#is that y he hears the angels call to him? feels the radiance?

[opens-up-4-nobody]

Someone should rewarch The Terror and pull out every quote making reference to God.

[babybottlepop96]

A/N: a cute mini fic with Alastor from Hazbin Hotel! SFW

Word Count: 851

YOUR POV

I remembered it like it was yesterday, the day we met. I was just some loney (demon type), demon, working in a Cafe owned by one of the Elite Socialites in Pentagram. He was different, his aura was... Dark. But I always was attracted to the more bad boy type, the ones who didn't give a shit and never cared about what they did, who would give the finger to anyone who told them no. But he was a bit different, charming, a gentleman. They way he would be polite even with a sinister smile, half of what I went for and half of something I never knew I needed in my dead life. 

"Hey, Al! Whatcha want?!" The famous pornstar, and my most frequented customer, Angel Dust, called from the counter.

"I don't find that I care." The red deer demon, that I now know as Al, said. His grin was bigger than ever but the tone of his voice was a bit creepy, but Angel Dust didn't seem to give a rats ass. 

"Two strawberry chocolate frappes, frozen, double the fresh strawberries and extra whipped cream with white chocolate drizzle on top." Angel said, even though I had his order memorized. I added the other one and smiled at him.

"They'll be done in about five minutes, on the house." I smiled at him and he grinned back. 

"Thanks, Doll. This is why you're my favorite." He patted my head and went to sit next down to Al. I paid the bill and cleaned up the counters. After a few minutes, I grabbed the drinks and walked them over to Angel and Al.

"Here you go, enjoy." I smiled and caught the eye of the one called Al. He looked at me like he could devour me alive and I shivered at the thought. 

"Thank you my dear." He took a sip and his face scrunched up in disgust. "My, Angel, what in Hell did you order?!" I couldn't help the giggle that escaped my mouth.

"I take it you're not a sweets fan? How about a cup of regular black coffee?" I offered and he smiled at me.

"That sounds much better, thank you dear." I nodded and walked off to grab the new order. As I walked back, I noticed that Angel Dust had disappeared and Al was left to himself, humming to himself.

"Here you go, sir." I placed the mug down and he gestured to the seat across from him.

"Would you please sit?" I looked confused for a second but decided to do it anyway. Fuck the rules. 

TIME SKIP

Everyday since that day, Alastor had come in during my break and we could talk about everything. Mainly him and his hobbies and his contribution to the Hazbin Hotel. I didn't mind though, I loved hearing his voice. It was so… how do you say it? Soothing, comforting almost, the radio filter reminded me of the old movies I used to watch with my grandfather when we were both still alive. "So, (y/n), would you like to accompany me to the ball we are throwing at the Hotel next weekend?" He asked suddenly. I sat there shocked, taking in his words. He wants me to go with him to a ball? As I sat there, he just stared back and smiled, patiently waiting for an answer.

"I… I would love to." I smiled. "I'll just have to make sure it's okay with the boss and-" but I was cut off.

"Do not fret about that, darling. He won't mind, especially after he sees that I'm the one you will be going with." He smiled and I just smiled back. This was going to be fun.

TIME SKIP

ALASTORS POV

I awaited the beautiful (y/n) to arrive, standing by the front door and greeting the party attendees. Suddenly, (y/n) arrived wearing the most beautiful scarlet red dress I've ever laid my eyes on. The strapless sweetheart neckline, the way it hugged her midsection and then gracefully flowed to the floor, slitted up the side of her right leg stopping mid thigh. The way the lights caught the mild sparkles making it shine as if she were a movie star. If I had a heart, I'm sure it would've stopped beating at the sight of her. Absolute radiance, pure beauty at its finest.

"Alastor?" I was snapped out of my thoughts when I saw her face looking up at me, her cheeks tinted a light pink. 

"I'm sorry, darling. I was just entranced by your beauty." I smiled and she blushed even more and looked down. Yes, absolutely radiant. We danced the night away, from slow to swing and everything in-between. I felt…. Lighter. How do the youngster's say it? On cloud nine! I didn't know what this feeling was called, but I know I've seen it before. Adoration? Love? All of the above? I wasn't sure, but I did know I wanted to be around this beautiful creature for the rest of eternity. My own charming demon belle.

[skzsauce01]

In Fair Verona︱Chapter 9

Synopsis: Jisung knows he is the Romeo to your Juliet. He could wax poetry about you all throughout rehearsal and even a little after. Except Hwang Hyunjin is the one playing Romeo in the school play, not him. Jisung is just another tech crew member that you don’t know, but he’s determined to win your heart... by any means necessary.

Warning: violent thoughts

Word Count: 2.7k

Pairing: fem!reader x Jisung; fem!reader x Hyunjin

updates every Wednesday and Sunday @ 11 PM PST︱chapter list

O serpent heart hid with a flowering face!

Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?

Beautiful tyrant! Fiend angelical!

Dove-feathered raven, wolvish-ravening lamb!

He spends the night tossing and turning in bed, devising a plan to win you back. All the roads lead to getting Hyunjin out of the picture, but how does he do it? Eventually, the rain drumming against his window lulls him to sleep before he can finish fleshing out his idea, and when he wakes up in the morning, the storm has passed. Jisung takes it as a sign that the day will be better.

The preview of the show is happening at 3:30, and there’s a certain electricity in the air after school. Like Mr. Gi said, the cast and crew shirts came in the morning, and Jisung gets his before the preview begins. You and the girl playing Lady Montague are sorting out the shirts into piles according to size.

He goes up to you even though Lady Montague is closer to him. “Hey.”

You don’t look up from your shirt stacking. “Hi. What’s your size?”

“Medium,” he replies as he carefully watches you. At least you’re talking to him.

“Yeji has them,” you point to Lady Montague, still not looking at him.

“Thanks.”

He collects his shirt from Yeji and pulls it over his black hoodie. It makes him look puffy and bulky, and he waits for you to tease him like you normally would. Your eyes never stray from the shirts in your hands. He ruffles his hair, but you don’t even spare a glance. Both you and Yeji are starting to break down the boxes the shirts arrived in. It’s quiet except for the snapping of cardboard.

“The design is kind of nice,” he remarks in another attempt to get your attention.

“Yuna did it,” Yeji replies. Jisung is not pleased that she does, but he merely nods. “Hyunjin wanted to, but the design he came up with was so bad. Remember, Y/N?”

Your distant mood dissipates for a minute, and your familiar warmth is back. A wide grin crosses your face. “He really thought Comic Sans was a good font to use. And his drawing!”

“Ms. Park’s face when she saw it!”

“And Hyunjin’s reaction!”

The two of you are reminiscing and laughing. Jisung doesn’t understand a word of it, but you’re shining bright again. He feels a bit like an outsider, but his heart swells with pride, knowing that he was the cause of all this. However, the happy atmosphere slowly fades into a more mellow one, and the silence is back.

“Break a leg today,” he abruptly says. “See you on stage, Juliet.” He leaves the room but not before he hears you say, “Bye.”

It’s a good start.

He waits on stage for the play to begin with the rest of the floor crew. Over the speakers, Chan is playing different songs for the opening, and over the comms, he’s suggesting that he play one of his mixtapes. Neither Ms. Park or Mr. Gi agree apparently. A few minutes later, the actors, now all dressed in their costumes, are called onto stage for warm ups. In the meantime, the two house managers are sneaking looks outside into the hall outside the lobby and reporting back how many people are waiting. It’s turning out to be a lot.

