. One of his tiny hands grips your right thumb while the other curls into a fist and rubs his eyes. A smile quirks at your lips. You take that as a sign to turn in. 

“I’ll tell you about your daddy’s love for baseball tomorrow okay? I’ll even show you his prized baseball cards. but you can’t tell him or he’ll have my head.”

He’s knocked out by the time you lay him down. You pray he’ll sleep through the night, allowing you to earn to some much-needed shut-eye he’s deprived you of for months. After tucking him in, you tuck the photo of Donny under his pillow. You press a gentle kiss on his forehead, whisper a few sweet words to him, and then glide out of the room, leaving the door ajar in case he wails for your attention. You make do with this system until Jenny, Aldo's wife, takes you shopping for a baby monitor. She knows a lot more about baby care than you do.

Sleepiness is taking you hostage too with a yawn escaping your lips every 1-2 minutes but you had housework to complete before the morning arrives. Mostly just clearing out boxes of gifts the Donowitz family had sent from Boston. Some of them were open, others weren’t. Gifts like a microwave or other kitchenware were left in their respective box. You’ll deal with those on a later date. 

There’s one box, though, that remains sealed. You inspect the plain cardboard container and see a word written across one side in neat cursive. But it isn’t the penmanship that has you gasping and dropping the box in shock.

No, it’s the word 'Donny' labeled across the surface that does.

It takes a moment or two for you to shake off the shock and another to get down to the ground. Sitting cross-legged, you stare at the box as if something will pop out and yell “surprise”—a harmful prank that will send you wailing for something you no longer had.

The knife seamlessly glides across the tape and you wonder when you reached for a knife in the first place. Your body is moving on its own accord without a thought concerning your mental wellbeing. While your heart thuds painfully against your ribcage, your hands steadily tear open the cardboard overlaps. 

Taking a deep breath, you open the flaps and find a single sheet of paper covering the rest of the objects. It reads “for my darling daughter, with much love.” It’s signed “Mama Donowitz”.

Underneath the letter reveals a boatload of miscellaneous items from Donny's youth that he's shown to you with pride. His prized Lefty Grove signed baseball, favorite Wrigley's chewing gum, and his worn and torn favorite baseball glove stood out the most. Little things like that made you grin to the point where your cheeks reached your eyes. Anecdotes of Donny's childhood run through your mind—his voice echoing pure excitement. You take your time admiring each item, trying to permanently engrave them into your memory just like you had with his stories. 

Then you find Donny's baby socks, embroidered with his name in red string.  All resolve you bottled up for months disappeared instantly. You completely crumble.

You press the little socks to your chest as tears freely stream down your face and onto your neck, coating the bare skin with liquid. A wail bubbles up within you, crawling up your throat at a steady pace. But when you open your mouth to scream, nothing comes out. It dies in your throat. The only effort you can commit to is to rock back in forth, allowing sobs to shake your body. If someone saw you, they might have thought you were convulsing. They might have even called the ambulance. 

The sobs don’t stop until hours later. By the time your heart calms down from its burning thrum, exhaustion envelops you. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

           Aldo kicks some dirt on the side of the road while lighting up a Chesterfield. It doesn't take long for him to reach your house since it's down the road. He checks his wristwatch before knocking on the front door. He has about 45 minutes to meet Jenny at the factory. He'll spend 15 minutes here for coffee before leaving. You always made better coffee than his wife. 

After some knocking and no response, Aldo takes it upon himself to check through the windows. Most of them are covered by curtains but the window facing the breakfast table isn't. He peers through, searching for you and his nephew wrapped in your arms. 

Instead, he finds you on the floor with no baby in sight. 

Aldo runs to the back door and searches for the hidden key. Besides the backdoor, he digs under the false rock where he remembered he put. It’s gone. The Chesterfield falls into the hole. He crushes it out and fixes the dirt on top. As an act of impulse, he stands up, goes to the backdoor, and punches out the small window panels on the door. The glass breaks easily and shards pierce his hand just as smoothly. Just glancing at it, he can tell his flesh is free from any lingering shards. A clean slice on his wrist bleeds moderately. 

He reaches on the opposite side of the door and tugs at the locks. Not a second later, the door slams open, and you shoot up in an upright position. 

Immediately, a fury of questions spews out of Aldo's lips, blending together and becoming unintelligible to your groggy brain. 

"Is it morning already? I swear I took a five-minute na—" You see Aldo's bleeding hand and gasp, reaching out to inspect his wound. Your current position on the floor completely escaping you for a moment. Aldo lets you worry for right now. 

You drag him up to the sink and run his hand over the open water. "Will I be alright, doc?" His odd accent leaves a few letters out. It reminds you of someone you try not to think about. "Ain't seen such a wound since the war."

Briefly glancing at him, he throws a wink and you gratefully smile. "You're the bane of my existence." You take his hand out of the water to wrap it in a big Band-Aid. It has crude miniature drawings of Mickey Mouse that make Aldo question them. "Just in case either your kids or mine get hurt, they'll immediately cheer up at seeing Mickey. Band-Aid should really invest in designing their product. Who knows how much money they could make?"

Aldo agrees as you finish. "You'll see another day, lieutenant"

He crookedly grins at you and thanks you for your service. You offer him some coffee which he enthusiastically agrees too. He checks his watch as he sits down at the breakfast table. Jenny will have his head if he's late. But he doesn't worry too much about that. She'll understand once he explains what happened. 

"Mind tellin’ me why I caught a heart attack on this fine Thursday mornin’? Findin’ you sprawled out like freshly ran over roadkill?"

"Disgusting, Aldo." You say while passing him his mug of coffee. You turn around to fix yourself a toasted bagel with cream cheese. "I guess I was so tired last night that I fell asleep sorting out the gifts." You lazily wave your hand at the unsorted boxes on the floor. 

Aldo walks over to the opened box in the middle of the kitchen and grabs the socks you dropped hours ago. He looks them over and notices a letter embroidered on the top. 'D' in red thread. 

"Those are Donny's." You confirm. Aldo meets your glazed gaze. 

Aldo sucks in a quick breath. It finally clicks in his head. Jenny will understand. 

“Darlin—" You look up at him with such a depressed expression that immediately shuts him up. All he does is gather you in his arms and rests his chin on your head.

 He hears you mumble something about how small Donny's feet were before you silently cry into his chest. 

After a few seconds, Aldo's cheeks become wet with his own tears as he mourns over not only his friend but the lives he left behind. 

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

word count: 1,661 published: august 21, 2020  edited: n/a

[peglarpapers]

Sarah Steel, harried and distracted and dragging both her feet and her children, drops Benzaiten Steel at his first dance lesson when he is three and a half years old and forgets to pick him up for two hours afterwards. Juno is there too, of course, but since he bruises his knee partway through and spends most of his time sitting against the wall sniffling Ben counts the dance lesson only as his. He furrows his brow and copies the teacher’s moves as well as his little limbs can and, for once, doesn’t fidget or yell or get into any mischief at all. He’s just as well-behaved when the worried receptionist tasked with minding the twins when their mother doesn’t arrive at the end of the forty-minute lesson sits them both down, wedged in the corner of the mirrored walls of the ballet studio, as she makes call after unanswered call to Sarah Steel’s comms. When Juno tries, time and again, to get up and explore the old studio building to hunt for ghosts or check for secret passages, Ben tugs him back down by his right hand with a breathless ‘watch, Juno’.

 Because the dancers in front of him are magic.

They must be, Benzaiten reasons, because even though they’re much more grown-up then he and Juno are he’s never seen any adults do things like this before. There is a boy who jumps so high that Ben has to crane his neck to watch from where he sits cross-legged, and a girl who swings another dancer over her head like he weighs nothing. Another girl throws her leg out and spins so many times that even Ben, who can count to fifteen which is five higher than Juno can, makes himself dizzy trying to count. When Sarah Steel arrives, heels clicking angrily on the polished hardwood floors of the foyer, yelling at the receptionist to fucking call her next time, she was working, how was she supposed to know the lesson was so fucking short, Ben lingers in the doorway to the ballet studio even as Juno throws his arm around their mother’s legs and squeezes tight, watching the magicians dance.

Sarah was entirely ready to badmouth the Halcyon Ballet Academy for the rest of her life and spend a few more creds on her rotating cast of babysitters, but after a stream of excited babbling from Ben and pestering from Juno after Ben promises to give him sole custody of the next toy their mother brings home, she keeps up paying for lessons, and is usually only late by twenty minutes or so remembering to collect them. Benzaiten cherishes those once-a-week lessons, and while Juno steals snacks out of the other kids’ bags and on one memorable occasion floods the bathrooms after trying to see how hard he can kick the water cooler, Ben mouths the names of the moves the instructor shows them and tries to copy the twirls and tiptoes of the older students without falling over too many times. The nice receptionist learns to tell the twins apart almost every time and calls him ‘Benten’ affectionately when she ruffles his hair.

 When Ben runs out of Sarah Steel’s office and to the safest place he can think of, it is the nice receptionist who finds him crying on the doorstep of the studio and brings him home, hand in hand.

 They move to Oldtown a few weeks later, and he never sees her, or Halcyon Dance Studio, again.

~~~

 After Sarah gets… bad, the Steel twins very quickly realise that if they want things other than bare essentials (and sometimes those, too, depending on the month) they’re going to have to get them themselves. For Juno, this means shoplifting Andromeda dolls from Oldtown’s one tiny, well-defended toy store (he gives Ben a Draco figurine for their eighth birthday, with the roaring voice box removed so it wouldn’t bother Sarah) and getting paid pocket change after starting a lunchtime fight club with Mick Mercury. For Benzaiten, it means developing the galaxy’s best smile, and it is while flashing this charming, lopsided grin to a very nice elderly couple as he slips his hand into their pockets methodically in search of interesting things to pilfer that he hears the music.

 Benten hasn’t heard music like this in a long time- the only songs he knows by heart are the ones he hears in commercials running on their fuzzy monitor at home- and it surprises him enough that he jerks abruptly away from the old man bending down to pinch his cheek, the creds clutched in his fist spilling out of his fingers and clattering loudly on the slick street. Before the very nice elderly couple can realise that the earnest little boy asking if they’d seen his mother was robbing them blind, Ben is running in the direction of the music.

 He’s not in Oldtown anymore- he’d snuck on a bus this morning and gone a district over to Stitch, slightly less decrepit and with slightly more to steal. The downside to his master plan to collect all the riches Hyperion City had to offer was that he didn’t actually know where he was going. This fact hit him three unfamiliar blocks away from the scene of his near-perfect crime, and dissolved instantly the second he saw the dancers.

 Benzaiten remembered vaguely that his long-ago dance lessons had been in ballet- some kind of old-Earth style, graceful and smooth and set to strange, ancient music. Whatever these dancers are doing, it’s not that- there’s an old comms hooked up to a speaker on the sidewalk blasting a neopop song so loudly Ben can feel it pounding in the tips of his fingers, and somebody’s battered cap lying haphazardly in front of it with a small pool of creds inside. It’s a far cry from bright lights and waxed floors, but he’s no less entranced by the six- no, seven- teenagers who slide and spin and one of them bends all the way backwards and flips back up again he thought they could only do that in movies- and suddenly, as usual when anything fun starts happening, the cops arrive.

 Out of habit borne of bearing witness to many a fight (especially those started by his twin) Benten slips into the closest nook he can find- a narrow, sticky alleyway, which exist everywhere in Hyperion City no matter how nice the district is- and peeks out silently as a gangly HCPD officer waves a blaster after the laughing group of dancers, who have packed up and run quickly enough that this can’t be their first run-in with the cops. Ben waits, back against the damp wall, until the angry yells fade, then dashes in the direction of the faint, still-playing music.

 These dancers have a studio too.

 Ben almost didn’t expect it, not with how at home they all seemed to be on their stage of scuffed shoes and chewing-gum pavement. But there it is- an old warehouse, with grubby carbon-fibre walls and a section of the roof covered by cheap blue tarps. He watches as the teenagers scurry in, whooping and laughing and elbowing each other, music changed now to something quieter but no less energetic, and makes a very big decision very quickly. He memorises the street names on either side of the corner the studio is on, takes a deep breath, and turns to find the closest bus station.

 Three weeks later, Benzaiten Steel stands at the open door of Stitch Dance Studios with resolve burning in his small face and weight bulging in his small pockets. When he marches inside, his footsteps echo with a vigour that can only be conjured by a very determined nine-year-old with a very big dream. He scans the room for an appropriate judge to whom he can plead his case, and finds one in the single biggest person he had ever seen sitting at a table, staring straight at him. Ben reaches into his pockets, and the resulting clatter of cash against the plastic of the desk is almost deafening- all four hundred and nineteen creds that Ben and Juno were able to scrounge from odd jobs and odd thefts and one nerve-wracking heist of Sarah Steel’s wallet after payday.

 Benzaiten flashes the person at the desk the galaxy’s best smile, and asks for however many lessons four hundred and nineteen creds will buy him.

 ~~~

 There is a run-down building in the heart of Oldtown.

 Actually, there are many, many run-down buildings in the centre, middle and outskirts of Oldtown, but none of those buildings matter to Benten because none of those buildings are going to be the Steel School of Dance like this one is.

 He has a vision. He’s going to buy the place off the city, renovate it within an inch of its life, hang all the awards its students are going to win along the wall of the lobby right next to the enormous trophy cases they’re going to need, stud the walls of every studio with speakers blasting every kind of music you can think of, hang polished mirrors from floor to ceiling and install barres made from real Earth wood. Then after he’s made a fortune and revolutionised the Solar system’s conceptions of what it means to be a dancer, he’s going to buy Mom a house and a therapist back in Halcyon Park and Juno a commissioner’s position in the HCPD and nobody will never have to deal with any bullshit ever again.

 Benten knows all of this for sure, because he’s already halfway there. He’s close to what he needs for a lease on the place, and if he cuts back on groceries just a little more he should be able to start cleaning it up properly in a year or two. Staying with Mom had not been… fantastic, but it had kept him from paying exorbitant rent and, more importantly, kept him close to Stitch and to teaching to pay off his own classes. Teaching, working, odd jobs, the occasional minor felony… they added up. He was tired, but they were adding up.

 God, he was tired.

 As soon as he found the energy to stand up, to climb down from the roof of the dilapidated building that would become the Steel School of Dance, to go home and try not to snap at Sarah for one more night, he would get back to work. But right now? Benzaiten Steel watches the reddish Martian sunset, dimmed behind the pearlescent sheen of the dome that protects Hyperion City, and allows himself to dream for a little longer. 

[lostinmysticfalls]

I Know Heaven’s a Thing - Javi x Fem!Reader

Summary: You’ve been an informant for Javier before but things between you have always remained strictly business. It’s been weeks since you’ve seen him and now he’s back at your doorstep but this time, it’s not intel that he seeks. 

Words: ~3k

Warnings: just smut, pwp

A/N: Title taken from lyrics of False God by Taylor Swift. I know heaven’s a thing, I go there when you touch me.

You said you wouldn't cross that line. Sleeping with his informants is his thing and everybody knows it. 

But he's standing at your door now—clearly having had more than one drink at the bar down the street—one hand resting on the doorframe, his deep brown eyes looking right at you. They're drunkenly happy but doleful, and you wish you could just ignore the way his presence makes your stomach flip and your heart patter from uncertainty. His lips press together, a little crooked smile appearing on his face.

"What are you doing here?" Your voice is hushed, afraid that your nosey neighbors will come out if you speak too loud. There’s a light chill outside that makes you shudder when it hits your skin, hair still wet from the shower you just took. 

You told him everything you knew a few weeks ago; as far as you’re concerned your work with him is done. 

He responds with a devilish grin that makes your heart stutter again, and devious glances that make your knees go weak. 

"I've been thinking…" 

"Oh no." Your response is almost automatic. “Drinking and thinking? That can’t be a good thing, Javi.” You quip, adjusting the robe around your nakedness and crossing your arms over your chest.  

He laughs. "I think you have the wrong idea about me.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. A similar discussion’s been had before, and the circumstances would be funny if you weren’t already feeling things that were pushing you further and further into that abyss of no return. The man can’t help it, he deserves credit for that. He’s incredibly handsome and charming, and equal parts soft and caring. A protector through and through, determined to always do what he thinks is right. You’d be stupid not to notice those qualities in him. It’s no wonder he has no trouble when it comes to women. 

That is, until you came along.

Your lost in your own thoughts, recounting the number of times he’s flashed you that gorgeous smile, when the sound of your name in his lips takes a hold of you. He says it with just the right amount of yearning, in that disarming low voice of his. The sound of it courses through you, straight to your core where it resonates in a heated echo. And you know then that the next thing you say to him will be what seals your fate. 

