#rolling so well in diplomacy was really embarrassing for him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jangofctts · 3 years

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Mirrored Heart (captain rex x fem!reader)

rated: 18+ explicit

word count: 5.6k

warnings: smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampies, fingering, blow jobs, clone space racism?

a/n: ANYWAY HERE IT IS. ive had this draft saved since like a year ago and just now finished it. anyway kwjrkejh here YALL GO. also thank you @jango-fettish FOR LETTING ME BORROW SYRENA

It's curious.

Well, you, as a whole are curious—completely outside the realm of what Rex considers normal. As far as senators go, that is.

You're grumpy for one—worse than Skywalker and far more snide than Kenobi—a near gargantuan task bordering impossible. Wit and cleverness come to you easier than breathing, but it's your unwavering kindness towards himself and his brothers that sticks out like a blaster burn against alabaster white walls.

He passed it off as a joke—some sort of mockery. Rex’s existence has been full of them. The past year it’s been made glaringly clear as to what the clones are to the people of the republic—tools. Mindless war machines dressed with flesh and bone, heart and sinew instead of durasteel and a circuitboard. Humanity has been skimmed over with excuses and debates over the hollow argument that clones were created for the sole purpose of war—nothing more. Ignorance is bliss when you are not the one fighting tooth and nail for petty skirmishes and the survival of your family.

Ithyea, your home monarchal planet, is a newer member of the Galatic Republic—one of the firsts to advocate for clone rights—cutting through each argument with the steel headed javelin of hope and determination. Controversial in the eyes of the galaxy but no less than true. Yet with controversy, comes chaos.

Wedged between Takodana and the Cerean Reach hyperspace lane—it’s an essential key to accessing more neutral space sectors without stepping on any toes. While the planet does mirror the size of a larger than average moon, there’s nothing but grandeur with the cutting edge advances in space travel and military innovations. An arts district too, one that’s presented multiple times for the Senate apparently. Rex has yet to see it. It’s an easy guess as to why Ithyea has gone under pointed attacks from the Separatists—it’d be foolish not to try.

And of course comes the intergalactic mess of politics. You are not Ithyea’s first senator. Or second…or third. Just in the last six months, three of your predecessors have been picked off—two disappearances and a suspicious poisoning sandwiched between them. Which sides these assassinations stem from is anybody’s guess—a mix of both perhaps—all to silence and stamp the voice of your people out.

Heavy are the shoulders that wear those abhorrent senatorial robes, and Maker did it take some convincing for another Ithyean to step to the chopping block. It’s just…no one thought it’d be you. The infamous captain of King Arrian Felian’s elite guard—trained in combat levels high enough to contend some of those within the ranks of the Jedi Order. When your name comes up in conversation, it certainly doesn’t scream diplomacy.

Rex is not surprised that you hold the current record of Ithyean senators for surviving the longest. Evading an astonishing two attempts on your life by the skin of your teeth. You were just downright lucky the third assassin missed their mark. Sure, the blade of Syrena Aster skimmed the right side of your cheek and left behind a nasty scar to remember her by, but kriff—even with your background and low levels of public presence, you’re a high priced target. Whoever placed an order with the Heretics, really wants to see you six feet under.

Rex hasn’t been given the full report on exactly who the Heretics are—a rag tag bunch of untrained Force users and skilled assassins from what he’s gathered—but regardless, this attack is just the beginning. Until the Senate and the Jedi are able to retract the price on your head, you’re stuck under protective custody. Usually ushered away into the Jedi Temple or tagging along with General Kenobi and Skywalker. Despondently, no matter the circumstances of your protection, it can’t shield you from the dreadful invitations to senatorial luncheons.

And yes, you tried to slip by for this one.

You don't brush elbows with other senator’s like many of the members in the Jedi Order and your own cohort do. In fact, you actively avoid even speaking to them unless necessary, let alone stand in the same room with seven of them. Odd for an elected official of diplomacy such as yourself to be so cold shouldered—Rex would think senators wanted to mingle.

It's curious because you're standing in plain sight and yet no one pays you any passing thought. General Kenobi and Skywalker hold the majority of their attentions, shoulders already taught with exasperation at keeping everyone from tearing out each other's throats for, kriffing five minutes. Yet you...you are completely at ease, leaning up against a stone pillar, observing the unfolding chaos from afar with a keen eye.

Before Rex realizes he's stepping towards your position, you glance over and dip your chin in greeting. The ghost of a smirk pulls at your normally grim facade—his heart skips. "Captain."

"Senator," he mimics, posting himself to your right. There’s still a thin, healing scab from the assassin’s blade that extends from the swell of your cheek to your ear. Ouch. “Enjoying the evening?"

You snort. "Hardly enjoying it, Rex."

Stars—you shouldn't be allowed to say his name. Your words are razor-sharp like a jagged vibroblade, meant to jab and pierce through armor—tear a person to pieces without having to lift a finger. Everything about you is rough, gritty, brutal, unbecoming of what a senator should be, but—

You mouth his name, purring out the singular syllable with such tenderness that it's like a punch to the gut.