Before the doors officially open, there’s a quick pep talk from both the director and tech director to everyone. Jisung studies the way you listen attentively and admires the slight curve on your lips as the director praises all their hard work. Your cheeks are tinged with pink with excitement, and you look restless. You repeatedly smooth out the pleats in your dress. Jisung scowls as he sees Hyunjin place a hand on your wrist mid motion and whisper something to you. You stop and flash him an apologetic grin. Goodness, he was controlling. Why doesn’t he just let you be you?

The show begins soon after, and you wait in the wings for your entrance in scene three. You, Yeji, and Yuna quietly talk amongst one another, which means Jisung can’t hear anything from where he is. Ryujin joins in at some point, and Jisung inches closer to eavesdrop, feigning the need to reorganize the already neatly arranged set pieces and props. He learns nothing substantial — it’s mostly just pre-show jitters talk — but at least you don’t jump when he brushes against you while switching around the swords.

You eventually make your appearance on stage, and there’s one audible cheer from the audience when you walk in. Hyunjin, who is now in the wings, quietly says, “Woo!” from his spot, which is unfortunately near Jisung’s usual waiting location.

“Oh, hey, Jisung,” he greets. He’s so flushed with adrenaline from performing in front of many people for the first time that he seems to have forgotten a tiny detail about their tenuous friendship: they hate each other, and said friendship does not exist. “Did you see how many people were in the audience? Wow, I can’t believe it.”

Changbin momentarily perks up at “Wow,” but he resumes reviewing the cues from his binder, leaving Jisung to deal with him alone. Both Yugyeom and Ryujin are on their phones, their faces lit up by their screens. Ryujin even has one earbud in.

“It’s the most famous play in the world. Of course, there’s going to be a lot of people,” he finally answers.

Hyunjin is in too good of a mood to be miffed by his rude tone. “Ah, you’re right. But still, that’s a lot of people. There’s so many eyes looking at you, it’s kind of weird.”

He could have said nothing, but he’s feeling extra mean towards Hyunjin today. “Are you nervous that you’ll mess up? It’s understandable if you do though since this is your first show.”

“I wish I was like Y/N,” he sighs. “She’s so good. You know, she said she gets so immersed in the play that her stage fright just kind of fades away.”

“Yeah, she told me, too,” he lies. It’s another competition: who does Y/N confide in more?

“I’m glad she’s Juliet. She’s perfect for the part.”

The sappiness in Hyunjin’s voice drips like slime, and Jisung’s top lip involuntarily curls up in disgust. Jisung knows he’s a lovesick fool, but he’s a much more classy one than him. He decides to end it there, so Hyunjin will shut up, and Jisung won’t get the urge to pummel him into the ground. They fall into silence, and the lights later go out when the scene ends.

During Romeo and Juliet’s kisses during the party scene, there’s gasps, cheers, and applause from the audience. It’s not real — he can see Hyunjin’s hand blocking your face — but he still shifts around in his seat. The close proximity between you two means that even a slight stumble would result in an actual kiss. Scenes like these are the only times Jisung prays that Hyunjin is a good actor for once and doesn’t mess up.

Normally, you just blush during the scene, but with the extra noise, you shake a bit when you say your next line. Jisung’s annoyance grows.

Because it’s a show and because he doesn’t want Mr. Gi to rip him into shreds, he promises himself to focus on the play, but it all goes out the window when you have a costume change. You curse when your pin snags your hair, and he instinctively goes over. His hand reaches for the pin, and you shrink when he hovers above you.

When he hands you the offending object, you politely thank him and then grab your dress from the rack. When you start unzipping the side of your costume, he turns away and replays the moment. There’s a new aura about you, and he doesn’t like it. Ever since you started close with Hyunjin, he has noticed that the radiance he fell in love with is slipping away. Normally you would joke about the incident to him or chat with him while waiting for your cues. He hasn’t even had a real conversation with you in days.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says. His back is still facing you, but he can feel the vibrations on the floor when you step into your dress.

“Hi,” you hesitantly reply.

“We haven’t talked in a while.”

“We’ve both been busy with the play.”

He almost rolls his eyes. You’ve been busy with flirting with Hyunjin, and he’s been busy with the play. Yet he still makes time for you. “Yeah, I guess. Are you nervous about performing today?”

“A little bit.”

“Did you ever give back Hyunjin’s hoodie?” he asks as nonchalantly as he can. He already knows the answer though; he saw it hanging from the back of your chair in the classroom.

You sound amused, but he can sense the irritation underneath. “I think this is the third day in a row that you’ve asked me that.”

“Well?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

You don’t reply to him. Instead you call for Ryujin to help you with your mussed up hair, so Jisung leaves the scene. He catches you staring at him, and you quickly look away. It’s not a shy “Is he looking at me?” stare; it’s a repulsed “What’s wrong with him?” one.

The answer is you. You are what’s wrong with him. You hardly acknowledge his presence anymore, and you only pay attention to Hyunjin. What about him? He’s been there for you since the very beginning, but as soon as Hyunjin starts encroaching on his territory, he’s forgotten. The longer he keeps thinking about it, the angrier he gets. His hands start twitching for something to hit, and he decides on the rolling platform next to him. There’s a loud, satisfying thwack followed by a few confused looks.

He doesn’t care.

Just another week, he tells himself. Before he never has to see this play or Hyunjin again.

During intermission, he sits by himself while the other cast and crew members go into the audience to talk with their friends who came to see the preview. You have a whole crowd of people around you, asking questions about the wretched kisses. He sees you repeatedly shaking your head, but that doesn’t stop anyone.

A similar thing happens when the show ends. After the bows and applause, you stick around in the audience to let your friends discuss the play with you. Jisung joins Chan, Jeongin, and Seungmin in the back of the house to listen in and to sit on Jeongin’s cushy rolling chair. Chan is still arguing about playing his mixtape over the speakers with Mr. Gi.

“There’s hardly anyone here anymore,” he protests. “And it’s like this one, too,” he says, referring to the current song playing.

Jisung fiddles with the knobs on the light board while straining to hear your conversation a few rows down. He surreptitiously turns down the volume of the music when Chan reaches for his phone.

He can catch a few key phrases said by your friends. He then wishes he could kick everyone out of the auditorium, so he can never hear, “Did you and Hwang Hyunjin kiss for real this time?” again. You say that you’re tired of replying to that particular question, but you seem too pleased by the prospect of kissing Hyunjin to actually be. Hyunjin, who is not too far away, is no different; he turns bashful when his friends ask, “Did you and L/N Y/N actually kiss?”

Jisung turns the volume back up, and his fingers “accidentally” slip, blasting the auditorium with the screech of a violin. Everybody winces, and he apologizes. No one starts leaving though.

At long last, they are dismissed for the day. There’s another pep talk about opening night, but no one’s really listening. They’re allowed to leave two hours earlier than normal, but Jisung feels more drained than usual. You’re the opposite. He passes you on his way to the prop room, and you’re talking animatedly with Yuna about the cast and crew dinner after the final show. Even as you head up the stairs, there’s a bounce in your step.