Go home. Is what you should have told him, but instead your brain makes you blurt out the warmest of invitations.

“Would you like to come in?” It rolls off your tongue effortlessly. 

He nods once as you open the door for him all the way and let him in.

Your place is small; a studio fit for just one person. The living room and the bedroom are practically the same thing and the kitchen is so small that two people would have trouble cooking at the same time. But it’s all you need and you’re happy with what you have. 

“Did I wake you?” He asks, as if this is the first time he thinks of asking. Like he hadn’t just been entertaining the idea for at least five minutes at the door and watched as you securely fastened your robe before letting him in. 

“No. I was actually about to make some tea.” You reply. “Want some? Or perhaps coffee would be a better option for you.” 

He smiles, following you into the kitchen and leaning back on the small counter as you pour water into a tea kettle. It gets set on the stovetop but never turned on because after a few seconds of neither of you saying anything, you stop what you’re doing to look at him. 

You’re riveted by his stance. The way he’s made himself right at home without a problem. Back against the counter’s edge, one outstretched foot crossed over the other, elbows propped on the counter top behind him as his eyes wander from your face down to your bare feet and then back up again. 

“Javi, seriously.” You huff. “What are you doing here?”

He straightens himself up now, clearing his throat before he speaks. This is likely the most vulnerable you can recall seeing him. He almost looks nervous, which is very uncharacteristic of him.

“I just wanted to see you.” 

“Why?”

He tilts his head, eyes going soft again. “Because I miss you.”  

You walk the short distance to him then, your eyes narrowing like it will help decipher his words better and provide a deeper meaning to what he’s saying.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” He admits.

You want to make light of the admission but it strikes a chord with you. You feel your pulse accelerate, your cheeks slightly blush, because goddamnit, you want to believe it. But there’s a little devil on your shoulder telling you that this is what Javi does, and what he really wants is just a quick fuck. It’s the one thing you haven’t given him yet. 

“Really?” Your tone is mocking, like you’re not buying a thing he’s saying. And you’re proud of yourself for sounding so calm and collected even though your insides are ablaze.

A rousing heat swirls in your belly, your chest is aching for his attention, every inch of you coveting his touch.  

Javi takes a couple steps toward you, one hand reaching for the side of your face. The moment his fingertips brush your cheek, you feel your pent up cravings ripple through your body, and realize then why you’d been so careful to avoid his touch. 

A barely audible moan involuntarily leaves your lips and the throbbing between your legs quickens just as fast as your resolve seems to be crumbling. 

You’re dying to kiss him. He’s so close you can smell the liquor on his warm breath—it would only take a little nudge.

“So I’m just what? Unfinished business?” You manage to ask, nuzzling the tip of his nose as he puts his hands on your waist, pulling you into him. 

He shakes his head. “I highly doubt things between you and me could ever be truly finished, sweetheart.”

A little sound leaves your throat as you crash your lips into him, unable to resist his magnetism any longer. The bristles of his mustache scrape your upper lip as he takes your bottom lip in his mouth, fervently sucking on it—becoming familiar with your taste. Your hands clutch his jacket, bringing him closer still before you quickly slip it off his shoulders with unrestrained desperation. Your lips part for him, surrendering to his wet and heated tongue, and granting him passage without a struggle.  

The desire and longing begins to unravel all at once. 

Your fingers, usually skilled and nimble, now too eager and shaky to remember how to undo buttons on a shirt. You do your best not to break away from the kiss as you untuck his shirt and then yank it off of him as fast as you can. Hands touching his skin and fingertips brushing the taut muscles of his chest before you make a dive for his neck. Your mouth encompasses his pulse, teeth grazing his skin until you hear him groan in satisfaction. Tongue licking the curvature of his neck up to his jaw as you begin sucking his earlobe. 

You can feel how hard his dick is beneath his jeans, the moment your bodies collide once again. A loud sigh erupts from you when you feel his sturdy hands cup your face, and he begins nipping at your lips one more time, teasing you further still. His fingers slowly trail down your neck and over your shoulders, taking with them the robe you’re wearing and letting it fall to the floor. It sends a shiver down your back, your whole body shakes from anticipation. 

Javi’s dark eyes trace your naked form as he licks his lips, and you swear you hear a little gasp escape him before he swallows. 

He encloses your breasts with his hands, squeezing with zeal, massaging them as his lips trail your jawline. His voice, a low little growl as he whispers into your ear, “You’re perfect, hermosa.”

His fingers pinch and twist your erect nipples, making you moan, wetness pooling in your center.

You give him a coy smile at the same time you unbuckle his belt, swiftly pulling on his zipper and dipping  your hand down his pants. His breathing hitches when your fingers come in contact with his cock, and you play with it for a little while before the need for him becomes too much to bear. 

In a matter of second he kicks off his shoes and manages to get out of his denims, finally standing completely naked before you. You can’t help admiring the beautiful specimen that he is, your eyes lingering on his perfect cock. You can’t wait to have him inside you. 

He goes in for another kiss and you wrap one of you hands around it. The feeling of his stiff length on the palm of your hand is warm and silky as you pump him with adequate pressure until he’s panting into your mouth, and his tip is leaking. His lips move over yours, the noises he’s producing making you increasingly more wet.

Your tattered breathing only fuels his need and he takes a quick second to catch his own breath before grabbing you by the waist and lifting you off the floor. You squirm with excitement as he sets you on top of the kitchen counter. 

You run your fingers through his thick black hair, disheveling it as you tilt his head back to look into his eyes. Wanting to remember this moment forever, in case this is the last time.

He smirks, hands parting your legs open. His fingers quickly making themselves at home between your moistened folds. You throw your head back, basking in the overwhelming satisfaction he’s providing. Your heart is racing as his lips move along your neck, tongue brushing your supple skin, mouth kissing and biting as he continues to move downward, closer to your aching core. His fingers are masterfully rubbing your clit, eliciting shocks of pleasure straight to your center for minutes on end. 

You lose yourself in him, watching as he kisses the patch of skin below your bellybutton, and gasp loudly when his tongue finally makes contact with your delicate flesh. It dips between your folds, and then spreads wide as it glides up and down your slit. You feel it dart inside you a few times before he sucks gently at your engorged little nub. He possesses a type of dexterity you never knew was possible.  

“Holy fuck, Javi.” You mutter, making eye contact with him.

The intensity in his eyes is unparalleled as he keeps up his actions, praising your dripping cunt like it’s an altar, worshipping your body like it’s a higher power.  

You’re moaning and whimpering, your breathing labored. It only takes him a few more seconds of continuous ministrations before you’re screaming his name in the midst of your orgasm.  

“Mmm.” He savors your taste as he licks your slit one more time. 

It takes him a quick second to take out the little foil package out of his jacket on the floor and unroll it over his shaft. 

Then he positions himself between your thighs, kissing you passionately as he glides his tip over your center, teasing your opening and making you quiver with need. A mewling cry leaves your lips as he pushes himself inside you inch by inch.  

His mouth finds the hollow of your neck, and he hums into you, loving the way your insides grip his cock when he’s fully inside. He starts fucking you slowly at first, getting a sense of your limits, familiarizing himself with your body. 

After a couple minutes he pushes a little faster, aware that you’re aching for more. He’s got one hand on the back of your head, the other alternates between gripping your breast and fastening your hip. 

“You feel like fucking heaven.” He grunts, slowing down his pace as he pulls out of you all the way and then fills you up again. 

He does too, and you barely muster the ability to think clearly enough to say it. 

Hell is a familiar notion to you, the world around you is a constant reminder of it. You see proof of it almost on a daily basis. But heaven? Heaven was a foreign concept you’d never experienced until tonight.

You squeal, vastly enjoying his actions.

He does this over and over. At the same time, his mouth taking turns with each of your breasts, enclosing your nipple with his scorching lips as he sucks on it. Tongue encircling the hardened peaks before gently biting down. Making you writhe from contentment as his teeth pull on the soft skin.

You steady yourself on the counter, your legs becoming shaky the longer you hold them up but the pleasure he’s instilling in you overcomes any kind of discomfort. He feels so unbelievable good, you don’t want it to stop.

Whimpers and moans fill the air as he picks up his pace. Your skin hot and sticky, perspiring from the friction of your joined bodies and entangled limbs. Your heart is beating incessantly, rapidly, the closer you get to another sweet release. 

“Oh, god. Just like that.” You wail between heated puffs of breath as he pounds into you.

He bucks his hips against yours with more force, mouth finding yours just in time before you come undone. Your body trembles, temperature rising quickly until the gratifying feeling is so great that it pushes you over the edge. The heat spreads over you in waves during those magical seconds, encompassing every fiber of your being and putting you in a state of absolute bliss. 

You’re breathless but ecstatic as you finally let your legs relax. You bite your lip and smile at him.

Javi takes your face between his hands, engaging in a drawn out kiss. He grins, clearly pleased with himself for making you come that hard.

He helps you down from the counter, turning you around so that he’s right up against your back. His hands trail over the front of your body, touching your breasts with delicate care, skimming over your stomach before one of them abandons it and disappears behind you. 

You moan, the feeling of his hard cock against your ass as he searches for your wet entrance. 

Moments later, he has one arm wrapped around you, his hand spread over your belly as he plunges into you from behind. You’re bent over the counter, his cock stretching your opening once again as he slips inside. He grunts, heart beating faster and faster the quicker he moves. 

You feel his mouth against the nape of your neck and his pace slows down. 

He stifles a laugh, like he’s embarrassed of his body’s natural reaction. “I don’t want it to end.”

And neither do you. 

The whole reason you didn’t want to get involved with him was because you didn’t want to be just another one of his flings. But it was impossible not to fall for him and now that you’ve crossed this line, you know there’s no escaping it.

“It doesn’t have to.”

Javi smiles, knowing what you mean.

He kisses your shoulder as he starts moving in and out of you again, and even though he wants to make it last longer, he finds it impossible. Your smell and the feel of your skin against his is too overpowering for him to stop the inevitable. 

“Come for me, Javi.” You mutter, turning to look at him as he continues to fuck you.

He pumps his cock into you a few more times before you hear him moan, pulling out just in time to yank the rubber off his dick and spread his hot streaks of cum all over your lower back. 

* * * * * 

Your hand is on the doorknob as he adjusts his jacket, getting ready to leave. 

“You really think I have the wrong idea about you?” Your voice has a new cadence to it, and no one can wipe that smug smile off your face. “Because everything we just did checks out.”

“Yes, I do.” 

“Hm. So it’s not true that you sleep with your informants, then?”

He smiles, putting his hands on his hips. “Are you my informant?”  

You’re quiet for a moment before replying. “I was, just a few weeks ago.”

Javi sighs. “But you’re not anymore.” He places a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it in a reassuring manner. “Look, you’re right. I’m not usually one to get wrapped up in anyone like this. It’s always been easier to just get in, get out.” 

You’re still listening, intently following his words.

“But it’s different this time.” His admission is drenched in sincerity, ringing true in your ears. “And I would very much like to continue what we have.” 

You smile, turning away for just a second before looking at him again. “I like to think of myself as a kind and—sure why not—generous person, but when it comes to this.” You gesture with your finger between you and him. “Not one for sharing. It’s just not me.” 

He lifts an eyebrow, his lips puckered as he realizes what you’re saying. 

“See?” He notes. “You do have the wrong idea about me.” 

He brings his lips to yours and you let him kiss you because if you’re being honest, you were hoping for at least a kiss goodbye. 

“Who said anything about sharing?” He whispers. “That’s not what I do. Not when I have something so good.” 

You feel your heart pounding vehemently in your chest, your stomach twisting.

“Ándale, dime que sí.” He urges you to consider his advances, saying your name in the sweetest of tones. “I was willing to die for you just a few weeks ago. You really think I’d do that for just anyone?” 

You bite your lip, thinking about it for a minute before nodding. “Okay. Está bien.” You lift up one finger. “You get one chance, Javi. Just one to prove to me that I’m wrong about you.”

He smiles wide, doing a little dance as he winks at you, making you laugh. He takes you into his embrace, kissing you again. 

“You know, if we’re gonna do this more often we’re gonna have to get you a bigger bed. If I stayed the night, I’d have to sleep on the floor.”

“Wow, inviting yourself over already, huh?” You joke. “Go home, Javi.” You say to him, smiling as you push him out the door playfully.

He pulls a cigarette box out of his pocket, giving you one last look. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yes.” You nod. “Have a good night.”

“Having a great one already.” He grins, slipping a cigarette between his lips. “Really.” 

You smile, watching him walk away before you close the door. Already counting the minutes until you can see him again.

[novantinuum]

Contact (ch. 1/4)

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: T (TW: depiction of vomiting, this first chapter is pretty whump-esque)

Words: 3.0K~

Summary: The first (and with any luck, only) time it happens, he’s almost 16.

So this fic is Steven and Amethyst centric, set during the 2 year time skip. It’s also kinda in conversation with An Indirect Kiss, and explores the idea of what could happen to a hybrid with a cracked gem. Do note the warnings above. The first chapter is the only one that’s especially whumpy. It will be exactly 4 parts.

AO3 link can be found in the reblogs! Support there or here (via reblogs) is very much appreciated! <3

____

Chapter 1: The Mission

The first (and with any luck, only) time it happens, he’s almost 16.

His birthday’s only half a week out. Exciting as always, or at least it would be in other circumstances. Unfortunately, the Diamonds are breathing down his neck for him to celebrate his sweet sixteen (not that they understand what that is) on Homeworld. Even unfortunatelier, (is that a word?? He has a gut feeling Connie would tell him no, but oh well), the last time he saw Blue Diamond face-to-face, she mentioned wanting to personally throw a huge planet-wide ball in his honor.

And yeah, maybe he’s a little selfish for spurning their desire to spend more time with him, but truth be told, the center of attention is the last place he wants to be right now. He’s already spent so much time in their company over the past year, being carted around from planet to planet, formerly introduced in front of thousands of Gems on those outer colony worlds, tirelessly working to spread the news of the empire’s dissolution day in and day out. He’s tired. He misses his friends. He craves the privacy of his home, where he’s not constantly flanked by the volunteer guard when he so much as moves to fetch a midnight snack. More than anything, he needs familiarity. He wants to celebrate his birthday on Earth— like he always has— guilt-free.

Which is why it sucks that Blue didn’t take his gentle turn-down well.

“Seriously, and then she made you cry again?!” Amethyst spits out, kicking a rock as they tromp through the dense woods. “I thought you said she was getting better with that!”

“She is,” he says, and ducks to clear a low branch. “This is the first time she’s done it in like, five months. Growth isn’t always linear, y’know? And I get it, I do. They just wanna spend time with me, wanna learn more about all the human stuff that makes me who I am. That’s fine! I just...”

Steven sighs softly and pauses to lean against a sturdy tree trunk, puffy moss coating its entire diameter. The blistering summer heat coaxes droplets of sweat from his brow, which roll across cheekbones and towards his jaw. (And in the wake of this, he can’t help but be reminded of that bizarrely foreign feeling, of crying tears that aren’t his own, without consent, without resolve...)

“Wish it didn’t happen right before your birthday?” she tentatively completes, tone softer.

He shrugs, expression guarded.

Her lips purse as she regards him, and she goes silent. For a split second he wonders if maybe she heard something stalking around nearby— perhaps one of the straggling corrupted Gems they‘re trying to track down today? But no, more than likely, she’s probably lost in thought. That’s not uncommon for her, outside the heat of the moment. Even though she has the reputation of being the most impulsive of the four of them, there’s a clear deliberateness about her nature that often goes unstated. Her actions and words may be blunt, but when it really matters she does stack a lot of intent behind them.

Heh. She’s the mature one, alright.

“What did you tell her? Specifically?” she asks after a brief pause, peering at him with a careful eye.

He squints, grasping to remember the fine details of what he said. “Just... that I normally spend my birthday with all of you here on Earth, and after all the nonstop planet touring kinda, maybe wanted to take some time alone?”

Amethyst nods, giving a sharp bark of laughter at this.

“Hah! Then don’t worry about it, m’dude! Sounds to me like you stood your ground and spoke your mind. Don’t be guilty about that for even a second.”