It's hard to swallow and he needs to clear his throat—an embarrassing act on his part, but your attention has already returned back towards the meandering senators. "How d'you mean?"

"Well," you sigh, "let's just say smalltalk isn’t my strong suit."

"Aren't you senators s'pposed to like diplomacy n' such?"

Your thumb smoothes over your bottom lip in thought as you shrug. "Diplomacy? Sure. Politicians? Can’t say I like them. I just—"

You wave your hand around, gesturing vaguely to the crowd. "I just don't understand why they can't say what they mean. Telling someone to have a nice day shouldn't entail certain death, y'know?"

"Speaking from experience?" He teases, gently prying into that harder than beskar wall you've created for yourself. There's fissions in your foundation and he means to tear it down all for just a mere scrap of information.

Your eyes flick over, your lips curling into a vulpine grin. “Perhaps...Though, it was partially my fault, I have to admit.”

“You’ll have to tell me the story sometime, Senator.”

You nod. “Yes, one day—when there aren’t so many political ears jumping at the chance of gossip.”

A swell of laughter interrupts your chat, your attention gravitating to Obi-Wan—ever the charmer with the crowds. The end of your mouth pulls into a frown as you sigh and carefully scratch at your brow with the back of your thumb. Rex might be pulling at straws, but what he mistook as you being standoffish may just be your nerves. Socially awkward and flustered when speaking in such an intimate setting.

Rex’s first instinct is to reach out and place a hand over your shoulder in comfort, but he’s not sure how you’ll respond to the touch. Flip him over your shoulder probably—

Instead he forces himself to jumpstart the conversation—something to distract from your anxieties. “I hope you don’t mind me asking—“ His heart beat kicks up into a flurry of wild beats as you turn you head. “What uh..wh—did you want to become a senator?”

He likes it when you smile—like you’re letting him on some sort of coy secret. You shift your weight and shrug. “The king asked me personally. I’m flattered he thinks I’m clever enough—insulted he sends me to these abysmal gatherings like some sort of show pony.”

Rex chuckles. “Yeah, can’t say I like ‘em either.”

“Although…” Your thumb runs over your lip again, a sparkle of mischief igniting behind your eyes. “As a senator, I do get the occasional tidbit of gossip. Here, I’ll catch you up—“

The captain startles when you snatch his elbow and yank him closer. Maker he’s glad for his helmet because your lips brush against his earpiece as he leans down to reach your height.

“Look." You whisper, nodding casually in the direction of a particularly young senator with a shock of white hair. She's swathed in a pool of royal blue silk, much too large for her tiny frame, and all but hanging off Skywalker's arm with glittered nails filed into points. "That is Senator Ceci Paare of Corellia. She looks innocent, no?"

She does. Wide, crystalline green eyes stare up at the Jedi Knight as a pretty giggle escapes past her ruby painted lips. Skywalker grimaces.

"I quite like her," you continue with a sly grin. "Even if she does try to influence public opinion by an invitation to bed."

There's no time to process as you focus in on an older man. His hazy blue skin, ash white lips and vermillion green eyes cut an almost nightmarish profile, accentuated by mountains of black robes. Rex can’t recall what planet the senator represents. The senator holds his head stiffer than rebar to keep the ornate golden circlet from slipping off, his white lips curling in distaste as Orn Free Taa of Ryloth places a meaty hand over his slender shoulder.

"He is Lord Tal’en Sol Ra'ah. Cunning, but sympathetic to the pleasures of gambling."

It's a game to you—of perceptions and nuances only a trained eye can roll over. Rex expects nothing less. This sort of thing has been hammered into the very essence of your being since you were little—reading an enemy before they can strike. It works on politicians marvelously well.

Truth be told Rex should be paying more attention—but the closeness of your face to his helmet is maddening. His heart twists and coils as your bare hand skims along his gloved one—kriff. He’s not gonna make it before he bursts into a thousand little pieces.

Rex’s spell of lovesick yearning recedes as you swear under your breath. It was only a matter of time before someone approached your little corner.

"Oh, Maker save me," you hiss under your breath as a young Mirialan saunters over, the swatches of rich red and brilliant gold accentuate his violet skin like a bloody bruise. "Pretend you're speaking with me."

"I am speaking with you," Rex snorts.

Your hand waves in dismissal as your brows stitch together, hands balling into fists. Your jaw clenches as the senator in question puts on a dazzling smile. You look downright panicked. Rex has witnessed you face down numerous senators older than dirt and close to blowing away in the wind with plucky fervor, assassination attempts, being held captive, and you're frightened…by this?

This is too good.

Rex has half a mind to help you, wheel you away from your little predicament, but his intrigue with seeing your oh-so-solid resolve crumble is much too valuable and entertaining to pass up. He's going to remember this for years.

"Rex."

"Senator," he mimics, not at all frightened by your poisonous glare. "Some diplomacy might do you good."

You begin to snarl out a threat but are decidedly cut off by your object of horror planting himself before your hiding spot. You cower into the corner like a boxed in loth-cat. "Ah, my favorite Ithyean! I had begun to worry you would not make it, my dear friend."