When he returns from his trip, you’re already inside the classroom, standing over Hyunjin, who is sitting down. There are other people in the room, but he can’t bring himself to go in. He hasn’t had the outside-looking-in feeling in a long time, but it hits him at full force right there. The two of you are both wearing the black cast and crew shirts, but they somehow look different from the one Jisung’s wearing, like it’s a deliberate couples outfit instead of a uniform for theater.

Hyunjin gazes at you like an astronomer would at the stars, and you have an identical expression on. Your lips move, but Jisung can’t make out the words. A soft smile spreads across Hyunjin’s face, and he absentmindedly winds a dangling lock of your hair with his index finger. You don’t flinch at the motion at all, but instead mirror Hyunjin’s smile. Jisung watches with bated breath and wonders when you got so bold. What happened to the girl who was too shy to stage kiss? Now you were being disgustingly close with your co-star off stage.

People start filing out of the room to go home. Soon, there’s no one but the two of you. You’re still mumbling, and Hyunjin’s replying at the same volume. Jisung still can’t move his legs to walk in. He could easily pop the bubble you and Hyunjin are in, but he’s frozen to his spot.

Hyunjin suddenly stands up, making you take a step back. Jisung can hear the hitch of your breath from where he is; that’s how surprised you are. Hyunjin then cups your face with his hands, but he’s not practicing a stage kiss. He places his forehead against yours, and your eyelids flutter close. You tilt your chin up and slowly wrap your hands around his wrists. At the same time, he lowers his lips to yours.

Jisung can’t breathe, and silence swallows the white noise around him. A million thoughts fill his head, but the single image of you and Hyunjin kissing is burned in his memory. He’s numb, then cold, then hot. It’s only a few seconds, but it feels like several lifetimes to him. His whole body starts shaking uncontrollably, and when he blinks, his vision has a crimson filter over it. He wants spilled blood, shattered ribs, shallow gasps.

Hyunjin is the first to separate. He looks stunned by what he just did, and he’s even more so when you pull him in for a second one. It’s longer and deeper, and when the two of you finally resurface for air, you’re flustered. You nervously lick your lips and squeak at the implication. Hyunjin softly laughs and hugs you close to his chest. He’s beaming, and you’re burying your face into his t-shirt.

Blood thrums in Jisung’s ears. He can hear his heartbeat, its erratic thumping and skipped beats. Meanwhile, the pretty, delicate image he has of you contorts into an ugly, slashed counterfeit painting. He hates you so much. As much as Hyunjin, maybe more. He gave you everything he could, and this is how you treat him.

His rage melts the ice at his feet, but instead of walking inside to confront the problem, he goes to his refuge, the restroom. Thankfully, everyone has gone home for the day, and no one is present. He screams bloody murder and kicks all the stall doors until the bangs echo throughout the room. He hates you, he hates you, he hates you. How can you betray him like that? With Hyunjin, his sworn enemy? You are as good as dead to him.

His reflection shows that he has the eyes of a feral animal, but he doesn’t even care anymore. He storms to the classroom to collect his belongings, disregarding how disheveled he looks. No one else is in the room, and he’s a little disappointed that you or Hyunjin can’t see what you’ve done to him. When he heads out to the parking lot, you and Hyunjin are sitting close to each other while you wait for your parents to pick you up. He glares daggers in your direction and flings open the driver’s door of his car.

Just one week, he tells himself. Before he never has to see you or Hyunjin ever again.

~ ad.gray

[webcricket]

Winter’s Eye

Pairing: AU!CastielXReader Word Count: 1803 (Ch. II) Summary: Season 13 canon tells you how AU!Castiel’s story ends, this is how it begins. The deranged and damaged iteration of Castiel we met in the apocalypse universe - an obedient soldier to Michael’s cause barely in control of his vessel’s frayed and erratically firing nerves whose inherent kindness toward humankind appeared entirely obliterated - wasn’t always an unfeeling angelic weapon of interrogation. Once, he sympathized with the plight of humans; one, he loved. A/N: Multi-chapter origin and love story. No happy ending here, folks; just a bittersweet illustration of an angel’s devotion and the sacrificial ends he pursues to protect the object of his affection. New chapters post on Mondays.

Series Masterlist

II.

Illumined by a flickering glow, frost curtains the corners of the cabin’s paned windows as sheets of snow continue to envelope the world without. A fire crackles in the wood stove; the cast iron door yawns to reveal a burning bedlam of deep orange and silvery embers forfeiting their fervor of warmth to temper the chill from the single room.

The fury of light silhouettes two figures stationed directly before it; the one, insensate with cold and settled on an overstuffed leather chair, houses a soul lately saved, the other, operating on righteous instinct, a being in a body borrowed.

The latter leans in constant worried motion over his unconscious ward. He loosens the layers of damp clothing, consigning a coat no longer equipped in its damp state to insulate to the floor beside already discarded boots; the melt of caked-snow clinging to the laces and heels coalesces into a shimmering pool on the broad pine planks.

Still dissatisfied by the sluggish return of consciousness, he rubs and rearranges the lax limbs repeatedly to restore circulation. His unrelenting efforts find rapid reward in a spasm of shuttered eyelid and the initiation of a bodily shiver suggesting the brain of the afflicted has thawed enough to rejoin the struggle for survival.

Tapping a finger to the rewarmed temple, his irises refract an internally rising radiance of blue; the otherwise unseen glory gifted him by heaven hurries to confirm the signs of recovery. Evidently pacified with the direction of progress given the small sigh of relief passing his lips, he ceases fussing to slide the chair in closer proximity to the blaze; stoking and feeding the fire, he steps back, content for the moment to watch the unfolding symptoms of revival.

The breath of both flame and rekindling life further thicken the frosty condensation on the window’s glass from within as he waits.

Castiel’s concerned blues occasion, after some minutes observing the sameness of your state, to lift from you in order to sweep over the shadow-obscured stacked log walls; in them and, too, a roof sound enough to keep out the blasting wind, he notes something of greater consequence than he felt hereto before when tarrying there - something consoling; a something verging on comfort.

The only variable altered is that of his not being alone – an amendment to his exile he finds not at all unpleasant; and one which - as regards comfort at least - watery sheen of blues dipping again to you, he wonders whether you will feel equal easement in upon waking.

In the firelight your features flush as blood steadily surges to sooth ice-nipped skin; he is struck once again by the delicacy of peace predominant in your expression despite the subtleties of pain weathering pale pink lips and stamping a sallowness into the hollows beneath your lowered lashes. The natural advantage of beauty he appreciates as affecting your particular aspect, much like those wonders of his Father’s creation once resplendent in a now desolated world for which he held the highest esteem allowed an angelic creature supposedly steeped in inherent apathy, appears no less diminished given what you must have endured before stumbling into these woods.

A series of restless moans murmuring on your lips, you squirm in shallow slumber in search of some unknown solace which seems to elude you.

Trance broken, giving you space, instinctively he shifts backward and stills to stone. He hasn’t yet considered what he’ll say – hasn’t fully fathomed how to handle the consequence of confusion sure to follow fast upon your rousing, nor how to allay the fear certain to be aroused in the requisite explanations offered of how you came to be here and what he is.

A compassionate heart guided by an innate sense for what is right, and the selfish potential - in the soldierly sense, of course, of once more having order and purpose to the passage of time - for the immediate improvement of his own dejected condition to be provided by your company, fix him to the spot.

A moment passes; then another. You do not wake.