“But- it’s not like her wanting me to spend time with them is wrong, so by turning her down, wasn’t I being kinda ru—“

His rapidly spiraling thoughts are cut off at the root by a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Okay, listen,” she says in that unmistakable ‘Serious Amethyst’ voice of hers, which of course means that she’s— well... that she‘s absolutely 100% being serious. “One thing ya’ gotta learn is that some people are just super tiring to deal with 24/7. It’s not wrong to set boundaries with them. All this junk? With Blue D? Far as I’m concerned, you handled it perfectly! And if she wants to cry about it, then that’s her problem.” Smiling, she reaches over to playfully muss his hair. “I’m super proud of you, ‘kay?”

He responds with a weak grin. Inwardly he still has his doubts, but he knows all too well that trying to argue against her when she’s in ‘Serious Amethyst’ mode is like standing on the shore trying to single handedly hold back the tides of the sea. Even a powerful terraforming Gem like Lapis would eventually be worn down by the ocean’s ceaseless tenacity. It’s best, then, to keep one’s objection silent.

So he’ll just stew in guilt quietly, no problem. Absolutely no problem here, no siree!

Before he can let that stew churn in the pot any longer however, a tree crashes to the forest floor with a colossal rumble nearby. A cluster of unsettled birds shoot into the sky from the boughs. Ground shaking under the unrest, the two of them dart to cling upon anything they can— bark covered trunks, each other— for balance. Thankfully it’s over in a few seconds, the local ecosystem quickly rebounding to its usual chittering atmosphere. But there’s now a lingering unease hanging like a curtain over this forest, a physical aura of dread, and despite his best efforts it’s one he can’t manage to ignore. He lets out a still breath. The back of his neck prickles. Geeze, just how big is this corrupted Gem they’re after?

Instinctively, he summons his shield, brings it in front of his torso. Pearl’s training echoing like a catchy earworm in his mind, he steps one foot back to widen his stance. Truth be told, with all of his political service on Homeworld it’s been a while (easily half a year!) since he’s actually used his shield in active combat— but he’s sure muscle memory will carry him through. It’s fine. He’ll be fine. It’s gotta be like riding a bicycle, right?

“You see something?” she whispers, lowering on her haunches. Her fingers twitch with anticipation at her side.

His brow furrows tight, eyes skittering through the visible tree line. “Not yet, but...”

Then, in a resolute answer to the question of the hairs raised at the nape of his neck, a skinny blur of steely blue and moss green suddenly swipes down from the branches at breakneck speed. He jerks his shield over his head in a flash.

Clang. Perfect timing.

(The force of the collision against reinforced hard light sends vibrations up his arms.)

Meanwhile, Amethyst yelps, only barely ducking from the spiked tail in time. She somersaults forward and immediately summons her whip as she regains her footing. In one fluid motion she snaps it at the rapidly moving blur. He grins at the sight.

Contact!

The corrupted Gem— her body long and willowy, able to skitter between limbs and leaves with zero effort whatsoever— screeches at the assault. All four of her beady eyes hone in on the pair of them.

They square up for battle, standing back to back.

“Here we go,” Amethyst says, flicking her wrist to switch the weapon’s tri-ended tip into its spiked counterpart. “Keep me covered. Whatever you do, don’t take your eyes off the trees.”

With a mighty yell, she moves to attack again. However, the creature anticipates it this time... and dodges.

Once. Twice. Thrice...

Every single lash she tries to land fares the same, with the Gem perfectly zig-zagging out of range at the last second. Even when Steven hurls his shield in coordination with her offensive strikes. Even when the quartz brings out a second whip to the party. It’s like trying to desperately keep hold of a wet bar of soap. The very moment you think you have it secure in your grasp, it slips away once more. Weird... he swears that thing is predicting their every move. What kind of Gem is she? A sapphire, maybe? Surely there had to have been a few other sapphires on Earth at the time of corruption. They’re a rare sort, but it’s certainly not impossible. Not at all.

They’ll know when they poof her, of course. No sense fixating on it in the heat of battle.

In the corner of his eye he catches that barbed tail swing from above, vying to surprise them from their blind spot, and summons his bubble around them. Its surface ripples upon impact, but holds strong. His fellow battle partner follows the creature’s erratic movements rapturously as she recovers.

“Tell me when,” he huffs for breath, watching the Gem circle around them and slash at the surrounding trees in a vain attempt at intimidation.

“Drop on three,” she says. “Your call.”

“Okay...”

Steven steels his nerves, inhaling deep, and focusing on the reliable hum of hard light running from his core outwards. Just relax. It’s all training. All stuff you’ve done a million times before. You’ve got this.

Working off the emerging rhythm of the creature’s strikes, he begins his count.

“One—“

Amethyst’s fists clench tighter.

“Two...”

The creature’s tail slams against the bubble and rebounds once again.

“Three!” he shouts, and throws his arms out, popping the bubble in a startling explosion of glittering pink.

The Gem howls. She’s thrown against a cluster of trees by the force of his magic’s kickback. Amethyst throws all of her energy into her spin-dash, and surges towards her with all the strength of a typhoon.

He summons two shields in turn, working light on his feet as he hurls them full force one after the other, desperately hoping to poof this poor creature as quickly and painlessly as he can manage. She’s strong, though. Incredibly strong— which gives more credence to his theory of this Gem being aristocratic in origin. Before Era 3, Homeworld used to endow the most ‘important’ Gems with greater durability. If she were a corrupted quartz or ruby, both easily poofed Gems, they’d have finished the fight by now.

“Hey!” Amethyst calls as she continues on the offensive, finally looping the Gem’s torso. “All this?” She gives a mighty battle cry, and swings her slender, scaly body over her head. Screeching, the corruption crashes headfirst into the dirt a good twenty feet away. “Is starting to get way too annoying. Ya’ wanna let Smoky take this one?”

Steven gives a playful laugh, averting his normally watchful gaze from the creature for a split second to face her. “You bet I do!”

And that’s when what should have been an incredibly straightforward mission goes very, very wrong.

All because he forgot to be careful. For one tiny, should’ve-been-insignificant moment.

He’s reaching out for a high five, fingers splayed outwards. His gem glows, the two of them so intrinsically in sync by now that he’s already anticipating their fusion.

But his hand never finds its match.

Instead, the end of the corrupted Gem’s mace-like tail swings back around and slams into his gut with the force of a freight train, knocking the wind clear out of him.

Contact.

Following momentum, his body spins a good hundred feet away from Amethyst before she can ever try to catch him with her whip... and he crashes headfirst into a startlingly solid tree trunk. He falls to the forest floor like nothing more than an abandoned rag doll.

“Steven!!” she shrieks from afar.

Ears ringing. Head pounding. Heart throbbing. Veins pumped full of static.

(Inhale.)

H-he- surely he‘s not—!

(Just inhale!)

Black feathers the edges of his vision, looming like a reaper. It’s wrong. It’s real, but it’s all so distant, so wrong. Stubbornly, he gasps for breath. Refusing to let himself go unconscious. Not here, not now. But it’s so tempting, gosh is it tempting. His whole body feels numb and battered, his whole body feels...

There’s a twisting in his gut. His eyes shoot wide.

Oh...

The sensation (again, wrong, sickly and wrong) rises in his throat faster than he can identify it by name, and it’s then that he’s thrown back into sobering reality. Arms quivering to hold up his weight, he pushes his upper body up off the dirt just before he retches. Once, twice, three times- all on quick succession. Ugh. So much for breakfast. His muscles ache as he desperately attempts to recover, attempts to shift his view away from the appalling sight of his own vomit. Everything is woozy, blurred, spinning around him. His- oh stars, his head is suddenly as heavy as lead...! Where’s Amethyst?? Why do his arms and legs feel all tingly and faint? Why can he only barely lift himself up? He gives a keening cry as a pulsing throb of static shoots in staccato bolts like lightning from his very core, his center, h-his— he can’t think, he can’t think, he can’t—

Breathing ragged, he collapses onto his side and rides through the spasms, his every muscle jerking against his command. His cheek sags against the ground once the fit reaches its end.

He lays there in a daze for a good long while, letting his vision grow unfocused and blurred in his exhaustion. From his creased brow, sweat drips in the sweltering August heat, staining the soil below. Conflict rages on in the distant background—  Amethyst running solo?— yet he can’t keep track of the action by sound alone. It’s... too much sensory input. More than he can handle, by a long shot. Every bit of his universe now is faint and weak and pain pain pain pain pain, but he manages to shift his arm just enough to slip his hand under his shirt, blindly grasping for his gem... working off a terrible, horrifying hunch.

Shaking fingers find their way to warm crystal, tracing the outer edges, and then—

He traces a deep gouge, running diagonal clear across the center facet.

Cracked.

And with that realization, any remnant of calm he had left flies straight out the window. Another spike of static rips through his body (fuzzy images of Amethyst, 100% hard light body glitching out and unable to hold its shape, pervade his mind) as he makes rapid shallow gasps for air and seizes, trying in vain not to think too hard about what’s physically happening to him.

(I’m cracked I’m cracked I’m cracked I’m—)

“Steven!” Amethyst shouts, diving to his side in an instant. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m so sorry, it wasn’t safe, an’ I knew I had to bubble her before I- ‘fore I could—“

His wide eyed fear silences her even faster than his words. “H- Amethyst,” he rasps, voice hoarse. He blinks as tears begin to slip from between his lashes.

Near indistinguishable blurs of purple and black are his only metric for her movement now. He’s rolled onto his back. A hand moves under his head, stabilizing it.

“Whoa, dude, you’re like, pale as milk! What’s wrong? Did you get hurt?? Can’t you heal it?”

He somehow manages to push coherent words through his warbling cries. “I, I- I dunno, I’m c- cracked, I’m—“

“Wait, wait, wait, you’re WHAT?”

Giving no thought to courtesy in light of the situation, she yanks his shirt up to see for herself.

He hears her inhale as her fingers delicately brush against the gouge marring the center facet of his gem. It’s sharp, sympathetic. The kind of reaction only a Gem who’s lived this horror could offer him. Ever so slight, her hand recoils upon the no-doubt triggering sight. He— stars, he doesn’t wanna... doesn’t want to have to make her remember that, remember that awful time she herself got cracked, but here he is, so clumsy, s-so useless, an—

His chest trembles with every pitiful, bubbling gasp as he succumbs to the terror of the situation and begins to openly sob. Hot, fat tears pour in rivulets down his cheeks, but he knows instinctively there‘s no magic within them. Not today. Not when h-he’s... when he’s like this.

What’s even gonna happen to him now? How’s he gonna— Deep breath. This time, he feels it coming. Every muscle in his body contracts on automatic as that awful, awful static tears through his nerves like an arc of electric current.

It hurts it hurts it hurts ithurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurts—

Amethyst does her best to lightly hold him as he seizes, cradling his head to ensure no more damage is done. When he stills this time the fight’s practically draining from his body. The boughs of the trees above him pirouette like dancers. Oh stars, everything’s... so... woozy...

“Aw, geeze,” she mutters, and reaches to her gem to pull out an object, thin and rectangular, too blurry in his view for him to make out with much detail. “I, uh... listen. I’m gonna call up Pearl, and we’re gonna fix you up, okay?? We’re gonna take you to the fountain, an’ then...” Her words (reassurance, but for who?) grow thick as her glance flicks downward at his stomach again. “An’ then you’re gonna be fine...”

“B-b-but... I don’t think— I can’t walk,” he blubbers.

“Then I’ll carry you.”

“Am- hnng- Amethyst—“

“Shh-shh, don’t talk, bud. Save your energy.”

“I- I’m so scared,” he blurts.

And it’s so true. Because everything is becoming so blurry and indistinguishable, and the more his body seizes the more fractured he feels, and he’s so close to closing his eyes and drifting off now, he’s sure he is, he’s gotta be—

“Steven,” she says, voice firm yet soft. “Steven, common’, look at me.”

Serious Amethyst. He recognizes the tone. No arguing now.

So slowly but surely— knowing there’s no sense in fighting back oceans when he can barely stay afloat amidst the shallows of this river— his weary, tear stained eyes meet with hers. They’re blown wide with fear, with genuine concern, but between the swirls of black and indigo blue stirs a deeper courage: the unwavering gaze of someone who will have his back to the end of the line.

Amethyst clasps her palm against his shoulder, solid and reassuring.

“Whatever it takes, I promise you... I’m gonna get you there.”

[obscure-sentimentalist]

“I need a hug. A six hour one.”- Flommy 😊

[Thank you, Anon!! Another one I’m months-late on, but with the way this idea decided to go, I do think it was well-suited for the wait, experimental as it is. Using (but not actually featuring) Klarion the Witchboy as a plot device seems rather Halloween-y to me. ;-)]

From the Comforting Cuddles Starters list

Loath as Tommy is to think it, sometimes he misses the days when the evildoers of Starling City were simply morally-corrupt businessmen and crime lords running the too-close-to-the-surface underworld. Obviously, still bad guys, but their powers were at least material and predictable: money, weapons, martial arts training from a mystical murder cult that also offers a minor in megalomania. And for the most part, Tommy wasn’t in direct confrontation with those seedy types, spending more of his time adjusting to the nauseating shift in worldview they presented, and then hanging on the sidelines to lend the occasional hand in the crime-fighting process.

Straightforward, unsurprising, fairly distanced—those are the types of villainy with which Tommy knows how to deal. But the world’s gotten weirder, and so have the enemies; it figures that he’d be thrown face-first into the unknowable machinations of some magic-wielding, whackadoodle…

“…C-list Scooby-Doo villain,” Felicity seethes, voice finally puncturing Tommy’s thoughts like a splinter. She turns sharply on her heel to pace in the other direction, the clack of her footsteps echoing off the basement walls. “I’m gonna get him.”

Though she isn’t facing him, Tommy glimpses her hands going up, claw-like, in front of her, and shaking in an imaginary stranglehold. It’s an adorably familiar enough gesture that it almost puts him at ease.

(Almost.)

“And his little cat, too,” Tommy agrees, slipping from his tongue as an instinctive reaction of humor. As if nothing’s… off about this picture.

“Yes, the cat!” Pale blue-painted fingers snap, leaving the index finger triumphantly pointing up. “You know I love kittens. But that thing? Last time, when it tried to…”

“Last time?” Tommy repeats, head tilting in curiosity. He belatedly realizes the rudeness of interrupting like that, but the discomfort of not knowing has a firm grip on the wheel. “You’ve dealt with this Puritanical nightmare child before?”

In the space between questions and answer, Tommy drifts the remaining few feet over to Felicity’s workstation. He doesn’t dare sit in the chair—that’d just be courting death, or at least a truly withering glare—but leaning against the table provides him a… grounding, of sorts. It’s the best thing he can get until this whole situation is resolved and reversed.

Depending on the response Felicity has for him, maybe that’ll come sooner than expected.

Both the interjection and the movement make Felicity’s spine snap pin-straight—an instantaneous shattering of illusionary comfort—and she slowly pivots to glance back at Tommy from the opposite end of the floor. Yet as useful as it might be to her, too, Felicity doesn’t make a single move towards the bank of computers and empty chair (towards Tommy), instead hugging her arms to her chest and rooting herself in place.

“Oh, yeah, a… a couple times, now,” she stumbles, biting her lower lip. “I don’t know, there’s just something about us—my team—that keeps him coming back on chaotic reunion tours. But this is the first time I’ve been his plaything of choice, and he’s never done something quite of…” she extricates one hand and waves it aimlessly around her “…this magnitude, before.”

“The Great Felicity Swap,” Tommy murmurs absently. It’s neither a joke nor a judgment, just a phrasing of the situation, but Felicity shifts her shoulders at the words.

“We’re going to fix this,” she says, quiet yet firm. “Even if Klarion’s gone to ground, or is hiding somewhere out of all of our reaches, we can still set things right without him. I refuse to believe anything else.”

Although she says “we” throughout those first two statements, that last part just solidifies what Tommy hears instead. It’s Felicity not voluntarily wanting to do this alone, but also fully prepared to do so—her expectations of being denied help higher than the ones she has of help being offered.

It’s painfully recognizable—one of the similarities Tommy wishes he wouldn’t find between his… universe’s Felicity and another’s. But at least the consistency confirms that the move he’s about to make is the right one.

“Well, I’m not really the guy with the plans around here, but I make for a pretty good gofer,” he starts, pushing off of the worktable and taking a few casual, tentative steps forward. “Tell me what to look for, what buttons to press, what you want for a meal break, and I’m your man.”

In yet another instance proving the importance of connecting his mouth to his brain every once in a while (and maybe looking into a script editor), Tommy cringes the second that last bit slips out and Felicity’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline.

Lending a hand to your maybe-sort-of-just-starting-to-call-each-other-by-the-terms girlfriend’s doppelgänger (whose relationship with your own is a pretty big gray area, because she won’t say much except that she cares a lot about him) is the polite thing to do. Doing so in a way that sounds like you’re offering more than just help, thanks to poor, unconscious word choice, is just plain stupidity.

“He does that too,” Felicity says after a moment’s pause. “My… my Tommy.”

Surprised by the reaction, Tommy tentatively cracks one eye back open to meet Felicity’s gaze. “I should have figured that foot-in-mouth was a chronic, multiversal affliction.”

She flushes a bit at that, eyes flitting to the side in embarrassment. “That’s not… I mean, you’re right, you both have that in common,” she stumbles hurriedly. A deep breath in, and she gets back on track, facing Tommy again with a knowing look. “I was actually talking about the other thing—about not being the one with the plans, only good for being pointed in the necessary direction. You don’t get to pull that on me.”

Tommy’s mouth audibly clicks shut at that, any jokes or affirmations of his original statements shriveling in his throat under the weight of Felicity’s stare.

“He minimizes his skills like that, makes himself just the right size and shape to fit with whatever anyone else needs him to be,” she explains, plain and simple. “He’ll play up a few things, make jokes here and there about how looks and charm and the like come effortlessly to him, because that’s what people expect.”

Tommy shifts his shoulders in an odd sort of shimmy, as if those observations have physically burrowed under his skin and set off an unbearable itch. It’s one thing to be called out so plainly by someone he knows so well, and a whole different one when it’s an alternate version of said person. It’s both the discomfort of being so easily read by a relative stranger, and the realization that if this other Felicity knows, then there’s a fair chance that his does, too.

Unsubtle as it must be, Felicity sees his twitching, and her face goes soft.

“The cooking, though, that’s a talent he owns in full, and will make it well-known that he’s the only one he trusts in the kitchen,” she notes thoughtfully. A split-second of silence lingers between the words, before she rushes, “Which is fine by me, because I’ll just burn everything anyway—at least that’s not as bad as making a full dish that’s arguably toxic, unlike some people…”

Amusingly, they both shudder at that—Tommy at the mere concept, and Felicity presumably at the memory of an actual offending meal. They each catch the other’s mirrored motion, and their gazes snap to meet in faint embarrassment.

It doesn’t last, as Felicity flaps a hand to break the connection and get herself back on track. “Point is, he’s capable of so much more than he likes to tell people, and I’m willing to bet you are, too.”

On that note, she tilts her chin up and offers Tommy a pointed, challenging stare. It’s an achingly familiar look—a Felicity Signature—offered to anyone who might cross her; not a dare to prove her words right, but an offer for her to wipe the floor with the recipient and their flawed rationale of why she’s wrong.

No matter where she comes from, Tommy’s not taking that opening with any Felicity.

That said, he does have his own, different sort of reply.

“See, this goes both ways, because I know my Felicity,” Tommy points out, leaning in as closely and carefully as he dares without making Felicity uncomfortable. “How she’s always prepared to take on things by herself, even when she doesn’t have to. When she has someone—and usually multiples—in her corner to back her up.”

Tommy tilts his head and raises his eyebrows knowingly, before continuing with quiet sincerity. “We can figure this out together, but I’m still on board with my original offer. Tell me what you need, and I’ll handle it.”

Felicity makes as if to argue, but after a moment’s consideration, she purses her lips and narrows her eyes suspiciously back at Tommy. “Turnabout is fair play, huh?”

“Something about this whole situation has to be,” he notes, grinning cheekily.

Felicity rolls her eyes fondly at that, but her expression goes quietly pensive a moment later. “I guess there’s one thing I can think of,” she murmurs almost absently, gaze drifting down as her breath hitches.

“Anything,” he assures her. A hand comes up to hover over her shoulder, though it doesn’t land.

The motion is still enough to snap Felicity back into her thoughts.

“I need a hug. A six hour one,” she blurts, and almost immediately turns red. Her head shoots up whiplash-fast, eyes wide (and lightly sheened) and lips already tripping over an apology. “Wait, no, forget I said that, that’s way too weird. We’re… not the wrong versions of each other, that sounds mean, but this you and this me”—she flicks a finger between the two of them to illustrate—“we don’t have any sort of relationship. Sure, hugs are perfectly platonic, and it’s not like we’re really strangers, but six hours is a long time for anything physica- agh!”

“I did say ‘anything’,” Tommy cuts in before Felicity can spiral any deeper (or either of them can turn too red at that last bit), finally settling a hand gently on her shoulder. “And maybe six hours is a while, but let’s just not put on a time limit at all. However long you feel you need.”

Looking at Felicity Smoak—no matter the universe from which she hails—and claiming that the fight has gone out of her is a concept Tommy would never dare verbalize, but something does seem to recede enough for the one in front of him to fall against his chest. His arms lock supportively around her lower back as her hands press at his shoulder blades for stability, and so they remain.

Not even a six-hour embrace would be convincing enough that the one in their arms is theirs, but maybe a fraction of that time can confirm a friend in the familiar, and comfort enough to carry on.

[fatefulfaerie]

Step By Step: Part 3/3

Part 1: https://fatefulfaerie.tumblr.com/post/190347147364/step-by-step-pt-13

Part 2: https://fatefulfaerie.tumblr.com/post/190461124069/step-by-step-part-23

“Sorry,” Link said as they walked in the study. “This is even more of a mess.”

“It’s actually not far off from how I left it, Link,” Zelda said as she looked around.

“You are such a slob,” Link said in a whisper of disbelief. “It’s hard to believe you were raised in a castle.”

“Give me a break,” Zelda argued. “This room is basically the inside of my mi--”

Zelda froze, her mouth opening with an excited inhale.

“You didn’t tell me there was a Silent Princess growing here!” She exclaimed as she knelt down to inspect it.

“For it to grow here,” she continued before Link could even begin to tell her he forgot to mention it. “I had some seeds, but that was just it.”

She kept studying it closely, running her fingers along it’s petals, it’s stem, it’s roots. Link had already crossed his arms, leaning against a wall with a smile of admiration beaming at his Princess.

“The window isn’t near wide enough to provide enough sunlight, especially at this angle. Without water or nutrients it shouldn’t have survived a hundred years...let alone grow at all. This dirt is obviously not enough to sustain such fauna...it...it’s barely even dirt...it’s burnt rubble and degraded stone.”

She sat back on her heels, eyeing the flower as her thoughts brooded.

“That’s it…” she whispered. “It was trying to domesticate a wild flower...all my attempts were to put it somewhere it didn’t belong...but...in the wild, with rich soil and rainwater and direct sunlight, but...there’s more. It must thrive in harsh conditions, controlled experiments would do no good, of course it wouldn’t!”

Zelda turned to Link at this with a great smile, feeling quite hesitant when she realized how much she had really rambled on.

“S-sorry,” Zelda said averting her glance. “You must think I’m a total dork.”

“Actually, that’s what I love about you.”

Link’s eyes went wide almost immediately, Zelda looking back up, focusing on him and him only.

“What did you say?” She asked, trying to mentally brace herself.

“I…” Link said.

“I just…” He chuckled nervously. “L-like that you…”

He closed his eyes, his face scrunching as he willed himself to tell the truth.

Yet, when his eyes opened, his glance drifted to a blanket under the rubble, his eyes widening as he stared.

It all happened so fast as he clamored backwards, bracing himself against a bookshelf.

“Link,” a voice echoed as his vision faded.

Link stood just outside her study, stretching his arms up before releasing them completely.

He’d rather be inside. After all, if a Yiga came through her window he would have no idea and there would go his job.

Not to mention the Princess.

But no, her Highness had insisted upon having time to herself, meeting him with a mere scowl before walking in and slamming the door shut.

Link met his back against the door in his frustration, exhaling a sigh.

Her insistent hatred upon him was starting to wear him down, he didn’t know what to do to change her mind.

But he couldn’t remember a time where words didn’t fail him and actions, well…

Link couldn’t deny that a part of him also hated himself for pulling that sword so easily, so he couldn’t blame Zelda for how she felt. Accessing some magic sealing power is a far cry away from wielding a sword. Even now he was wishing none of it had happened.

He knew the expectations were wearing on them both. If she could just see that then…

Well, maybe she wouldn’t feel so alone.

A resolved thought in his mind, Link unequipped the Master Sword completely, setting it on the ground as he felt a great weight lifted from his shoulders.

He marched straight to open the door will the full intention of making his words work. Maybe he could say the right thing at the right time.

For her.

He closed the door behind him with the same determination, yet stopped dead with two scuffs when her head didn’t turn.

In fact, she didn’t react at all, Zelda slumped over the desk.

Link approached cautiously, peering over her chair to realize she was asleep.

With books, papers, and splayed arms as her pillow, she was completely out, her breaths shallow and restful.

Link smiled, gently tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

Past the hostility and the anger, she really was beautiful, Link finding himself mesmerized as his expression softened.

He scanned the unbelievably messy room before his gaze landed on a blanket.

He took it quickly, placing it over her shoulders.

“Someday,” he whispered. “I’ll find the words.”

“Link!” He heard as his vision snapped back to the present. There was a hand on his shoulder and another on his cheek

“Link!” He heard again, emerald eyes concentrated on him.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “Is it another memory?”

Link was still panting as he met her glance, her kind eyes. He nodded in affirmation.

Zelda smiled in reply.

“Well, that’s great!” she said excitedly. The Princess drifted her hands away from his cheek, his shoulder.

She stepped away to her former desk, looking through old papers and books.

“What was it?” She asked.

Link furrowed his brow in thought, attempting to process the memory.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” She added.

“No, I...I don’t mind at all,” Link relayed. “But this time it’s less what happened and more...

“I don’t know,” he finished with a sigh.

“What do you mean?” Zelda inquired.

“Whenever I got a memory,” Link started slowly. “I...I always wondered at my speechlessness, why and how that to you I had nothing to say.”

“Link,” Zelda stated, turning around with an open book in her hand. “Your courageous and compassionate actions speak volumes alone...and even then you spoke eventually...you don’t give yourself enough credit. The expectations on you were immense to be this perfect hero. You can’t fault yourself for fearing them.”

Link shook his head.

“Zelda...it...I think it was also because I couldn’t find the words.”

Zelda stared in anticipation, in her expression an inquiry, wanting the clarification he teased. The way his blue eyes melted and his fisted hands released...but she tried not to hope...

“I love you.”

Zelda felt her breath stop as her lips parted, the book sliding out of her arms and dropping on the floor. She didn’t seem to care that it had landed at all, not to mention that it had landed face down, pages folding and bending in ruinous ways that she would otherwise correct.

She took a slow step forward nonetheless, then the next before another.

“Oh goddesses, Zelda,” Link said as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I...I’ve crossed the line, haven’t I? I mean, it’s the truth, but...surely there’s some procedure to go about this whole thing, some formal process...n-not that this is about the formalities, I don’t really care, I’d love you all the same whether or not you’re a Princess.”

Link’s eyes widened.

“Not that there’s nothing wrong with being a Princess!” He blurted out. Zelda had already stopped before him with a slight smirk. “All the fancy...things…”

Zelda tipped her head to the side playfully.

“Are you done?”

“Well no, I--”

But no sound would continue, Zelda grabbing his blue tunic and bringing his lips to hers.

“I don’t need any procedure,” she said as she withdrew, “just you.”

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

Zelda emerged from the library, their final location before concluding their visit to Hyrule Castle.

“Don’t worry,” she said with a held up hand at seeing Link’s worried face. “I only grabbed a few.”

“Did you grab a dictionary,” Link said jokingly. “Because your definition of ‘few’ is very different from mine.”

Link started to pack the stack she held in the bag nonetheless, reading through the titles as he did.

“‘Flora and Fauna of Hyrule’, ‘A Scientific Look at Sheikah Technology’, ‘The Scientific Method And It’s Faults’,‘The Theory and Practice of Leadership’, ‘The False Dichotomy of Good and Evil’…”

“That one’s my favorite,” Zelda interjected.

Link exaggerated the blinking and widening of his eyes. Each book got scarier and scarier and he didn’t even have a clue what the word ‘dichotomy’ meant. He shook it off quickly, placing the book in the bag and looking to the next.

“‘An Abridged History of Hyrule’.”

“Doesn’t look very abridged to me,” he muttered as he reached for the next book.

“The Rise, Fall, and Return of Ganon,” Link said, reading the cover before looking up at Zelda and holding it up. “We don’t need this.”

Zelda grabbed it from his hold, opening it up and pointing her finger at a point on the page, pressing her shoulder up against his.

“It has firsthand accounts of previous encounters,” Zelda argued excitedly. “It’s valuable information.”

“For what?” Link asked. “It’s not like he’s lingering underground, waiting to make his next move.”

Zelda smiled as she brought a hand to his shoulder, whispering,

“It’s for knowledge,” before pecking his cheek and placing the book in the bag.

“Your knowledge is going to overload the horse,” Link argued.

“He’ll be fine,” she said as she stood up.

“If you say so, Your Highness,” Link replied, doing the same.

Their hands found each other as they walked along, step by step, on and away from the threat they couldn’t see.

The threat they didn’t want to see.

[aquaquadrant]

ravenous red

Star Wars: The Clone Wars fanfic Rating: T Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence, injury, blood, death Summary:

i heard you wanted a war funny, i wanted it more

~*~

So he says nothing, letting his gaze speak his hate as he relents, turning and walking away. It feels like disgrace, it feels like a failure, to go do her bidding- go cause some chaos, she taunts- but real victory lies in that which she does not yet know. Good at it, sure, he can admit as much, but the means to the end will be something she doesn’t expect. That’s how he’ll get her, collateral damage in this personal storm he directs.

At her request.

Lady Tano, you don’t know what you’ve just asked for.

A/N: I know I said my last oneshot was my tribute to the Clone Wars, but then I heard a song that fit Maul perfectly so I had to do a tribute to him too. It’s actually a song fic, I’ve been writing fanfic since I was 13 but this is my first song fic so hopefully I did it right. This is basically Order 66 from Maul’s POV, showing off how much of a spiteful, unhinged badass he really is. Hope you enjoy, reblogs/comments are appreciated! – Aqua

Song is Appetite for Destruction by Vo Williams

Click here to read on Archive of Our Own

Click here to support me on Ko-fi

~*~

ravenous red

It starts with a scream.

Ringing out through the force like a shot, chaos crashing in after it. Words pass in flashes, snippets he can’t quite decipher. The impressions of feelings brush against him; shock, betrayal, desperation. He feels the flicker of lightning, a bygone but familiar sensation. Someone somewhere has made a very poor choice, one that will echo for ages, one that he expected.

(He did try and warn them)

It’s not long before they come. Identical faces behind identical helmets approach without words. They are rigid, unflinching, as they move to lower the shield that protects him, ensnares him, with unspoken intent written plainly as anything else.

Any lingering sympathy he has for these beings, these clones that were raised to be tools- as was he- dissipates like mist in the sun. To think, they would kill him like this. Trapped and defenseless. A coward’s method of choice; it insults him, right to the core. Let him out, let him fight, he’ll give them a show. He’ll remove the spines they don’t deserve. They aren’t using them anyway.

The death in the air is a pulse in his brain, a constant crashing and ebb of bloody waves. It’s hard to concentrate, hard to mediate between what’s happening right in front of him and what’s happening lightyears away. The force is a furnace, thousands of bodies toppling into it to burn. It devours them gladly, wiping out light from the sky to leave nothing but smoke and ash in return.

He wants to join in, wants to destroy. Not a Sith, not quite, but he hunts like one still. The darkness beckons for him, a familiar cold, coursing through his veins. Yellow eyes glare through glass, burning with hatred and rage. He’d kill them, if only he could. He wants them to know it. He wants them to feel it.

If looks could kill, they’d already be dead.

this is the end of your days it's time we end the charades open the cage, i want to play time for the bridges to blaze

Blasters are raised- but cut down just as quickly.

His savior is a flash of blue. Unexpected but welcome (though he prefers red). Her hostility is unsurprising, her fear concealed well- but not completely. She feels the same death he does, but it frightens her, whereas it only strengthens his resolve. He will not fall as the Jedi do. He loathes the thought; there is too much unfinished business for him to perish now.

(Kenobi will survive this because Maul must be the one to kill him, no one else, he wills this with every fiber of his being- and will is a powerful thing, will allowed him to survive being cleaved in half)

Between the two of them, everything falls into place. His master’s plan, beautiful and deadly. Brilliant and artful. Cowardly and despicable. To strike them down with the men who were created to serve, to protect. They’re nothing but droids now, mindless droids coated in flesh. It doesn’t matter to him; he’d kill either way, but he knows that she won’t.

It’s good that she’s come to him, he’ll do it for her, do what must be done to get them out alive-

Except, no.