A spark of cinder bursts forth, bounces, and sputters in the drips of wet gathered round your socked feet; his notice veers from you to follow the extinguishing complaints of the slag until it is no more than a fleck of gray ash and a withering of smoke.

“Hi.” Your throat, raw from long exposure to cold air, cracks out the faintest of greetings.

Blues flick to meet your blearily blinking gaze. Caught off guard, he states the obvious. “You’re awake.”

“No, I’m Y/N.” Woozy, weak, and uncertain of where you are or who he is, you default to wit such that you might start by assembling the strewn vestiges of it now returning to you.

His gaze narrows; after a second of deeply furrowed contemplation of your curious response to his observation, the crease of his brow eases in realization of the verbal play. “Ah, I’m Castiel.”

Stranger with a strange name, you think, and, a stranger accent.

Straightening from a slouch to obtain a better vantage on your whereabouts, half-expecting some indication to present itself you’ve been transported to Europe, you chance a cursory glance at the surroundings; your best guess: You’ve simply been deposited in a hunting cabin replete with a requisite decapitated White-tailed deer – a vacantly staring specimen sans four legs and anything else below the neck - mounted on a plaque to one wall. Despite the deer’s dead stare, it’s better than the last place you remember being which is riverside freezing to death under the similarly impassive survey of an oak.

In your periphery, a well-aimed lurch of two, maybe two and half feet from the cozy confines of the chair, your eyes glint on a brass fire poker laid against the stove. You have no idea who this guy is; not that you aren’t grateful, but you’re keeping your options open.

“Castiel,” you repeat, regard roaming over his distinctly regimental attire and the squared stance ingrained by association as that of a soldier standing at attention. “I think I owe you a thank you.”

Dropping his gaze in a gallant gesture of humility suggesting saving you was a mere trifle, he bows his head.

The civility of his manner instantly eases your wariness. In its place, you feel the overwhelming urge to fill the silence and elucidate how you came to be in the predicament of wanting rescue. “Damned stupid to dare that river crossing in a storm. I could hear the ice cracking, but I also heard a squad of angels coming in close behind me. Not much of a choice, you know?”

His eyes rise to yours – you discern the tranquility of their color markedly disturbed by the mention of angels. This reaction fortifies your impression of him as friend, not foe. Slightly relaxing caution, you lean forward to fold your palms together before stove.

The strong line of his jaw sets, stalling in choice of just the right words to answer to your story without creating alarm. Coughing to clear the gravel from the lower register of his voice, he calmly utters them a second or two before you become aware of the delay. “There are no angels on that side of the river.” In review, it occurs to him it would’ve been wiser not to stress any one part of the statement above another.

“Oh.” You swallow the syllable; embarrassment blossoms on your cheeks as the enormity of the damned stupid sinks in and the reality of the damned lucky surfaces.

You duck your chin and redirect, hoping perhaps along with his knowledge of where angels aren’t, he also knows something of the refugee encampment you were looking for. “Are you with the resistance?”

The disquiet unsettling his blues and agitating the minute musculature of his jawline wends down his spine to work inflexible mischief into his shoulders. He’s glad you failed to latch onto the ill-spoken that, less glad the interview persists in being directed upon himself.

Unpracticed talking to people – skills of conversing rusty as a result of many months of isolation – he grapples inwardly to determine how to change the subject; outwardly, he clasps his hands behind his back to preserve composure.

Evading causing you discomfiture by further delay in speaking, he replies, “In a manner of speaking.”

Although superficially affirmative, the awkward avoidance of an explicatory answer should excite your alertness; it doesn’t. The strangely alluring accent he’s in possession of implies he’s a visitor from foreign lands; wherever he’s from, perhaps the resistance is called something entirely different, like, for example, the opposition.

The cohesive framework of international news, or news of any shape beyond word of mouth and unfounded rumor (which, strictly speaking, is not so different from when international news stood strong), ceased to exist the day angels dive-bombed the planet. Whomever he’s with, his answer signifies a sympathetic attachment to the resistance, and that’s good enough for you.

“You’re military then?” you ask, utterly naïve in your progress toward the horrifying truth.

“Yes.”

If angels prayed, he’d pray - for your sake - you end your inquiry there. You were willing to risk hypothermia or worse to escape angels you only imagined were trailing you; there’s no guessing what you’ll do when you discover yourself occupying a room with one.

Short of hastily vacating the cabin without any clear rationalization of why he is running out into a squall, he’s at a total loss as to how to stop you; he ignores the gust of wind just then temptingly rattling the door.

Surrendering to the security represented in his confirmed status as a soldier – whereby, in so far as you understand, a soldier universally being a shield to defend against wrong, thus makes him worthy of your confidence – and suddenly aware of a recommenced shivering as the strength of the fire wanes, you stretch your fingers toward a blanket draped out of reach on a footstool.

Casually – fatally, to your carelessly formed faith in his goodness given the little you know - you prod further. “So … what army?”

He stoops to retrieve the blanket for you and encounters, in a separation of only inches, your unsuspecting and thankful look as you offer him a diminutive but delightful smile in exchange for the chivalrously proffered fringed edge of fabric.

You peer expectantly into his blues, ready to learn which leg of European power has crossed the sea to help stand humanity’s ground here in the states; peering back at you, veracity gleams brightly beneath a widened ledge of lashes begging pardon for what he is about to say.

Your rapt attention diverts to his lips moving in articulation of an answer that steals your breath and stops your heart.

“God’s army.”

Next Chapter: III

[pipesflowforeverandever]

Don’t- A Gingie and Snowy Good Omens AU Fanfic

This is a commission from my dear friend and co conspirator @aceofintuition to write us a good ol’ conflict fic of our favorite boys, Gingie and Snowy, in our favorite AU, the Good Omens one. It is, of course, heavily inspired by the relationship Aziraphale and Crowley have, but I tried to do my best to give it enough of a unique spin that the Joeys can call their own. 

Thank you so much for commissioning me!!! <3

Times like these were scarce. Moments in the midst of war where the smoke cleared, the earthquakes still, and the debris fell flat. They saw it with Moses once, and it was the only thing to compare. When their eyes locked, there was nothing else that mattered, nothing left in their way. Shameshriel felt his eyes shake in their sockets, and Snowy’s throat closed up like She Herself knew the way he looked at him. Surely, the demon believed, the fact She did not was proof enough that God either knew nothing, or that She simply did not care.

After all, he cared more for the angel than She ever could. That’s why he was his.

“Don’t,” Shameshriel would whisper, a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth in these times. The angel with black wings- fallen snow turned to ash- would listen to the other the other and know what this meant. “It’s dangerous,” Snowy could almost see him mouth, “It’s not to be.”

Comprehension is separate from acceptance.

Snowy might have been born in perdition, but even he understood there wasn’t something right about an angel holding himself back. But maybe it was just Shameshriel that wasn’t right. Snowy had seen other celestials; robotic, gloaty fuckers. Not a lick of humility till they pretended they really minded the lady upstairs.

This angel was different.

“Don’t-” today’s ‘don’t’ came from coy lips under hooded eyes, “-Call me that, dear.”

All Snowy had was a snort, snake eyes locked onto golden ones for the brief second the other turned his head. The demon took it in stride whenever he could, these instances of denial. “Or what, Ginger?” he repeated the nickname with a toothy smirk as the redhead with silky, white wings trusted his feathers to be groomed by the miscreant he turned his back to. Snowy could swear that like his name, they were made of light. “What, in the devil’s name, could you possibly do to stop me?”

He wished he could say that about other things.

Unbeknownst to him, his “Ginger angel” had begun to frown in thought. Snowy was almost surprised to have won, for once, until Shameshriel muttered a reply in a voice so pleasant that there had to be a bit of a bastard in it.

“Or we won’t talk this this anymore!” It was emphasized with a flick of the wing tip Snowy had his fingers in, the angel not even glancing back at his affronted face. “No more grooming, dear, no more tea, no more-…more-…”

Snowy’s heart quietly raced. He both loved and feared when Gin couldn’t find what he had to say. It meant he was feeling something that would knock him to the floor.

“…More socializing!” he finally decided upon like the word was bitter on his tongue, both wings stretched behind his back, making the demon fall over so his rough palms caught him on the wooden floorboards. But the feathers soon relaxed with another expression Snowy couldn’t spot from there- regret- but that he could guess. So, he wiped his face with his sleeve, pushed up sunglasses, and laughed.

His mouth tasted like the dust of the angel’s attic, the scent of old books and elderly flowers that Gin insisted didn’t want to take the sunlight of the young in the downstairs windowsills.

“You’re the one that told me, darlin’, that y’ never get a friend to groom your wings up in heaven!”

“Well, I never asked you to do it either!”

Snowy was so sensitive to his angel- his every subtle shift in tone, body language, expression- the change in his voice and what it could mean. There was something to this in that…bite at the end. Another “don’t.” So his smile faded, and his arm was slowly put limp onto his lap, fingers fidgeting in the anxiety-inducing quiet.

“…It’s…a good name for ya, Gin… ‘Gin.’” The demon spoke more gently than usual- or as the angel would say, more snakelike, especially with this dare of a statement- with his eyes flickering beneath the shades indoors at the silhouette of the person ahead. He liked to think they were friends.

He liked to think they could be, despite things.

At first, Snowy believed it to just be the nature of being a thing crawled out of hell- that he could just…want to tease heavenly beings with no excuse except for the fun that came out of it. But it had been 6000 years, and it turned out there was only one annoying little creature of holy light he kept coming back to play with. Must have been a remnant of who he was before the fall…

…But it was still enough to worry there was evil in it, roots to the rest of his damned essence. That whatever could still connect him and his angel…might just be rotten to the core.

And who was he to drag him down, too?

As he was pondering these thoughts, something was said that raised his pupils and constricted them more.

“I know what it means, you know.”

Snowy gazed ahead, the curve of pale wings lined by the yellow sunlight of the window his angel faced. His own were spread behind him, over the piles of books. Gin said they were old, but Snowy had seen him angry enough the last time he shoved them over “by accident,” and so his own speckled black feathers were cautious in their spread, not so much as disrupting a single page. Shameshriel crossed his arms and rolled his shoulders tight.

“…It’s a demon name, isn’t it?”

Snowy raised a brow. “Beg your pardon?”

“It’s the name I’d have if I was a demon…like you.”

Snowy got up to his feet, eyes wide. He wouldn’t look back- why wouldn’t he look back?-

“Gin-”

“NO!” And the angel shot up too. The demon was accustomed to things escalating quickly, but never quite this fast. It gave Snowy goosebumps that no torture could. “We can’t keep doing this, darling! We CAN’T!”

And those pearly wings were wrapped around as if to protect himself, a finger pointed in the demon’s face with a snarl on his lips.

Tears in his eyes that kept Snowy from doing the same.

“Gin…-“ Snowy tried to call for him again, the word escaping him before he could stop it.

“Don’t!” And the angel threw his palms to his sides, open and begging.

But Snowy had been begging for years.

“DON’T WHAT?!” he finally broke, but still couldn’t feel his teeth sharpen as they did when he wanted to be feared. That never worked on Gin, as much as he would pretend. No, Snowy wanted to be heard. It had been 6000 years, and for what? No. “Don’t…give you what you want?! Be there for you when you want your damn back scratched?! Make sure the delivery man doesn’t forget your paper?! Watch your flowers on vacation?! What in God’s name did GOD EVER DO FOR YOU?!”

And by the time he was finished shouting, his gasps for air still light on his tongue, he realized that once again, the devil in him wanted to speak before his brain could stop it. These were all the smallest of examples, but they conveyed their eternity; Snowy had fallen, and he never would ask Shameshriel to as well just so indulgence was a bit less guilt inducing, but he had always pined for the day Ginger would look back at him from over his shoulder and admit that maybe a world where they couldn’t be friends either did exist, or that they would make it happen even if the apocalypse would come to be. Snowy did give him a demon’s name; he had just begun to say it instead of whispering when he couldn’t hear.

The demon was letting himself fall to a place neither heaven nor hell wanted to be.

Oh no.

Oh no, no no-

Snowy put his hands out, his jaw dropped in fear, but it was already too late. With a grimace and hooded eyes, he witnessed that he had made his angel cry.

“DON’T!”

The redhead quivered inside out till it shook his voice, had his foot stomp the floor, and made his fists close so hard that the shreds of control he had left couldn’t fall. Behind his glasses, Gin’s irises were like sunshine- glittery, magical, and oh so very harsh onto Snowy’s own icy eyes.

“…Please…” his angel pleaded, the window a fiery halo, “Please don’t say you love me…” He shook his head. “You don’t understand! I can’t do it all over again…!”

His brown hands seemed to shine with his angel’s glow, golden on the knuckles as they were frozen midair, reaching and not yet touching, observant but having no idea what he could do. His hands…they felt infected.

But…his voice-

“Again?” he whispered.

-His voice spoke before he touched.

And slowly, the demon felt radiance slide slowly up and down his body, feeling as if Gin’s stare alone could reach right back and drag a fingertip over his skin. It was familiar, somehow, even though he’d never let himself be touched that way- not by an angel.

Almost like his words alone came out to Gingie, too, the ginger tilted his head as if a hand was there to caress it. Should he admit it?

He already did, in Snowy’s eyes. He had loved and lost before- no other way you could get hurt like that in your eyes. Then, that was when a hand really was there to hold him, when Snowy saw his reflection in the tears of his angel’s eyes.

“An…angel?” Snowy guessed. He couldn’t imagine Gin letting a mere human get so close. No one that hardly breathed a few decades could handle the complexity of an angel’s love.

With his pulse racing, Shamashriel nodded.

It stopped entirely when Snowy stopped frowning and began to smirk.

“It’s a good thing, then, I still don’t have a halo to lose.” Snowy blinked, patient, adoration turning his voice thick like syrup. “And I don’t plan on letting y’ lose yours when there’s no reason to.”

The redhead felt his lips part with nothing left to say.

“Not when all you’ve done is love me, too.”

There were precisely two reasons Snowy fell from heaven.

They were the same two reasons that he loved more than God.

And in a distant memory, Shameshriel could still see a blue-eyed angel holding his cheek, affectionately calling him his “Ginger angel” as the third in their romance teased from afar. She was trapped in heaven, not even able to reach as she watched him fall, and then she saw her other angel secretly tumble after.

And even if Snowy didn’t remember, Ginger could never forget.