She rejects him. She wants to strike out on her own, condemn him to the same lonely fate. It’s foolish. So blinded by her lofty morals that she fails to grasp they’re both members of the same dying breed. The Padawan who might’ve joined him has retreated far beneath the surface, hiding under a cloak of denial at the vision he sees. Her attachment is strong, too strong, that she cannot accept the truth even when given freely.

How dare she? How dare she?! Dare to use him and cast him aside, as so many others before- always remember that you are nothing- this child in a warrior’s mask, thinking he’ll act as her pawn. No, not anymore.

Oh, he’ll kill her. He’ll kill her for that. So many ways to do it, weapon or no. Reach out a hand, reach for the force, strangle the breath from her lungs, crushing her throat in his grasp. In this moment, he hates so greatly he truly thinks that he could. Crush her throat, or crush her skull, he wants to, grab her head and smash it against the wall. Red dripping down lekku of blue and white, a striking image it’d make, to be sure. He always did have an eye for these things.

He wants to see it.

i'm slipping into a craze twisted images into the brain turn up the volume on the pain give me the feeling i crave

But no.

Logic and reason win out. They dictate he cannot waste time on the likes of her. She proved a difficult fight before and his chances are slim as they are. Save his energy, save his effort for the real battle to come, for the ones who march to the tempo of death and come for him next, they’ll come for him just as well as for her.

Neither of them are Jedi but he knows they will not see it as so.

In the end that’s all that matters, how they will see you, how they perceive you, all the words in the world make no difference at all. Words do nothing, only action can produce results, as he’s clearly been shown.

So he says nothing, letting his gaze speak his hate as he relents, turning and walking away. It feels like disgrace, it feels like a failure, to go do her bidding- go cause some chaos, she taunts- but real victory lies in that which she does not yet know. Good at it, sure, he can admit as much, but the means to the end will be something she doesn’t expect. That’s how he’ll get her, collateral damage in this personal storm he directs.

At her request.

Lady Tano, you don’t know what you’ve just asked for.

show me your villainous ways show me the killer's awake make me afraid that's how you bring me to life make the adrenaline race i want a taste

i feel my rage erupting feed my appetite for destruction blood rushing i love when you feed my appetite for destruction

Alone, he persists.

His path’s uncontested, legs of metal storming heavy and loud through the ship, not trying to hide. Let them come, he’ll be ready. This aggression needs somewhere to go, after all. It’s burning him up inside. He knows intimately what it’ll do to him, if he won’t let it out. The anger, the pain. It seeks to devour, a ravenous red haze flowing through him, taking control of his brain.

It guides him and he lets it. His stalk is a predator’s stalk, single-minded focus on the hunt. He’s not afraid. They’ll see they aren’t the only executioners at work today.

They find him quickly, scattered through the ship as they are, and greet him with a volley of fire. Metal bends to his will, peeling away like skin off of flesh. Weapons or no, he’s been given a task. He can be creative. The true measure of a warrior lies not in their blade. To wield power, he needs only to look within and ask.

The very walls of their ship become the instruments of their demise. He lifts without effort, advancing slowly but surely with an unbroken stride. Walls to deflect their shots, to smash them aside, to cut through armor, through flesh, and through bone. Two heads roll off with a thrust of his arm, slack faces concealed in their helms. Bodies crushed in between, crumbling limp to the floor. A sharp flick of the wrist pins one to the wall, sliced in half- the irony is not lost on him, but humor has no place here, in this tomb.

And finally, they make their retreat, aiming to seal him inside. But no, he’s not done with them yet. There’s something he needs and he’s not asking politely.

The arm comes off in the end, the vital comm-link still attached to the bracer. He slips it on, leaving the limb to bleed red on the floor, staining the armor- and he was right, what a striking image it makes. But he can’t linger long.

Chatter through the communicator gives him his next target.

Chaos… really, she should have been more specific.

i heard you wanted a war funny, i wanted it more here comes the "bang-bang" on your door it's time to back up the noise i've been ignoring the voice begging me seek and destroy it's eating my core feel like a time bomb in the eye of a storm

He makes it to the engine room without interruption.

It’s cavernous, the floor far below, a pit spanned by narrow bridges. It’s protected, as he expected, clones charge to stop him but they matter not. Their efforts are wasted. Over the edge they go; others fall to commandeered blaster fire, or to his fists. He will succeed by any means. It’s futile of them to resist.

(They can’t help it, he knows, but he doesn’t care- he wants their blood anyways)

The dark side has never flowed more strongly within him. It’s a wellspring inside his chest, filling him completely with inky black cold. Their will is one and the same; burn it all. He reaches out, power surging, fueling his rage as it takes hold. All around him, machinery falls. Sparks rain down from above as reactors are peeled off the walls.

He’ll tear them apart from within. Metal shrieks and groans as he pries it away. The ship’s hyperdrive core is his aim. Without it, they’re stranded. Him as well, but he’s not planning to stay. There must be shuttles, and nothing will get in his way.

The doors part, and another squadron advances to stop him- but they’re too late. He topples the reactors on top of them and down it all goes, crashing to the floor far below, sealing their fate.

And with that, it’s time to take his leave.

let all the chips hit the floor do everything that you want settle the score that's how you bring me to life that's when I'm feeling recharged i want it all

i feel my rage erupting feed my appetite for destruction blood rushing i love when you feed my appetite for destruction

The flight deck is a battlefield.

She’s here- but of course- attempting to hold off the rest of the forces, their volley of fire. Somehow, someway, she’s pulled one to her side. Her little captain fights bravely, but there’s too many, it won’t be enough.

He senses opportunity, another chance perhaps to make her see. Come to her aid now and she’ll have no choice but to accept. Offer survival; a joint escape from this wreckage for her and her dog (though he cares not for three). Two are better than one, even if two is the way of the Sith, which he’s not. Their chances are better together. He knows this. He feels this.

Except, no.

She already had her chance, she had three. She rejected him. She scorned him. She cast him aside. You lie, she told him. Your vision is flawed. Arrogant. Stubborn. He hates her. He hates her.

Within a second, his choice is made. He runs past, towards the ship that would be her salvation- now it’s his. She pursues, he deflects; a dangerous dance. The world’s falling around them, and still they cannot help but fight- it’s in her nature, in her nature as well as in his.

You wanted this chaos, he taunts.

Then, without mercy, he pushes her over the edge.

i feel the monster rising up inside and i can't hold it down i'm hungry for destruction pieces crumbling, fall into the ground

i feel my rage erupting feed my appetite for destruction blood rushing i love when you feed my appetite for destruction

She’s still alive when he leaves.

His ship arcs away from the crash, plowing through smoke and fire. The entire carrier is doomed, every last soul aboard sharing its fate. Escape pods destroyed, no more ships to salvage. Surely, then, this is their end- but not his.

(He did tell them they’d all burn; but while some burn in fire, others burn with it)

There’s no remorse in his escape. It’s a measure of strength; only he was enough to get out alive. He cares not for her, for how she will burn. She deserves it. In fact, he’d say out of all the beings on that ship, she’s the only one. The droids-who-were-clones cannot ‘deserve’ a fate either way. Every action is the command of somebody else, not their own.

A great victory for his master. The thought curls his lip. But he’ll count his blessings; he survived, and as the galaxy is reshaped, he knows that he has all the skills required to thrive. A tool he might be, but a sharp one. A deadly one.

His master saw to that. He should thank him. Maybe he will- before he kills him.

As for her... the possibility lingers that she might’ve survived as well. Resourceful. Determined. He sensed these traits in her. But he truly hopes that she hasn’t, that the firestorm has swallowed her whole. Not for his sake, but hers. Because if she survived, then the next time he sees her- and he will, if she has- she won’t be so lucky simply to burn.

He will kill her slowly, painfully. Unimaginable agony. Broken in body and mind. Enough to beg for death. Enough to understand what he’s felt, the culmination of all his suffering- truly, a fate to wish on no one.

Best to be taken in fire and chaos.

Lady Tano, isn’t that what you wanted?

i feel my rage erupting feed my appetite for destruction blood rushing i love when you feed my appetite for destruction

~*~

[lokimostly]

Polaris (Ch.7/?)

Loki x Reader, Pirate!AU Word Count: 3,266 Warnings: smutty undertones as always >:3 Summary: Your life has always been set in stone. Born to a wealthy merchant family in the Caribbean, you’ve spent your years as an heiress in the daytime, escaping at night to wander the streets of St. Thomas. Now, on the eve before your life settles into mundanity for good, you discover someone who could change everything– if you choose to trust him, that is.

A/N: If you would like the chapter to be more interactive, you can listen to Haul Away Joe and the Fiddler’s Song. (Actually, there’s a whole playlist for Polaris, which I can link upon request). Enjoy!

Chapter One ~ Chapter Two ~ Chapter Three ~ Chapter Four ~ Chapter Five ~ Chapter Six ~ Chapter Eight ~ Chapter Nine ~ Chapter Ten ~ Chapter Eleven ~ Chapter Twelve ~ Chapter Thirteen ~ Chapter Fourteen

Loki’s breath was hot on your skin. His lips hovered over the pulse point of your neck, murmuring low and ragged praises as he pressed kisses there, grazing your flesh with his teeth. The scent of leather and him was everywhere, intoxicating you with every inhale. Shivers travelled down your spine as his hands roamed freely, brushing against your hair and running down your back, holding you against him. His hips moved, slowly, rhythmically, building, carrying you higher and higher until —

You sat up and brushed your hair away from your flushed face, setting your palm against the skin above your hammering heartbeat.  The bright patch of sunlight coming through the small windowpane shone directly on your eyes and you reached up to shield them, brushing sand from the corners of your eyes as you sat up and looked around, trying to remember where you were. Your eyes caught sight of the ornate rug on the floor, the desk, the dresser – ah, yes. The pirate ship. Captained by the man you couldn’t stop dreaming about. You could still hear the echoes of his gravelly tone in your ears, whispering things you wouldn’t dare repeat in the light of day. Or at any time of day, for that matter.

You yawned and reached up to stretch your arms. The other side of the bed was undisturbed – Loki hadn’t come down to sleep last night. The guilt-ridden part of you, coursing with lingering desire, sorely wished he had. 

Even if you had no intention of marrying your fiancé, it was still a matter of principle. Besides, you were nowhere close to escaping your engagement… yet.

You threw your legs over the side and stood, walking over to the dresser with slow steps and opening the doors, staring at the contents blankly. These weren’t dresses– right, the dress was in the bottom drawer. Clearly you weren’t awake yet.

You moved to close the cabinet doors, and then paused. Why not try the trousers? You didn’t feel like calling for help to shimmy into the dress again, and besides, it would probably be more freeing.

You hesitantly reached for a tan-colored pair and held them out. They fell all the way to the floor and then some, folding over themselves. You’d be lying if you hadn’t noticed that Loki had legs for days, but their length was almost obscene.

Still, no harm in trying. 

You slid them on underneath your chemise – they fit well, save for the ridiculous length – and you sat down on the edge of the bed in order to roll up the cuffs. After getting them past your ankles, you stood and abandoned your chemise, heading for the dresser once more to retrieve a shirt. This whole process was very foreign to you. You took one of the black bishop sleeves and slid it on, and turned to stare at yourself in the mirror.

“Oh, Lord,” you said, reaching immediately for the loose strings and tightening them. Unless you wanted the whole crew to ogle at your chest, you needed to lessen the length of the V-neck a considerable amount.

After tying it off – with a double-knot, just in case – you looked up to examine yourself in the mirror again. Your hair hung messy and loose around your shoulders, but the outfit itself was surprisingly flattering. You turned to look at the backside and smirked, feeling a little giddy. Not bad there, either.

You quickly smoothed back the baby hairs stuck to your face and made sure nothing else was generally out of place before heading towards the door and reaching for your shoes. As you knelt down to slip them on, a muted sound outside the door gave you pause.

Singing. 

You slid into your shoes and opened the door, heading up the wooden stairs. A gale of wind hit your face at the same time as the voices became clear, and you could hear the words to the shanty: 

When I was a little boy, so my mother told me,

Way, haul a-way, we’ll haul, away, Joe! 

You scanned the deck. Those whose feet were planted on the deck stomped their boots in rhythm, while the men clinging to the ropes and handling the sails belted out the words. Your eyes caught sight of Loki in the middle of it all, balanced high above the deck, the sail rope held taut in his hands. His bright, seaglass eyes flickered down and saw you peering upwards, and a wolfish grin lit up on his face– not unlike the one you’d seen the night you first met –as the sailors took their turns singing lines before joining together in the chorus.

that if I didn’t kiss the girls, my lips would grow all moldy,

Way, haul a-way, we’ll haul, away, together!

Way, haul-away, we’ll haul, away, Joe! 

A smile was growing on your face despite yourself. Even though you didn’t know the words, you wanted to join in; the crew was obviously having fun.

Your train of thought was interrupted when one of the pirates on deck spotted you and ran over, linking his elbow through yours and spinning you onto the deck while singing the next bit. 

“Once I ‘ad, an English girl, she was slow an’ Lazy–” He let you go and you shrieked as you flew out, only to be caught by Volstagg, who laughed and took you in his arms for the next line, his dark eyes twinkling. 

“Now I ‘ave an Irish girl, she damn near drives me crazy!” He sang, letting go of your hand and bowing exaggeratedly low. The rest of the crew sang, 

Way, haul a-way, we’ll haul, away, together! Way, haul-away, we’ll haul, away, Joe! 

You laughed, holding a hand to your stomach as you caught your breath, and managed a small curtsy. As the crew finished their shanty, the ghost of a hand pressed against your back.

“Good morning,” Loki drawled, his tone more sultry and low than you’d expected. You were suddenly reminded of the obscene things that your dream-version of him had whispered in your ear, and it took every ounce of resolve not to pitch yourself overboard. Why was his existence such torture? 

You forced a smile and looked around, trying to avoid his eyes, knowing for a fact that they were fixed on you. “This is quite the spectacle.”

Loki chuckled and his hand left your back. You let out an unintentional breath. “Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked, stepping away and untying one of the fastening ropes. One of the crew ran over and took it, and Loki stepped back again, raising a dark eyebrow at you. “This is a stark contrast to your elegant ballroom parties.” 

You laughed once and nodded. “Yes, but I think I prefer this. The singing, the dancing…”

“You mean ‘wild careening?’” He asked. His sea-green eyes had a different tone in them today. They were softer, almost fond as he regarded you for a moment, before he put his finger and thumb to his mouth and whistled sharply.

The singing stopped, and the pirates looked to him for directions. Without pulling his gaze from you, Loki called, “Lads, pick it up. Your fiddle, if you would, Thomas–” and he held his hand out to you with a strange and wily smirk. “ –Our little debutante wants to dance.”

A cheer went up and your eyes widened. “Oh, I don’t know–” you began.

“ – I do,” Loki interrupted, his eyes twinkling wickedly. You hesitated for a moment longer before taking his hand and allowing him to draw you close. His other hand slid down to your waist and he leaned down, his lips near your ear.“Come now, don’t be shy,” he said, an octave lower, with an audible smile. “Whatever the lady wants, she shall have.” The sinful rasp of his tone insinuated more than just dancing, but you quickly brushed away the thought, hoping that you could blame the harsh wind for the color of your cheeks. 

One of the men – Thomas – came up from the brig and leaped onto a crate with a fiddle and bow in hand, stomping his foot to establish a beat. The rest of the sailors on deck quickly follow suit, clapping their hands and shouting. Your face flushed even deeper when Loki pulled you away from the rails and towards the center of the deck. 

Thomas’s bow lit the strings with a long, slow note, before racing upwards to the beat in a high melody. Someone whistled, and your head turned to look – but Loki’s hand caught your chin and directed your gaze back to him. His eyes gazed deep into yours. “Ignore them,” he said lowly, thumbing unconsciously over your lip before dropping his hand back to your waist. “Focus on me.” 

You nodded. Your heartbeat rose in your chest in anticipation, and without warning, he took off. The fiddler sawed on the instrument with a wide and wild smile while the other pirates shouted, laughed, and a few linked elbows with each other in mock dances of their own. 

This was the exact opposite of the first time you’d danced with Loki. Where you’d felt uncomfortable, stiff and confined to the limitations of societal expectation, here you were free. The wind whipped at your hair and blew it in your face, but you didn’t have time to push it away– Loki spun you so fast, letting you unravel from his arms and pulling you back in again, that all you could do was laugh and hold on. 

“Aye, show ‘er how it’s done, Cap’n!” Volstagg laughed, clapping his hands. The man beside him put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. Evidently they enjoyed the sight of their Captain at play as much as you enjoyed being in his arms.