[starkissedtom]

it must be love — p.p.

summary: a series of moments where y/n and peter say ‘i love you’.

warnings: fem!reader. just fluffy :’)

wc: 2.3k

THE SOFT FABRIC drowned your body, so much so that the short sleeves almost came to your elbows and the hem grazed your thighs - covering the cotton of your little pyjama shorts wholly. It smelt like him, like honey and hazelnuts and all things great. The very thought had your beating heart, candescent and warm, becoming doused with a gracious intent.

It brought a glow to your cheeks, a soft smile lifting your lips as you peered down at yourself. It was one of his science pun tshirts that you loved to no extent, and you were wholeheartedly surprised when he had plucked the clothing item from his drawer and gently placed it in your hands with a shy smile only a couple of minutes beforehand.

It was his favourite shirt, and he wanted you to wear it.

The revelation only made the apples of your cheeks glow an even darker hue, your body blushing along with them. You turned to the mirror of his bathroom, eyeing the way your face was makeup free, but glowing with a radiance of pure happiness and a fading fiery blush. You looked happy, you observed as you grappled with your hair in the reflective surface - finally getting it up into a messy bun on the top of your head after a few tries. You were happy, and you only had Peter Parker to thank for that.

Gingerly, you twisted the lock with a click, and opened the bathroom door. The light under May’s bedroom door was out, and you knew she’d gone to sleep for the night. It was quite late, after all. With that acknowledgement, you tiptoed past her door and crept across the hall - ever so gently opening Peter’s bedroom door and slipping inside, not wanting to wake the kind woman.

Your warm eyes of honey and love were instantly brought to life when you saw your boyfriend stood in the centre of his room, clad in cerise hello kitty pyjama bottoms and a plain shirt. The gracious light from his bedside lamp had his features glowing angelically, the light luminous against the pout of his cupid’s bow and the rosiness of his cheeks, as he flicked through the channels on his tv - unaware yet so lovely.

Your bare feet padded quietly against his carpet as you neared him, wounding your arms under his and around his middle from behind. You felt him jump lightly against your daint hold, obviously not hearing you come back from getting ready for bed despite his spider-senses. You didn’t know that Peter’s thoughts were so consumed by you that he couldn’t concentrate on anything else, not even the abilities of his superhero alias.

The sound of your faint giggles, as you leant your forehead on the area between his shoulder blades and pressed a kiss to the middle of his back, had Peter smiling so lovingly. Your heartfelt affection always warmed his heart, and he couldn’t help himself when he swivelled around in your gentle clutch and let himself hug you back - close to his chest, where you belonged.

“Nice pyjama bottoms,” You mumbled into his clothed chest, and he could practically feel your teasing smile pressed up against him.

“I look better than you, baby,” He joked right back, his beam happy as he pulled back just so. He peered down at your attire and the grin on his lips slowly dropped into an open-mouthed gape, his eyes widening and his cheeks suddenly ablaze with hot reds.

The sight of you dressed in his favourite science pun tshirt, your legs on display and seemingly going on forever - it stirred feelings up in Peter that he’d never felt before. You, in his adored ‘I’ve lost an electron,’ ‘Are you positive?’ tshirt. You were perfection, how did he manage to get himself someone like you?

You noticed his reaction, bashfully bringing your bottom lip between your teeth. Your arms unwinded themselves from around his middle as you stepped back slightly and tugged the material, trying to cover more of your skin, shy under his admiring gaze.

“Okay,” His voice was high in pitch as he nodded, swallowing roughly, before planting his hands on the curve of your waist and tugging you close to him once again, “Okay, um, I take it back. Y-You look so so pretty, you always do, wow, I love you.”

-

Wistful tears tumbled down your rosy cheeks as you peered up into his hazel eyes; they were filled with worrisome concern as they darted across your features, to and fro and wide with anguish. Your trembling bottom lip broke his heart into shattered pieces in his chest, and he hated how his thumbs couldn’t keep up with the tears falling from your eyes of glass.

His hands tenderly held your face between them, cradling your cheeks with his fingertips getting lost in the strands of your hair and the pads of his thumbs swiping away the tears as they raced down your cheeks. But, soon they were collapsing in heart-wrenching drops like unrelenting rain, too quick for him to wipe away before they slipped from your jaw and hit the carpeted ground.

Seeing you like that tugged ruthlessly at Peter’s heartstrings. Bad day, he knew. It happens, he knew that too. But, you never deserved it to happen to you, not someone as kind and caring and beautiful as you, that he was so certain of. The sound of your dismal sobs slipping from your lips, the feeling of your fingers clutching his tshirt in their grip so desperately.

He couldn’t help but wrap his arms around your figure, the unmerciful cries racking your body as he pulled you close to his chest. With his chin resting ever so gently atop your head, his arms wound tightly around you, and his body faintly rocking the two of you back and forth in a soothing attempt to calm your cries, Peter found himself whispering sweet nothings and everythings all at once to the shell of your ear. That it would be okay, that he’s there and will always be, that he loved you.

Awhile later, all that could be heard was the light sniffles of the remnants of your broken sobs. Your tear stained face was resting in the crook of his neck, your fingers delicately tracing the hemline of Peter’s shirt. You were so utterly grateful for him. He was an angel, and you were sure that you didn’t deserve him. Not when he dropped everything and raced to your house as soon as he heard your faint cries in his ears when you dialled his number.

But you didn’t want him to rethink, and come to the rightful conclusion that he deserved the world and more. So instead, you simply pressed a kiss, so soft and so loving, to the exposed area of his neck - your lips mumbling against his skin just after, “Please stay and cuddle with me? I love you.”

And he did.

-

He was ecstatic. Just like he always was when he took a test in Chemistry and got his results back later on in the week.

Other students sat anxiously in their seats waiting for their teacher to hand back their test with their percentage written in the top right-hand corner, the taunting vermillion ink of the pen in the shape of a number staring back at them.

Peter didn’t sweat, he and everyone else in his class knew what he was capable of in Chemistry, and it was not a rare occasion for him to get 100% and pass with flying colours. Everyone knew he was a genius, and it got to the point where it was simply expected of him - nobody gawped at the giant three-digit number, nobody grinned and patted his back in congratulations, nobody noticed his efforts. Not anymore.

Nobody but you.

Your reaction when he flashes you the sheet of paper with his grade etched into it always has his heart lifting in his chest, glowing with such adoration. You, despite knowing that your boyfriend was a complete genius and would go ever so far in life because of it, never failed to be utterly astounded with his intelligence and hard work.

Your eyes still blew wide with excitement, your lips still turned up into a radiant beam, your arms still flung themselves around his middle and pulled him close to you. Even after it had been the billionth time in a row that he’d gotten full marks.

“I’m so proud of you, Peter! That’s amazing!” You squealed quietly, your heart bursting with admiration and joy as you pressed a swift kiss to his lips, then another, and another, “You’re amazing; you’re so smart, I love you. I love you. I love you.”

-

A knock at the door, and immediately you were a grinning mess of flustered breaths and racing hearts. You weren’t expecting him, he hadn’t called or texted to let you know that he was coming over, but the rap of knuckles in a familiar tune let you know who was standing on your porch, regardless.

Tap tap, pause, tap tap.