Loki was quick-footed, chuckling when you nearly lost your balance and he caught you against his chest, somehow turning it into part of the dance. His slid his hands down to your waist and lifted you up. You shrieked, clinging first to his wrists and then to his shoulders, but his strong arms were unfailing as he brought you back down and right back into the stride of the song. 

The wind blew right through your shirt, but Loki’s large hands were warm, and he kept you moving too fast to feel the cold. A few more spins, lifts, and another outwards turn, before he brought you in for an unexpected twist and let you fall backwards in a dip. 

The fiddling tune came to a flourish and ended. Cheers went up. Loki’s chest heaved and he grinned, catching his breath and holding you close. You could smell the leather and rose, staring up at his flushed face. His raven hair fell in windblown curls past his ears, brushing against your face, and you laughed as you pushed them away. 

A strong gust of wind hit the deck and chilled you through your clothes,. Loki pulled you up. His hands left your arms and his face sobered up in a moment, a changing of the guards from a smiling man to a solemn one. 

“Keep at the storm sails, gents,” he ordered, nodding to Volstagg, who returned the gesture. The men dispersed gradually. Those who wore hats held onto them as they ascended the ropes, catching hold of the sails as they rippled in the wind and continuing the work of untying them. 

“Go on below, I’ll bring you breakfast,” Loki said distractedly, his eyes fixed on the storm clouds looming over the horizon. They didn’t seem any closer than last night: only darker, more ominous.

Your heart fell and you reached out to hold his sleeve. “Can’t I say on the deck?”

He shook his head. His eyes flitted down to you for barely a moment. “No. There’s too much to do and no time to lose. I’ll be down to see you, I promise,” he added, reaching for your hand on his arm and squeezing it as a gesture of reassurance. 

Your heart skipped a beat and you nodded, dropping your gaze and retracting your hand. “Alright.”

You turned and made for the stairs, setting your hand to the wooden railing and quickly stepping aside when one of the sailors came past you. You were nearly out of sight when you heard Loki’s voice call your name, and you looked back. “Yes?” You called.

He stood on the deck, black shirt billowing in the wind, and his lips turned upwards in a smirk. “The trousers suit you.” 

~

 You had occupied yourself for the better part of an hour in Loki’s cabin – running your fingers over the spines of the books kept there, most of which didn’t interest you. You did find one called Star Uranometria: Containing Charts of All the Constellations, and had decided to give it a try. The contents turned out to be more interesting than you’d expected: there were finely inked illustrations on every other page, detailing the patterns between each star and the stories they told.

You were studying Ursa Minor when there was a rap on the door and you looked up from the page. Loki entered the room and tossed you something – you reached up quickly and caught it before it hit the bed.

“There’s stew, but I figured you might enjoy something more suited to your tastes,” He said, walking over to the desk and pulling out the chair. You looked down at the object in your hands – an orange – and pressed it to your nose to smell the sweet citrus, before your eyes flitted to Loki. He pulled an envelope from one of the desk drawers and took out the contents, setting his elbows on the desk as he pored over the yellowed pages. One of his hands went up to rub his face – he seemed tired, suddenly, from the way his shoulders pinched to how his fingers raked a little too harshly through his hair.

You glanced at the book and made a mental note of your spot before closing it, standing up and passing the orange between your hands. “What is it?” You asked, venturing cautiously over to the desk. 

He didn’t look up and spoke into his palm. “Nothing that would interest you, I’m afraid.” His eyes close and he lets out a sigh. His eyelashes, dark and long, were still against his cheeks. Had he not spoken only a moment ago, you might’ve thought he was asleep. 

You gently pushed the envelope aside to make space and lifted yourself up onto the desk. You pushed your hair over one shoulder, looking down at him and tossing the orange lightly. “Try me.” 

Loki’s eyes opened and he glanced at you, a ghost of a smile passing over his lips. He sighed and sat back in the chair, regarding you as he spread his legs and ran his finger over his lips. The way he was sitting shouldn’t have distracted you, but it did, and you did your best not to look anywhere but his face.

“The storm troubles me,” he says finally, and pushes the papers towards you – at a glance you determined them to be almanacs. “It’s unusual for any storms to pass through these waters in July, much less a hurricane. These things do happen, but nevertheless…” 

You pressed your lips together and broke the skin of the orange with your fingernail. “You said something earlier,” you recall, looking down as you begin to peel it carefully. “About the sails.”

“It takes nearly a full day to take down the regular sheets and put up the storm sails,” Loki nods. “I would rather have it done sooner than later, even if it means we sit idly in the water while the storm heads our way.”

This news wasn’t exactly comforting, and you felt a twinge of anxiety in your chest. “But you have sailed through a storm before, haven’t you?”

“Once.” Loki’s eyes narrowed and he raised his eyebrows, recalling the memory. “Thor and I piloted the vessel through the Mona Passage, in late October some years ago. Say what you will about my brother, he is a skilled sailor.” Loki’s long fingers drummed idly on the desk, picking up the sheets of paper and setting them down again, smoothing out their wrinkles.

He’s nervous, you realized. 

You wanted to comfort him somehow – to sit in his lap and brush his hair back, trace your fingers over the curve of his jaw and murmur praises and reassurances – but that was completely out of the question, so you finished peeling your orange in silence and offered him a slice instead.

Loki’s eyes flickered up and he hummed through his nose, taking it, but not before his fingers brushed against yours. A passing touch that sent a spark of electricity through your nerves. You watched silently as he popped the piece of fruit in his mouth and then blushed when he made an infuriating point to lick his fingers clean of the juice dripping from his fingers. You quickly turned away, hoping your loose hair would hide your face. Damn him, why couldn’t he just wipe his hands on his trousers like an uncivilized man?

“I’ve lingered too long,” he said finally, rousing himself and standing to his full height. He pushed his chair in and, after straightening the papers and sliding them back into the envelope, made for the door.

You suddenly remembered the letter and caught him before he reached for his coat. “Will you leave the letter here?”

Loki froze, and then chuckled as he pulled on his coat. “Why would I do that, little one?” He asked, a tad darkly. 

You blinked, and then shrugged. “There are only so many books in your collection that won’t put me to sleep.” You slid off the desk and raised your eyebrow playfully. “I want a more interesting read.” 

He watched silently as you meandered over with something akin to amusement on his face. “Wouldn’t you rather wait for the full account?”

Your footsteps faltered and you stopped, frowning. “What do you mean?” 

“I have my crew to attend to now, but I’m coming down early – certainly before you’ve gone to bed.” He withdrew the folded letter from his inner coat pocket and held it out to you. “So would you rather read this now, or hear the full story orated tonight?”

You considered this for a moment, you hand half-extended to accept the letter. As tantalizing as knowing the contents was – especially when it was dangling right in front of you – Loki obviously wanted to tell you himself. You certainly weren’t opposed to the idea of listening to his low, hypnotizing voice at length. What harm would a few more hours do? 

You withdrew your hand and looked up at him, nodding. “I’d rather hear you tell it.” 

Loki replaced the letter but didn’t smile. “Until then.”

You returned to the bed, falling onto your front and lying there for a moment as you contemplated the book sitting a few inches from your nose. The rocking of the boat was indiscernible in the cabin, but if you focused, you could hear the creaking of the hull, the breaking of the waves, and Loki’s voice shouting orders up above.

You let out a sigh and sat up, opening the book and finding the passage detailing Ursa Minor. If you had more than a few hours to kill, there was no better time to start than the present – though you had every intention of exploring the ship later.

‘Ursa Minor,’ you began reading silently, propping your chin on your hand. ‘The constellation of the Little Bear, also named “Stella Polaris.” This seven-stared constellation lies at the end handle of the Little Dipper, whose stars are rather faint . . .

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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[sexysilverstrider]

A Practice to Remember

 To this day, Claude still wonders why his professor even considered him, of all people, to participate in the White Heron Cup.  “Ah,” she remarks, “a little to the left. You slid too far for that move.” Instructions pour out of her mouth calmly. Serenity and focus grace her face. But don’t be fooled. In all honestly, Byleth herself is at lost in the art of dancing. While she struggles in trying to guide the young heir in his dance practice, at least she can be glad that she isn’t the one that is going to dance in the competition.  Still…  “Teach…” Huffs of unsatisfied air escape his mouth. Finally halting to a stop, Claude plops his hands to his sides. “I mean this in the nicest way possible,” Green eyes stare at the apathetic woman, “but I feel like a crab who has lost its purpose on a Tuesday morning.”  The joke runs over her head; that is obvious with such a blank stare she is giving him.  Arms crossed and tightened. A single breath is held, then released in a slow manner. “Sorry…” is all she musters. Shame kisses each cheek. As agile as she is in the battlefield, Byleth has to bitterly admit that dancing has a different grace altogether that even she cannot grasp. Her head lowers, hiding the embarrassment of being unable to guide her student.  Byleth is rarely one to show emotions. But to see guilt wash over her face, Claude feels his stomach clench in complete discomfort.  Turns out he doesn’t like that sort emotion from her.

 “Hey now.” Hands quickly wave in front of her, he approaches forward. “I didn’t say you’re a bad teacher, Teach!” Laughter is forced in vain hopes that it will dispel her sorrow. “It’s just…uh…” One hand quickly rubs the side of his neck. “I’m sorta bad at this dancing thing, that’s all—”  “No.”  Her reply is quick. Sharp. Completely silencing him from saying any further.    Lavender eyes snap forward, actually making him flinch where he stands. “I’m your teacher.” A frown tugs the corners of her lips. “I should be guiding you, even if it means making sure you ace this dancing competition.” Resolve burns in those big beautiful eyes. “Even if it means I’ll dance with you to make sure you learn!”  Shock is the recurring character in his opera of emotions as Claude stands in bafflement at her statement. Fire burns in a pair of lavenders. Sparks of awe twinkles in a pair of greens. “Uh…” He tries to break the suddenly awkward silence. Both hands level near his chest. Both feet remain glued where he stands.  It takes her a full minute to realize what she said. And once the thought has registered, a flush of red splashes her cheeks.  Cute.  “I-I mean…” Stutters. She actually stutters. “Of course I don’t want to intrude. But I’ll make sure by the end of today, you’ll have the grace of a—”  “Dance with me.”  Shock ties her tongue tied.  Things seem to happen too fast for someone like her. And Byleth soon realizes that a hand—his hand—has reached out for her. Once, twice, she blinks at the waiting palm. A low chuckle accompanies her ringing head, and the young professor looks up at him.  His smile can rival the sun above.  “Well…” A light snicker tickles his tone, “since you did say you’ll dance with me so that I can learn better.” The grin on his face widens to a smile; playful at first, then slowly eased to one of anticipation. His other hand is positioned behind his back. Claude doesn’t move much afterwards, merely waiting for the response of his beloved professor.  However, as seconds grow to minutes, regret and shame start to envelop him—  He’s thankful he manages to swallow a gasp once his hand is finally being held.  “Well then…” Gaze falls to the held palm. She watches as slender fingers gently curl around her own. She hitches a breath as his grip cosily tightens around the shape of her hand.  It feels…right. Safe.  Warm.  The thought echo in unison without their realization. Byleth remains still in her position, unaware, lost, and frankly, very embarrassed at the action she has done. Courage took hold of her a few seconds ago, but that bravado now dissolves into awkwardness. She keeps her vision low, straight at their held hands. Uh… She wonders if Sothis is available in her head now. If that mysterious being is available, she can give her advice or at least ease her of this painful still-stone moment—  “B—Teach…”  His voice. She hears his voice.  Shivers run down her spine for his tone lacks of the cunning tune she is ever so used to.  Finally holding on to the bits of courage she manages to collect, Byleth finally looks up.  His smile can truly take her breath away.  Unbeknownst to her, a tornado of emotions is raging inside of him as well. Her eyes are flames that always attract him like a helpless moth. Her quiet stare both eases and wrecks him. Though words are not her strong suit, Claude feels hilariously hopeless every time she decides to open her mouth and speak.  He feels absolutely foolish every time she easily but unwarily snatches his attention with the simple movement of her pretty pink lips—  “Anyways—” he quips, then inhales sharply. “Ready to be swept off your feet?” Enlightening the atmosphere is always is strong suit. And even in this moment that literally takes his breath away, Claude holds on to his shaking sanity and straightens his back. “I may not look like it, but I’ll make sure to impress you by the end of the day.”  Surprise washes her face. And in a split second, short laughter bubbles inside the practice hall.  He fears his traitorous heart will blow their cover anytime soon.  “Okay,” is all she replies. Pushing away the bundle of nerves that twists her chest and stomach, Byleth fixes her posture. Her right hand squeezes his left, and she can feel her body being gently pulled forward. Though she had never danced in her life, Byleth is quite proud in her observation skills. She has seen commoners and mercenaries danced around a dancing campfire. She has seen happy couples gracing the earth with no regards to anyone around them. As a kid, Byleth always found the scene amusing and interesting. She even wondered once what it would feel if—if—she was ever in that situation.  And now, looks like she doesn’t need to wonder anymore.  Without a word, she moves her left hand to his right shoulder. Gaze never falls to the tall heir, always to the positions of her hands and body.  She isn’t ready to look at him now anyways.  A hand can be felt on her left hip. Shoulders flinch ever so slightly, but composure is quickly recollected in hopes that he didn’t see. “Ready…?” His voice huffs softly above her head. Warm air brushes dark blue strands, caressing each to each of her burning cheek. Words are absent entirely; a simple nod is given as a response.  A hum tickles her ears, and Byleth rues over the fact that she already feels empty from losing the touch of his right hand.  With ease, Claude gently placed the spindle of the phonograph near him. Once music starts to fill the hall, he places his focus on the woman in front of him.  By the stars, when he does, Claude actually feels his breath being taken away as his stares into those pair of dashing lavenders.  A smile stays in place. A heart howls like a wild beast.  Without a word, he starts to move. Following her instinct, she starts to follow. Left and right they sway. His hand on her hip tickles her ever so slightly, twitching a shaky smile that only widens his own. One step forward. Two steps back. Their bodies are merely inches apart. Their heartbeats drum as one.  As much as Claude is supposed to be the one practicing, Byleth isn’t all that surprised when she feels him guide her on the dancefloor. Soon enough, laughter fills the air. Joy beams brightly among the two. While this whole ordeal was meant to be practice for the Alliance heir and she was supposed to teach him, in a matter of minutes, the sound of harmonious glee fits perfectly with the lovely music.  Fingers entwines wonderfully with his. The sway of her skirt provides cool air to her thighs. The swish of her hair tickles his ticklish chin. Sometimes her left hand will be released so that she can twirl a few steps away. Sometimes his right hand will brush up her back when she returns back to his arms.  Tap, tap. The sound of heels echo in the halls. Once more she twirls, and this time she jumps a mere inch, and jumps again when she spins back to his embrace.  She’s beautiful. He has never seen her this happy before. She’s beautiful. He has never seen her laugh so much. Sure, she is one who rarely to never show a proper reaction. Hell, the smile he saw from her for the very first time still lingers in his mind like haunting memory.  But to see her like this…right now…  His heart only howls louder. A gulps slides down a dry throat.  From afar, none can tell who is learning and who is teaching. The image that is a sight to behold right now is an image of two people happily enjoying their presence without a care in the world. Only momentarily that she has forgotten her role as a professor. Only momentarily he has forgotten his ambitions as a leader.  If only…he wonders. If only—she wonders.  Time could stop right now.  Suddenly, the steps she takes falters, but instead of flinching backwards, she only holds a tiny gasp to feel her body being pulled closer.  “I got you…” is all he musters, whispers, tracing delicate shivers down the sides of her neck.  His voice lulls close. Too close. Realization hits her far too soon and far too later when she feels his heartbeat drum near her face. Her right cheek, warm and kissed by heat, is pressed against his sturdy chest. One hand pressed close to his chest, while her right hand is still held tightly, firmly by reassuring fingers.  Words are absent in a presence of soothing music. But alas, even the music has finally reached its end. Thoughts are in a jumble, but her mind forces itself to focus on anything but his heartbeat. Emotions boil inside her roaring heart, but her brain firmly ignores it in complete vain.  But the situation is proven a challenge. How can she ignore this? Not when she can feel his arm, strong and safe, tucked comfortably around the small of her back.  She then hears his breathing. Harsh. Quick. Hitched.  She cannot look at him just yet.  Silence is always a norm for her. Silence is her friend. Noise often irks her, and there are only a selective few who she can tolerate especially since entering the academy.  But Claude. His voice is never noise. Not to her. Not ever.  So that’s why—as their bodies pressed close together, as their warmth caressed the skin shivering underneath—Byleth wants nothing more than to hear his voice right now—  “—leth…”  It was faint. Too faint. But she swore by the name of her deceased mother that she heard—  His hug tightens. Something is pressed gently onto the top of her head.  Ba-dump!  She wonders if the wave of emotions coursing through her accidentally caused a Divine Pulse. But one things is for sure: everything is happening too much, too fast around her. In a matter of seconds, just as she was about to register reality, she instead gasps meekly at the feel of her body being released and pushed away.  She wonders why she feels sad by the action.  Bafflement widens a pair of lavenders. Neither a sound nor a peep, Byleth gapes at the tall heir before her. She sees him pant, wheeze, all the while clutching where his heart screams.  Bafflement still paints her face, and will continue to do so when she hears short laughter next.  “Well I—uh…” Stammers break down what words he wishes to say. “I—gotta go, Teach. I think I’m late for—” One look at her is enough to rattle him. “—Professor M-Manuela’s class—” Breathe, you idiot. Breathe!  He is never like this. He should never be like this. Not once. Not ever. Never would he expect himself to be so easily exposed like a startled fawn. His masks should serve him well. His smiles should provide him the protection from the world he craves to save.  But now…as she stands before him…  Answers are never given, and Claude doesn’t know whether to be thankful or not. He laughs again, ever so dumbly. One arm bent on his stomach, he gives a little bow. “Bye, Teach! Thanks for the lesson!” Without a single hesitation, he dashes off.  Tick…tock…tick…  Byleth wonders how and when she got herself to sit on the ground.  A few dumbfounded blinks happen all too fast. Her head feels numb, then dizzy, until she finally cups her face with shaking palms.  His voice lingers in her ears like an enchanting tune.  Did he just… No. It couldn’t be. She was hallucinating. She is, still.  Legs bend, then straighten forward. A tiny whine escapes behind pursed lips. Heat can be felt on her palms. Her lower lip juts, shakes. Memories of minutes ago stirs her heart ablaze. The whine is now being vainly gulped down a parched throat. One hand slides to her heart, and Byleth groans meekly at the singsong tunes of the incident.  He feels so warm…safe…right…  Slowly she closes her eyes; she wonders if it would be alright to lie on the floor for a few hours. ---  He wonders if it would be alright to slam his head against a concrete wall.  Puffs of hot air are forced out of his lungs. Sweat trickles down the side of his neck and face. In truth, his whole body was on autopilot when Claude made a run for it. So colour him surprised when he finds himself safe and sound in his room.  He soon rues that the silence of the room only intensifies the memories of a few minutes ago.  The touch of her skin. The warmth of her body. Hell, when his nose tickles the strands of such soft, dark blue hair…  Fingers shakily move to his tingling lips.  “Ha ha…” Dumbfounded laughter cracks the deafening silence. “Ahaa…” His legs feel wobbly. Is he dizzy? He feels dizzy. Should he sit? Maybe he should sit. The decision is never made as Claude soon finds himself squatting on the floor.  He can still feel her touch.  In…out…and all he can smell is the scent of tempting mixture of caramel and vanilla.  Byleth…  A fool. He is a fool for almost sputtering out her name out of the blue.  Bump…he finally falls to the floor. Hands now ruffle the messy strands of soft hair. Claude closes his eyes once, then snaps them open immediately when all he could see was her bright smile.  A fool. He is a fool for letting his masks crumble when it comes to her.  She feels so safe…warm…right…so right…  Byleth… Thoughts in a haze of her, Claude mindlessly brings his right hand to his face. Eyes closed, he takes a deep breath, letting her scent linger in his nose, in his mind, in his heart.  He misses her already. So much.  Damn it… Looks like he needs to see her later during dinnertime and apologize for whatever’s happened back there.  And yet—I want to see her now…—he doesn’t regret the moment one bit. END