You opened the door, a soft smile pulling your rosy cheeks upwards as you saw Peter standing on your front step. His eyes were bright upon seeing you (despite your lazy attire of sweatpants, his Midtown hoodie, and your hair up in a messy ponytail), his cheeks flush from the cool spring wind, and in hand: a bouquet of perky daffodils, bright the colour and sunny the feeling.

“Hey,” You greeted quietly, moving to the side to let him into the warmth of your home before shutting the cold outside with a thud of your door closing. Spinning around, your eyes were gleaming with a soft kind of happiness as you leant up on the tips of your toes and pressed your lips to his, your fingertips so daint and delicate in caressing his jaw.

When you drew back, he was smiling down at you. His smile reminded you of honey, sweet and lovely, and you had to peck his lips one last time because of it.

“Hey angel,” He took the hand hanging limply by your side and locked his fingers between the gaps of yours, “I saw these when I was walking back from the shop and thought of you, because you’re bright and sunny and I love you.”

-

Bonus:

The cafeteria was filled with bustling students, chattering to their friends, casually munching on their lunches. Peter’s lunch remained in front of him, untouched. Instead, he sat beside Ned, his chin rested in the palm of his hand and his eyes locked upon something on the opposite end of the lunch hall.

He was captivated, not hearing a word that his best friend was saying. Rather, the entirety of his attention was focused solely on you. You were sat with Michelle, your smile wide and your hands flying up animatedly as you explained something to the brunette girl.

The two of you did usually sit with Peter and Ned during lunch, the quartet close and tightly knitted as friends. But that day, you’d wanted to tell Michelle about the dress you’d brought for Homecoming - and Peter wasn’t allowed to know any details of your outfit until the night; it was a surprise. The only clue he was allowed was the colour, purely because May wanted his tie to match your dress. A deep red.

So, Peter spent the whole of lunch with fully-fledged heart-eyes, peering over at you across the distance between the two of you with a longing of wanting to be close to you again. He thought you always looked beautiful, but you’d pinned your hair back and out of your face that day so your features were glowing under the light of the sun filtering in through the windows even more than normal. He felt compelled by the radiance, and he couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t.

“Peter, listen to me for like two seconds. I’m the guy in the chair, you’re supposed to listen to me,” Ned snickered, his elbow jabbing at the arm that was holding Peter’s head up.

The lovestruck boy jolted back at the offending action, glancing over at his friend with slumped shoulders and eyebrows knitted into a furrow. “But look at how good my baby looks today,” He let out a dramatic sigh, “She’s so pretty and I can’t even tell her right now,” His voice came as a childish whine, his eyes moving back to where you were beaming with happiness as you showed Michelle something on your phone.

Then, the shrill shriek of the bell echoed throughout the grounds of Midtown High, signalling students to make their way to fifth period. Peter knew that Ned shared your next class, and as Ned was turning away to walk to Product Design - Peter called out to him shamelessly over the sound of jostling students.

“Ned! You gotta tell (Y/N) that I said I love her!”

cutesy :)))

feedback?? // add yourself to my taglist

[delia-pavorum]

59.“Why are you hiding behind me? What did you do this time?”

Thanks for the prompt, anon! This one took an angst-y turn and was initially inspired by @cosmo-gonika​‘s speculation re: Ep IX and a potential Reylo baby. Then, it all spun out of control with the Reddit “leaks” and further speculation and, anyway, this is what you get when my brain explodes.

Hope my nonny prompter enjoys and all of you do, too! 

The voices droned on around him as he allowed his mind to wander.

It was easy enough to feign interest or the barest amount of attentiveness. A well-placed nod, a cool, fixed look. He had achieved much success over the years in allowing others to believe they were in charge, while only he truly held the reins.

Yes, much success. In many areas.

He fixated on his leather clad hand, watching as it slowly curled into a fist, almost of its own volition.

Many areas. Except for the one that counted.

They called him a benevolent leader. Some even touted him as the ‘saviour of the galaxy’. Many followed willingly after seeing the benefits that would arise from doing so and appreciating that the punishments to the contrary were no longer so severe. Some even disparaged those who would think to resist – ‘Extremists’, they called them. ‘Self-serving fundamentalists.’ The Resistance had lost its rosy hue in the eyes of the people. Too fanatical now to be commonplace. Rebels in a universe where rebellion was unnecessary.

Kylo Ren sympathized, truly he did. He knew how it felt to be on the wrong side of history. To fight on the losing end of a war and, as time passed, to get further and further from your end goal. Like being swept out to sea in an undertow, powerless to fight against the raw strength of an entity so much more formidable than you.

Yes. He knew that feeling well.

He turned a baleful eye onto the standing, sermonizing form of General Hux, datacron open and projecting yet another galaxy map over the long, duraglass table. Kylo sat at the head, while other generals, admirals, and captains of the First Order occupied the other seats along the length.

Another speech, glorifying the First Order. Exalting the work they had done. Reveling in the planets they had converted. Extolling the virtues of their regime. Condemning and deriding the continued existence of the Resistance, pitiful as it was. “Not for much longer,” they promised each other. “Not for much longer.”

Kylo had to agree, but it left a sour pit in the bottom of his stomach. They didn’t know. None of them did. There was more to the Resistance than the meagre remains of a rebellion. Than the ashes of its predecessors. Something buried in its depths. Something there that mattered.

More than anything else.

As if on cue, he felt the infinitesimal shift in the air. The scattering of ions, the rippling of space and time. Sound muting, as if sucked into a vacuum.

No, he thought, even as his heart soared. Not now. His eyes surreptitiously scanned the room, though his expression divulged nothing.

Then he heard it, coming from his left, beelining towards his chair.

He resisted the urge to turn around, instead clenching his jaw until his teeth ground together and keeping his curled fists on the glass in front of him.

The noise came closer.

Suddenly, his chair titled backwards abruptly. He had to move with the motion, acting as though he were simply leaning back into a more comfortable position. He could feel the erratic thuds of scrambling and kicking feet, with the minute sound of a struggle, clear in its grunts and sharp exhales. A weight settled heavily on the back of his seat, close to the top where his head peaked over slightly. He could feel warm breath on his ear. Still, he could not risk looking behind him, even though every fibre of his being screamed at him to turn around—

“Oh, hi, papa.”

His lips twitched involuntarily.

“Hey…hi,” the little voice whispered once more.

The mechanics of the Force Bond were difficult for a four-year-old to understand fully. Even an adult could have trouble comprehending that there was a room full of people who could neither see nor hear them. The little one understood well enough that she likely would not be seen by others, but, moreso, she understood that she wasn’t allowed to be seen. That was why she tended to lower her voice, affecting a four-year-old’s understanding of a whisper (typically just a slightly quieter version of her normally boisterous tone) during the moments when she caught him with other people.

He cleared his throat and shifted slightly in his seat. He made a movement, bringing his right hand over his left shoulder like he was adjusting his cape, and furtively wiggled his pointer finger near his ear. It successfully made contact with a tiny nose and he was rewarded with a giggle. His centre of gravity shifted again with the movement of his chair and he looked down to see five little toes attached to a small foot land in his lap. The foot was attached to a leg, followed by a torso, followed by two gangly arms and a tousled head of dark black curls hiding a cherubic face, but not quite hiding the tips of two perfect, shell-like ears, slightly too big for such a tiny head.

His daughter looked up at him then and his breath caught, like it always did.

I don’t see you enough, he thought ruefully. My beautiful girl.

She looked bigger since the last time he had seen her, only a week prior. He knew it was likely impossible, but it still felt like he had missed something, that he was missing so much—

“Supreme Leader?” a nasally voice interrupted his perusal of his daughter’s freckles as she smiled up at him, dimples and gapped baby teeth prominent. She may have his ears and hair, possibly even his lanky form, but her face was purely her mother’s. Toothy, fresh, dimpled, freckled, and sweet. A ray of sunshine.

They both turned to look at Hux, who was glaring over his nose at Kylo expectantly.

“That will be all, General.” Kylo’s words held a finality to them. The man knew, very well, that he was being dismissed.

Still, he spluttered, colour raising from his neck towards his face. “But—you didn’t address my concerns regarding—”

“I said—” Kylo pointedly shifted so he sat tall in his seat and his daughter mimicked the action, glaring coolly at the general in an imitation of her father. “—we are finished here.”

Hux glowered at him, his ire emanating from his body with every second that passed. Still, a rabid cur, even barely tamed, knew its place. “Very well,” he clipped. “We will continue this discussion at a later date.” With that, he clicked the datacron closed abruptly, the room once again taking on the tepid glow of its regular lighting rather than the ethereal radiance of the holo, then turned sharply on his heel and stalked out. The others followed in short order, most unwilling to make even the briefest eye contact with him as they scattered. Once the last subordinate had left, Kylo relaxed into his seat and smiled down at the little girl in his arms, finally able to fold her up against his body and press her head into his chest. He kissed her tousled curls as he held her close.

“Hello, my girl,” he rumbled. “Why were you hiding behind me earlier? What have you gotten yourself into this time?”

“Nothing, papa, I swear it!” came the innocent reply, an angelic face belying the true nature of mischief that lurked beneath the surface.

“Eliana Reya Solo!”

As always, Kylo’s heart leapt at his daughter’s full name. Meaning ‘gift’ and ‘queen’, he found it so fitting that she should have those names; and to be named for her mother as well as her father, a symbol of the good they could do when brought together.

They had both heard the echoing voice before the body manifested. Of course, the bond had remained open and, as such, the ones who were capable of using it had access to its passageways. This meant—

Yes. There she was.

Rey appeared out of the corner of his eye like an avenging angel, striding limbs and flowing hair. Her true origin remained a mystery, but soon she was standing before him as though she were there in flesh and blood. And, for all intents and purposes, she was.

Ah, but they knew that well, didn’t they?

She frowned at the two of them, arms crossed, jaw ticking.

“Eliana,” she scolded, “you know you’re not supposed to do this.” She refused to look directly at Kylo. “It’s not safe.”

“It’s perfectly safe,” Kylo retorted, offended. As if he would let anything happen—

“It’s not,” Rey insisted, meeting his eyes for the first time, a wealth of weariness and sadness behind the hazel irises. “We still don’t know the mechanics of it all. If she gets seen somehow, or stuck, or ends up somewhere where she shouldn’t, with neither you or I there to protect her—” She broke off, shaking her head, overcome. “It’s too risky,” she said finally.

He sighed, suddenly exhausted. His daughter looked between the two of them, eyes wide.

“And also, little miss,” Rey continued, softening her tone, crouching lower to be eye-level with the little girl in Kylo’s lap, “You can’t just use your papa as an escape every time you know you’re going to get in trouble. Those staffs weren’t for you to play with. They aren’t toys.”

“I just wanted one,” came the return grumble in a little voice. “To train with you, mama.”

Rey’s expression softened further and the corners of her mouth deepened in a frown. “I know, baby. And I’m sorry I’m so busy.”

“Maybe,” Kylo spoke up, before really considering his words, “maybe she can stay here for a bit—?”

“Ben.” Rey closed her eyes on an exhale and shook her head as their daughter chirped with glee and Kylo realized his tactical error.

“Yes! Yes!” she cried, throwing her arms around her father’s neck. “Can I please? Can I stay with papa for a bit? And mama, you stay, too! And we can all stay together, in one place, the way we belong.”

Kylo’s gaze met Rey’s over their daughter’s head, his expression ravaged, Rey’s eyes already swimming with unshed tears.

“Soon, my love,” Kylo whispered against dark curls. “Soon we’ll be all together, the way we belong.” He repeated her words back to her, like a mantra.

Eliana pulled away with a pout. “That’s what you always say. Soon, soon. Soon takes too long! I’m already four-years-old, papa!”

Kylo flinched like he’d been hit by a blaster. “I know, sweetheart. I know. I’m sorry, I—” His voice cracked and Rey abruptly turned around and walked a few steps away from them. Kylo could see her shoulders shudder briefly. “I wish things could be different. Could work faster. But your mama and I, we’re trying. We’re trying to get our family together again. I promise you that. You just have to wait a bit longer.”

Eliana heaved out a sigh with the level of exasperation only a four-year-old could manage. “Fine. But only a bit longer, got it?”

Kylo let out a chuckle, even as he looked up and willed his tears to dry. “Got it, my girl. You go with your mama now, okay? I’ll come see you soon. Don’t try and come to me again, alright? Mama is right, it’s not safe enough. Let me come see you instead. Promise?”

“I promise, papa!” Eliana wrapped her small, sinewy arms around her father’s neck and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you, papa. And I miss you all the time,” she added, in the innocently gut-wrenching way only a child is capable of, wrapping her arms tighter around him and burying her face in his neck.

He choked back a sob and hugged her back tightly, closing his eyes and breathing in her scent. His baby. His sweet girl. Getting bigger each day – and him, not around to see it. Just like his father before him. A shudder ran through his entire body with the effort to keep from breaking down.

He felt a gentle, but firm hand on his shoulder. Slowly he looked up to catch Rey’s watery eyes with his own.

She gave him a small, sad smile. Soon.

He nodded, not sure if either of them really believed it. Kissing his daughter a final time on one of her perfect ears, he relinquished his hold on her.

Rey hoisted her into her own arms and moved back as the little girl steadied herself in her mother’s hold.

“Bye, papa,” she said glumly, resting her head on Rey’s shoulder.

“Bye, my girl,” he rasped, touching his fingers to his lips. “My girls.” He looked at Rey.

Her lips quivered and she looked away.

“Be safe,” he whispered, looking at her pleadingly.

She nodded. “Always.” She glanced down at her daughter, then around the room, as though someone was waiting to burst out of the shadows and catch them unawares. Finally, she looked up at Kylo.

He knew that look.

He stood as she met him in two strides and he wrapped his arms around her, around them both, and Rey tangled one hand into his hair and they held their daughter between them as their lips met in a scorching kiss, tongues stroking, teeth clacking, tasting like joy and sorrow and heartbreak and hope.

And over too soon.

Kylo allowed Rey to pull back and she settled back down to the flats of her feet. He stole one more kiss, a soft one, this one conveying security and familiarity, a “see you soon” or a “goodnight”. The little comforts that they had yet to be afforded, but that they hoped, someday, they could look forward to.

Adjusting Eliana in her arms once more, she took a few stumbling steps back and closed her eyes. Kylo knew she was preparing to close the bond, knew that she had some power in controlling it, just as he did now.

“I love you,” he blurted out, before she could disappear. “I miss you. God, I miss you.”

Her eyes snapped open as twin tears streaked down her cheeks in unison.

And then they were gone.

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