[teaandcrowns]

Whispered Truce

Chapter Four: Diplomatic Solution, part i

(beginning)

_____________

“We’re spending an awful lot of time here,” Sokka remarked three days after the storm had swept through. “It’s making me a little itchy.”

“I told you you should have used that local bug salve I picked up. It actually works really well.” Katara pointedly did not meet her brother’s face, knowing full well that she was the reason why they were delaying leaving. Well—Toph had been helping make excuses for them to linger. Whether that was more out of wanting to help Katara or if she just wanted to hear more “juicy details” about the masked man, Katara really couldn’t be sure. Either way, it worked in her favor. She was making really good progress in healing the very sick, even if she wasn’t much closer to figuring out why they were sick to begin with. She frowned. That was the real issue—if she could find out what was causing the illness, she could do something more permanent about it, rather than running around trying to put out individual fires.

“That’s not what I mean.” Sokka’s voice cut through her thoughts, and she refocused on the pot of rice she was cooking for their breakfast. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to stay so long in one place, so close to a village. And also, I’m not sure if this little shack could take another one of those storms. The roof in my room is already leaking.”

“Yeah,” Aang agreed. “I still need to find someone to teach me firebending, too, and I somehow doubt a master is in this town.”

“You never know,” Katara countered evenly. “There could be one hiding out. It’s not that small.”

“I might be able to find out if you actually let me go into town for once to look,” he complained. “I’ve worn disguises before! I can make sure no one recognizes me.”

Katara pressed her lips together. Sure, he would start out that way, but how long would that last until he let his cover slip by showing off, and then they’d have to leave at the drop of a hat—maybe literally—and then she would have no chance of helping the rest of the sick people.

“How about this,” she began. “I need to go back to the market to get a few more things, so I can ask around a bit and report back when I’m done. Sound good?”

Sokka squinted one eye at her. “What else could you possibly need to pick up when we’ve been here nearly a week already?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “More bug salve! We used it all up already. I want to see if they have any bigger jars. It’d be really handy to have some to take with us while we’re still here in the Fire Nation.”

“Fine,” he conceded. “But after this, we really need to get going again. We’re on a time limit and really can’t afford to stay too long in one place. Get your bug stuff and see if there’s a firebending master anywhere nearby. If there is, we figure out how to convince them to teach Aang. If there isn’t, we move on.”

Katara recognize Sokka’s no argument tone, and knew that if she tried to make excuses for them to stay longer, she was going to have to reveal what she was doing. Part of her wondered if they’d simply be okay with helping out the town—they’d all eventually pitched in at Jang Hui. But… something made her hold her tongue. Maybe it was that she felt guilty already for keeping from them rather than being upfront. Maybe it was because of the masked man. She was already working on a solution, she reasoned, and she was pretty sure she had it all under control. No reason to risk Aang or the others unnecessarily when she was perfectly capable of doing some snooping around herself. She just would have to work a little faster.

“Deal,” Katara said. “We leave by tomorrow if I don’t hear word of a firebending master here.”

With an even stricter time limit set on her now, Katara wrapped up the morning chores as quickly as she could so she could set out to the market. In order to keep everyone else occupied, she’d suggested Aang work on some more advanced waterbending techniques while she was gone, and then that he should work on earthbending as well. He did still have a lot to learn of those elements, as well, and just because he needed to learn firebending as quickly as he could didn’t mean he could be lax on the others.

To her credit, Katara did go and get more bug salve (they didn't have larger jars, so she ended up having to just get a couple), and she did ask about a firebending master or teacher as casually as she could think to do. If she could get two birds with one stone all in one town, who was she to look a gift polar bear dog in the mouth?

There were many firebenders in the town, of course, but no one as formal as a teacher, or good enough to really be considered a master. It sounded like older family members were the ones to teach the younger, and not go too far out of the scope of family and friends. As the afternoon dwindled, Katara had no choice but to go back to the hut they were staying in and let everyone know that she hadn’t found anything. One last idea for an excuse struck her as she picked her way back through the overgrown jungle path to the hut.

“I might have found someone,” she said, unpacking her small market bag. Toph tilted her head a bit, but kept Katara’s lie to herself.

Aang’s eyes lit up. “Oh yeah? Who? When can I go meet them? Or are they coming out here?”

She held up her hands. “Hang on, it’s not a sure thing yet.” Aang’s face fell. “There’s a woman who might be willing to teach someone outside her family and friends, but I won’t be able to talk to her until tomorrow.”

Sokka let out a loud sigh. “Another setback? Awfully convenient, isn’t it?”

Before Katara could answer, Aang turned to her brother. “But—this might be it. We might have finally found someone to teach me firebending. I can’t pass up the chance that I could get a teacher, Sokka.”

Her heart twisted at how earnest he was, how complete her lie was. Helping people is worth it, she told herself. She’d make it up to him somehow, if only for her own conscious.

After they’d eaten and settled in for the night, Katara got herself ready, donning the raiments of the Painted Lady to disguise herself. She needed to move quickly tonight, see if she couldn’t track down the source of the sickness still lingering there. Ten paces beyond the threshold of the door, Toph said her name, quietly.

“I hope you can finish up whatever you’ve been doing while we’ve been here,” she said.

That made Katara smile, made her heart swell a little more in her chest. “Thanks, Toph. I do, too.”

“And I hope you finally get the name of your masked boyfriend.”

The younger girl grinned and vanished back into the hut before Katara could form words beyond sputtering embarrassment, so she took the opportunity and fled into the jungle toward the town.

It was difficult, not knowing what she was looking for. Katara ran the list of symptoms she’d seen and cured through her head—fever, chills, sore throats, vomiting, often accompanied by a rash of some type. For all she knew, it really could be some strange endemic Fire Nation illness that she would have absolutely no way of knowing anything about. Her tentative partner, the masked man—not boyfriend, Katara mentally corrected Toph with a flash of heat through her cheeks—might know, but he hadn’t ever said a word to her either time she’d come across him, so she probably shouldn’t hold her breath on that. Even still, she hoped that he might be able to help identify how to fix the greater problem and keep more people from getting sick, rather than just only be able to be reactive.

She reached the small alley by the shop where they’d sheltered from the storm, looking for him. It’d been the easiest place she could think of for them to meet again, but he wasn’t there. Was he not going to honor their agreement? Or maybe he was just late? Katara couldn’t wait around all night, not with her new deadline pressing against her spine with each passing moment.

Just as she was about to leave, a shadow fell off the roof in front of her—more accurately, the masked man dropped down and stopped her in her tracks. Without pausing in misstep, Katara moved smoothly around him.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show up. We’ve got a lot of work to do tonight. I want to find out what’s causing this illness and put and end to it,” she told him. “Only healing people is well and good, but I can’t be here forever and all the people helped won’t matter if they just get sick again.”

She stopped a few steps away from him to turn and glance back. “I don’t suppose you know what might be causing it? Or anywhere we might look?”

Only silence from the white and blue masked face answered her. She didn’t particularly expect a verbal answer, but he stood still as stone. Katara would give him a few moments more before she set off on her own, regardless. She couldn’t afford to wait. He lifted a hand with one finger raised. Did that mean wait? Or did it mean he had an idea? Or knew? She swallowed a sigh of frustration; it’d be a lot easier if he would just talk to her—if he even could. The memory of hoarse voices thanking her for healing them echoed through her mind again. If he’d been a victim of this illness and survived on his own… she could see how a person might lose their voice to it. That thought only fueled her resolve to end this more.

Only a moment after he raised his hand, he nodded, slowly as if it were a thoughtful motion more than a decisive one. It would have to be enough. She followed after him as he set off through the town, weaving through the shadows of the streets like a wraith; she was not much different, easily keeping pace in the light robe she wore.

He led her to the northeastern side of town, not quite diagonal from where they’d met at the shop, but there was a distinct difference to the buildings nonetheless. The houses here were clearly those of the more affluent, with finely carved stone walls surrounding meticulously tended gardens. The third one in after she noticed this change was where he took her, easily scaling the wall to get into the estate proper. She followed close behind.

Once behind the walls, they hugged the shadows cast either by the building itself, or the perimeter. She’d expected maybe for him to take her to a food supply, or well, or something that might have infected so many in town, not another house. What could he possibly think—or know—was inside that was linked to the illness?

He found a window that he could climb up to and jimmy open with a dagger, and once he was inside, he leaned back out and reached down to take her hands. Katara wasn’t as good a climber as he showed himself to be, even without a long robe to get in the way, so she had to allow herself to be hauled up by his strength alone. He did so smoothly and quietly, and soon she was able to pull herself through the sill and crouch with him in the shadows inside the house.

Like most of the houses she’d visited as the Painted Lady here, it was quiet beneath the blanket of night. Except… Katara paused, holding herself still and listening. The faint sounds of crying drifted down the hall to where they were. She exchanged a glance with the masked man—as much as one could have a glance with a carved masked, anyway—before they both set off in the direction of the crying in tandem. They followed it down the rest of the corridor, to a room with the door wide open.

The masked man slipped across the doorway so they were bracketing the frame as they peered cautiously into the room.

A teenaged girl about Katara’s age sat facing the door, hunched over a prone body in a bed. Katara gave her companion a subtle motion to stay where he was, and she stepped fully into the doorframe. About halfway to the bed, the girl looked up and her eyes widened.

“Who—you’re the spirit people are talking about. The one who’s been helping people, who’s been healing people.”

Katara nodded, and pitched her voice in a way she hoped would be more ethereal. “Yes, child. Let me help you, as well.”

The girl shook her head getting to her feet. “No—it’s not me. My brother is the sick one.”

With an overdone motion of her head to make her nod appear drifting with her wide dǒulì hat, Katara crossed the rest of the way to the bed and lifted her hands. The water from her war canteens followed the motion as mist rising up from seemingly nowhere, then settled over the sick boy where she placed her hands. With a deep, controlled breath in, Katara closed her eyes and focused on the qi pathways within the sick boy, flushing them free of illness. He wasn’t anywhere near as sick as most of the people she’d healed, and she was quickly finished with her work. She pulled the remainder of the water back into her canteens.

“He was lucky,” she said softly. “He wasn’t very sick to begin with.”

“I know,” the girl said, tears spilling down her face again. Something about that didn’t feel right to Katara. Her brother hadn’t been in any danger of dying, so why would she be crying so hard?

“Is something else the matter?” she asked.

In response, the girl burst into proper tears above her now-sleeping brother. Katara frowned, but waited for the girl to answer.

“M-my mother,” she sobbed.

Understanding rippled through her like an earthquake along a fault line; Katara was all-too familiar with how a crack in the heart felt, and how a shattered world sounded.

“Is… she sick, too?”

She knew the answer to the question before the girl even answered, which came with a shaking of her head.

“Where is she?”

“The—the records,” the girl got out eventually. “He wanted the records to vanish.”

Katara reached out across the sleeping form of her brother to place a gentle hand on the girl’s arm.

“Who? I may not be able to help your mother like I did your brother, but I can still help.”

The girl looked up at her at the touch, her eyes red and watery, clearly trying to decide if the spirit she believed Katara to be could be trusted. Her gaze flicked down to her brother, now sleeping with no coughing, no rattling in his chest, no flush of fever on his face. After a few moments, she nodded and drew in a breath to compose herself.

“Mom’s been one of the records keepers here for years and years. One of the best. But suddenly a new mayor comes in a few years ago and starts asking a lot of questions, like he’s not sure she’s doing as good of a job as she should be. Then, last night, Mom told me we needed to move some of the scrolls to another location, someplace safer, she said. I don’t know why. That’s what we were doing tonight when—when—” She dissolved into tears again, but Katara was certain she heard all she needed to.

“Can you tell me where you and your mom were?” Katara asked when the girl’s tears lessened a little. She got a nod in reply.

“There’s a small house not far from here, just a little storage area. I thought it was where we kept all the extra rice and sake. Maybe that’s why she thought they would be safe there.”

Katara got some more practical directions from the girl, then told her to make sure she had water and something cool to put over her face when she needed it. She made her way back to the doorway where her masked companion waited for her. Though the mask only had one expression, Katara thought she could sense curiosity and a little impatience from him, but she didn’t say anything until they were out of the house and in the garden again.

“I think the mayor sent someone to kill that girl’s mother and take whatever records she was trying to hide,” Katara said in a low, quiet voice that did nothing to belie her simmering anger.

The body language of her companion immediately changed—she could almost feel the hum of energy coming off of him, radiating outward like heat. She wondered what he knew.

“You think the mayor is up to something, too?” He nodded in confirmation. “Good,” she went on, the word almost a growl. “Let’s go hunting for a mayor.”

[thatsparrow]

(read on ao3)

The tears are still sticky on Caramelinda's cheeks when Amethar proposes.

"Look, I know this isn't what you wanted," he says, knelt down before her in his bloodstained armor, a messy spray of green sap drying across his breastplate. "It's not what I—" he exhales, heavy. "Fuck. I thought I'd be walking Laz down the aisle, not taking her place at the altar."

Taking her place. Caramelinda blinks her eyes closed, feeling fresh tears stinging hot against her lashes as she hides in the black behind her eyelids. Maybe if she keeps them closed long enough, she can imagine a new world where Lazuli is still alive.

"I'm sorry." Amethar's voice has gone tight and quiet. Fragile, almost. "I didn't mean it like that. I know I'm not—replacing her, or anything. No one could."

"No," Caramelinda says, opening her eyes. She's surprised at how rough the word sounds, how grief has turned her throat sandpaper-raw. "No one will ever come close."

"I know."

"I love—I loved her. I don't—" she cuts herself off, leaves him to fill in the rest. I don't love you. I don't want to marry you. I don't even know you.

"I understand." He tries out a smile, but it doesn't quite land. Falls crooked like a deflating balloon. "Believe it or not, I do have some idea of what you're going through." His expression shifts a little as he gives her a steady look, and Caramelinda sees some of the soldier in him, the steel-sharp resolve. "She may not have been my partner, but I did love her, too."

Guilt rises fast in her chest. It's so easy to linger in the shadow of her own grief that Caramelinda forgets she's not alone in her loss. "I didn't mean—"

"It's okay. You're hurting—I don't blame you for that. Hell, Laz isn't even in the ground yet and we're—" Amethar cuts off and laughs a little, harsh and humorless. "Fucking politics, you know? 'Heavens forbid we lose the alliance, too,' like that's the most important thing here." He rubs at his jaw, his hands restless. "I am sorry, though, that this is being asked of you. Bulb knows you deserve better."

Of you, he says. Not, of us. Pain aplenty weighing heavy on his own shoulders, but he won't shy away from his new role as crown prince, however chafing it might be. For all the stories she'd heard from Lazuli, the rumors that flurried through Candia like spun sugar—Amethar the reckless, Amethar the stubborn, Amethar the foolhardy—Caramelinda finds that they don't entirely square up with the man kneeling in front of her. His sister stolen from him in battle and any notions of love or romance stripped away by the obligation of an arranged marriage, and yet his main concern remains for her.

Amethar the noble, she thinks. Amethar the strong.  

"It's okay," she says, settling a hand on his shoulder and gesturing for him to stand. "It'll be okay. I always knew my marriage would likely be a political one. Falling in love with Lazuli—" she pauses, swallowing around the thorny shape of Lazuli's name in her throat, "—that was luck, more than expectation. A fluke, albeit a very beautiful one." She's still wearing Lazuli's ring, a simple silver-stone band around her finger. "Maybe I should have known better than to trust in such good fortune."  

Amethar hesitates for a moment, then reaches out a hand to take hers. His palm is warm and callused against her skin, his fingers broad and blunt where Lazuli's had been sure and slender. Still, there's a reassurance to his touch.

"I don't know how to be a husband," he says, slow. "Let alone how to be a good one, but I do promise that I'll always be loyal to you and faithful to our marriage. Whatever might happen, so long as I live, I pledge myself to you as your partner and ally." He gives her that bashful, sideways smile that she'll come to know well. "And as your friend, for whatever that's worth."

Amethar the honorable.

"I thought we were meant to exchange vows at the wedding," Caramelinda says, teasing a little if only to hide her surprise at his earnestness. "I appreciate it, but you don't have to say all that for my sake. It's a political marriage; I know what that entails."

"I said it because I meant it, Caramelinda." It's the first time he's said her name, low and warm in a way that brings a slight flush to her cheeks. "I'll say it all again up at the altar, too, but it's important to me that you know where I stand, if we're going to do this. Politics or no, I'm not going to be your husband in name only while the rest of Calorum thinks you're being played for a fool. I know I could never fill Laz's shoes, but that doesn't mean I won't try."

He runs a thumb over the back of her knuckles, pausing briefly before brushing across the ring she'd been given by Lazuli. What does he think when he sees it? There's no mistaking the sincerity of his words, but neither can Caramelinda ignore the bruising weight of Lazuli's absence between them. Him missing a sister and her missing a fiancée and what are either of them supposed to do when their very relationship is a reminder that she's gone? When she looks up from their joined hands, she sees that Amethar's cheeks are wet with tears.

"It should have been me," Amethar says when he notices her watching him. "Bulb, I wish it had been me. I don't know how to do this—any of it—without her."

"Me neither." Promise me that you'll come back, Caramelinda had said to Lazuli the last time they were together, Lazuli's armor buckled over her robes as she'd readied to leave for the front. Promise me that you'll come back, but Lazuli had just kissed her, sure and steady, and Caramelinda had taken that as its own sort of vow. She should have known better, though; Lazuli was always so careful with her words that her silence was its own answer.

Promise me that you'll come back—but she hadn't. And so now here Caramelinda is, alone for all that Amethar is with her, both of them silent in their mourning. She would offer him comfort if she had the words, but she doesn't even know what balm to apply to her own wounds. Still, if they can't absolve each other of their grief, perhaps they can lighten the burden by carrying it together.

"We don't have to decide or plan or do anything at the moment, right?" Caramelinda says. "I'm sure there will be plenty of that in the days ahead, enough so that there's no use worrying about it now. But we do have some time—maybe to talk, if you'd like?"

"Yeah," Amethar says, his voice rough and raw-edged. "That sounds alright."

It's then that Caramelinda realizes they're still holding hands. She lets go, feeling a little sheepish before reminding herself that it's nothing to feel guilty over. He is to be her husband, after all. Her tent isn't particularly large, but she leads him over to two floor cushions before pouring each of them glasses of sugared fruit wine.

"To Lazuli," she says, raising her glass in a toast.

"To Laz," Amethar echoes. They drink, Amethar nearly to the bottom of his cup. He wipes his mouth and gives her a curious look. "Is that what you wanted to talk about? Lazuli?"

Caramelinda nods and takes another careful sip. "I thought it might help, but if you don't want to—"

"No, no, it's okay. I'd like that, actually. It'd be nice to remember her, not just—what happened at the end."

The wine goes a little sour on her tongue. They hadn't wanted to let Caramelinda see her body, wouldn't even let her through into Lazuli's tent until she'd shouted and swore and vowed to call forth the power of the Bulb to blast them all into the heavens if they wouldn't let her go. Inside, Lazuli had been laid out on her bed, still as stone. They'd pulled the arrows free and done their best to patch the wounds, but lapis-blue blood had come away on Caramelinda's skin as she'd reached for Lazuli's hands, as she'd pressed her lips to Lazuli's cheeks. She doesn't remember how long she'd stayed kneeling on the floor, but she does remember that her legs were numb by the time she was helped to her feet and carried from the tent.

No, she doesn't want that moment to be all she remembers of Lazuli, either.

"What was she like when you were younger?" Caramelinda asks, taking a long pull from the glass to swallow down her pain. "I can't picture her as any age other than when we met."

Amethar smiles wide and his whole face seems to shift, turning on a coin from stoic to something easy and boyish, unreserved and sunshine-bright. "Man, she was such a big sister. You know that serious expression she used to have, but picture it on the face of a teenager. We used to joke that she was a grown-up stuck in the body of a kid, but then she'd pull some devious fucking prank out of nowhere. But that was her, you know? So fucking smart and sure of herself, and then this hidden streak of chaos running underneath. She'd tell you to learn your Candian history and meanwhile you don't notice that she'd cast an illusion switching the doors and the windows, or enchanting pieces of chalk to explode if you get the wrong answer. More of a wild card than I think she let on with most folks, but I loved that about her. A one-woman force of nature for as long as I can remember."

Caramelinda laughs a little, both at the memory and the look of nostalgia on Amethar's face. "I wish I'd known her, then. Not that she didn't have moments of levity, but I think her sense of responsibility had worn most of it out of her by the time we met."

"Well, hey, I've got plenty of stories," Amethar says. "You know, if you want."

She nods, and together, they spend the rest of the evening spinning Lazuli back to life with their words and memories, a shadow blurred a little hazy by wine, but built of too much joy and laughter for either of them to mourn.

[astarisms]

ghostbusted

pairing: natan word count: 1774 summary: who you gonna call? certainly not these two. notes: a silly fic for day four of @natanweek, warehouse.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?”

“Something you would approve of, no doubt. Now hush,” Natalie says, glancing behind them before feeling along the fence until she finds where the links are broken. She peels it back and looks up at him expectantly. He lifts an eyebrow in surprise. 

He’s usually the one shushing her, and more importantly, he’s usually the one with the knack for the illegal activities. He obliges, though, slipping through the hole and reaching out to hold it open so she can follow. She rolls it back into place with an ease that suggests she’s done this at least a few times before. 

She takes a few steps forward, before she realizes he’s not following her. She stops and turns back to find him staring at her, and she purses her lips, putting her hands on her hips.

“Are you coming or not? What is it?”

“Who are you and what have you done with the girl?” Lucifer asks, only half joking. Natalie huffs, blowing her hair out of her face, but the darkness can’t hide how she flushes from him. 

“I—” Natalie starts, then pauses as she spots headlights down the road in the distance. She reaches out, grabs his hand, and whirls around in the direction of the looming black silhouette of the old warehouse. “Come on, we can’t be seen. This is illegal!” 

He snorts at that, because there’s more of the Natalie he knows, but allows her to pull him deeper into the property, until they’re well out of view of the street. Natalie slows, looking up at the graffitied building in all its peeling-paint-and-broken-windowed glory. 

Lucifer eyes it, unimpressed. 

“This is what you dragged me out in the middle of the night for? What are we doing here?” He turns to her, eyes narrowing. “And how many times have you been here that you know how to get in?”

“I’ve been here a few times with Mike, Chelle, and Naira, but we never made it that far inside.” Her gaze slides to him, and she grins a little conspiratorially, pausing for effect before she adds, “It’s haunted.”

He stares at her blankly.

“Haunted?” he asks flatly. Natalie nods enthusiastically. 

“Yeah, apparently there was some big accident here in the…” she stops, tilting her head in thought, and then shrugged, “at some point. But supposedly the people who died here roam the building, looking for the supervisor responsible for their deaths.” She pitches her voice lower at the end, trying for an ominous tone, and wiggles her fingers. 

“You know ghosts aren’t real, kid.”

Natalie scoffs, and turns away from him to fish a flashlight out of her backpack. 

“Coming from the guy with horns and elf ears.” Lucifer opens his mouth, indignant, but Natalie waves him off before he can speak. “Come on, we didn’t come all the way out here to stand outside all night.”

Without waiting for him, she sets off, disappearing through the rusted doors. 

Lucifer has no choice but to follow, dodging the spiderwebs spun in the corners on his way inside, his eyes adjusting easily to the dark. 

“You’re not going to find anything but rodents and dust,” he calls after her, already disgusted with the filthy place, still unable to believe she’d dragged him all this way to ghost hunt. 

“Not so loud!” Natalie chastises in a whisper, swinging around to look back at him. He shields his eyes from the too bright, artificial shine of her flashlight, glaring at her. “You’ll scare them off.”

Her ability to forget who he is at the drop of a dime is really quite impressive, he has to admit, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying. 

“I’m the Devil. If ghosts really were real, I should be the only thing they’re afraid of,” he snaps, and Natalie rolls her eyes, sweeping the area to decide where to go first. He hopes she can feel the weight of his glare on her back, but knowing Natalie, it has no effect anyways. 

“Please,” she snorts absentmindedly, though not unkindly, as she peers deeper down one hallway, “the only scary thing about you is how loud you can be. Now keep it down!” 

She begins her trek deeper into the building, and Lucifer clenches his jaw, trailing after her, though he is already spinning ways to get her back for her blatant disrespect.

Surprisingly enough, she actually is silent the first few minutes, creeping into rooms that branch off the hallway and motioning back at him. The quiet is nice, but he doesn’t find their current objective any less ridiculous the further in they go. 

In some rooms, Natalie shivers, and gives him an expectant, excited look as a result. He has no idea what it’s meant to mean, and she’s keeping her mouth firmly shut in hopes of sneaking up on a fucking ghost, so he’s left to guess that her being cold is some kind of signifier of paranormal activity.  

The very notion that there was anything supernatural in this warehouse besides him is laughable. 

After an hour, they have only made it halfway through and Lucifer is losing what little patience he had to begin with. Nothing but drafty areas and the rats, as he’d promised, but he’s getting bored and Natalie is beginning to look dejected. 

He gets the idea as they enter one of the larger rooms, complete with rusted machinery and pipes and boxes that offer many hiding spots. He slows his steps as Natalie becomes more sufficiently distracted in her search, trailing behind her until he’s able to slip away without a sound.

He wagers he has a few minutes, at the very least, before she notices him missing, and he takes advantage of that time to wind his way deeper into the metal maze, ducking to avoid the cobwebs and sidestepping the skittering rodents. 

“Lucifer?” he hears her distant whisper, drifting through the echoing chamber. There’s a pause, long enough for him to cross around the back of the room and begin doubling back towards her, when he hears another, more urgent call of his name. 

He feels her rising panic like a tangible thing, and for the first time tonight, he thinks he’s finally getting some enjoyment out of their little field trip. 

“Lucifer, where did you go?” Natalie asks, raising her voice to almost normal levels now. He taps the side of one of the pipes once, letting the sound linger, then raps against them again in rapid succession before moving on, to the other side of her but still out of her sight. 

He hears the scuff of her shoes as she whirls around to find the source of the noise.

“Haha, very funny,” she says, feigning a confidence the waver in her voice betrays. Lucifer mimics the taps against another pipe, then slips behind her, though closer than he has been. He changes the sequence a little with each new position, offering a shuffle or a sigh in place of the light ringing the disturbed pipes offer. 

“I know that’s you, Lucifer. You can come out now.”

Her words are bold, self assured, but there’s a tremor to them, and Lucifer grins, delighted in her fear. 

It serves her right.

He creeps closer and closer, watching from the shadows as she becomes increasingly more nervous with his absence, jumping at every little sound, even the ones he isn’t making. For a moment, he almost gives it up, almost steps out and laughs with her.

But then he realizes she’s not so eager about ghost hunting now, and that she had been using him more or less as a defense. His resolve returns, and he throws a screw he found on the ground across the room. It hits one of the machines in front of her, and Natalie yelps before she manages to clap a hand over her mouth.

She hesitates, then shines her light in that direction, trying to peer closer.

“Is there… is there a spirit here?” she asks, finally abandoning the notion that it’s just him, which is exactly what he’d been waiting for. Light on his feet, he slips up behind her. Natalie is still making slow progress towards the machine, so intently focused on the looming shadows that she doesn’t notice him behind her. 

He leans in, as close as he dares, and whispers in her ear, “boo.”

Natalie screams, jumping away from him, spinning around to shine her flashlight on him. She looks thoroughly frazzled, and he laughs at the expression on her face.

She presses a hand over her heart — he can hear it threatening to pound right out of her chest — and glares at him. 

“You jerk!” she exclaims, thrusting her finger into his chest. “I thought something had happened to you!” He catches her hand and eases it way from him, though he keeps his hold on it. 

“Something did happen to me — I got bored,” he says matter of factly, his lips tugging upwards in a shit eating grin. “And I told you ghosts weren’t real.”

Natalie scowls at him. 

“You don’t know everything.”

“Maybe not everything,” he agrees, surprising her, “but after living a few millennia I guarantee I have a leg up on you.”

Natalie tries to tug her hand away, but Lucifer holds firm, drawing her back to him as her scowl melts into a much more familiar and characteristic pout. 

“You’re so rude. And no, I don’t need the reminder.”

He raises one sharp brow at her, and Natalie sticks her tongue out at him. Then she sighs, looking around. 

“That was really all you?”

“All me.”

“So there’s no ghosts here?”

“There are no ghosts anywhere,” he says, exasperation tinging his voice. Natalie narrows her eyes at him and purses her lips, unconvinced. 

��Fine,” she responds, too slowly and deliberately, and he knows this will not be the last he hears of ghosts. “I guess there’s no point in wasting more time here, then. It’s gross in here, anyways.”

“A common theme of buildings that have been abandoned for decades,” he notes dryly, and she bumps her shoulder against his as she casts one most wistful look around the place before leading them back towards the entrance. 

“I’d tell you not to be a jerk, but…”

“Devil.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. As if I haven’t heard that enough times already today,” she teases, already back in high spirits.

So engrossed in their banter, neither notice the faded pair of eyes that stare at their retreating backs before disappearing in a wisp of smoke.