"Senator Lin," you sigh. The smile you offer is tight and thin; a nervous one much in the same way one would be if presented with a box of toenails for a birthday gift. “How pleasant to see you."

Senator Lin’s deep violet lips part with an easy smile. He waves a hand in dismissal, his silver rings glinting in the warm lighting. "Please—call me Toluka. No need to bother with such formalities between companions."

Rex suddenly understands your trepidation with the Mirialan—he’s slimy. And, not to mention, not at all ashamed with the lecherous looks as his eyes sweep down your body. Rex clenches his teeth and folds his arms behind his back. He’s regretting not heeding your warning now…

Try as you might through brutal small talk and chilly answers, Senator Lin refuses to take the hint. A dark plume of venom green lashes through Rex’s chest as the Mirialan places a friendly hand over your shoulder. You grimace as Rex bristles and glares through the visor of his helmet.

Senator Lin’s lips pull into a gaudy smile as he glances at Rex and then at you.“My dear, don’t you know? It’s not worth wasting your time with a clone. After all, they’re all the same person. How boorish—come join us at the table.”

Your teeth bite into your cheek as your temper, like the silver of blade through the darkness, cuts through your steely irises. With poised nonchalance, you lift your hand and pinch Senator’s Lin’s fingers between your own and pry them off your shoulder. “Is that so?”

“Your campaign, valuable as it may be,” Lin continues, “is a useless endeavor. They are not our equals and never will be--you must know that."

Rex forces himself to remain calm—collected and certainly not imaging a thousand and one ways he’d like to see his fist breaking the fragile bones of the senator’s face.

"Fine buttons stitched upon your shoulders do not compel your worth, Senator,” the harshness of your words is a blow straight to Lin’s ego. His well-groomed brows furrow drastically as his tongue struggles to play catch up and find words to repair his shattered pride.

There’s no chance for Senator Lin to regain his footing as your snatch Rex’s wrist and sweep him out into the hall. Rex can feel your anger roll off of you in waves, frighting and holding the same caliber of roaring waves thundering against black, craggy rocks. It’s a miracle the night didn’t end with your hands wrapped around the senator’s throat or a blaster shot through the chest.

When you reach the lower halls of the cruise ship is when you release Rex’s wrist. You pinch the bridge of your nose between your fingers and release a long, dramatic sigh.

"You are worth far more than that pompous ass," you say with enough edge to slice through a droideka's shields. "He has no right to say those things to you."

“It’s alright,” Rex soothes, placing a hand over your bristling shoulder. “I’ve heard worse.”

Your features scrunch up into a wince. “That...that doesn’t mean you have to suffer through more of it, Rex.”

Sighing, you run a hand through your hair and loosen the heavy outer robes strung around your shoulders. You shrug out of them and fold the thick swaths of fabric over you arm—revealing the under layers of your uniform. You toss the bundle of fabric to the floor with a disgusted grimace and sit on the cargo crate closest to your left.

“Really—it’s ok.” Rex assures again. “I—“

You hold up a hand and shake your head. His mouth snaps shut. “I won’t hear it. To me you are nothing short of perfect and I refuse to argue about it. Maker knows I already do that for a kriffing living.”

There’s a fragile lull in the hollow space—the distant chatter of voices and strange music collecting in the corners. You stand once again, toe to toe with the Captain and there it is again, that elated pitter patter of his heart thrumming through his veins. The nerves of being so close to you—you sweet face and not being able to touch you.

“Let me see your face.”

His hands come up to the edges of his helmet without hesitation, a hiss of hair escaping the seal once he pries it off. You smile and take a step closer until the only thing separating you and him is his helmet.

Rex’s eyes flutter shut, leaning into your hand you gingerly place over his jaw. “I wish the entire galaxy could see you through my eyes,” you whisper, the warmth of your soft palm radiating out and warming his entire body.

It’s a matchstick to kerosene—his helmet clatters to the ground and there’s only a second to spare as both hands move to cup his cheeks, dragging him into a mouthwatering kiss.

He hasn’t kissed many people—save for those rare times at 79’s, head swimming under the haze of one too many shots of Corellian fire whiskeys where he could barely distinguish his ass from his hand. Those drunken make-outs were nothing like this.

No—this…this is what a kiss should be like.

He dreams about you all the time—so constantly ravenous that all he can feel some days is pure ache. Every and all words that spin around his head starts with you and finishes with his pounding heart close to bursting free from his ribcage. Not in the same way a flood rips through an unsuspecting village—more like the brilliance of a thousand doves, marble white plumage thrashing free from their gilded cage. Your lips taste like the core of a newborn star—scorching and yet still so sweet upon the tongue the same way caramelized sugar sticks to the roof your mouth. You are his first and last everything.

There’s a certain kind of tragedy hidden beneath your tongue, fragile promises and the eggshell thin shards of hope stapled to the roof of your mouth. Rex will take it—seize any threadbare strand and run with it—spool it into the palm of his hand until you’re wound so tightly together it’ll be impossible to untangle.

Just when the dizziness sets in from elation and not enough air, you part and leave a sticky trail of warm kisses up his jaw. Rex groans and hugs you closer, you humid breath blooming across his skin. “Let me take care of you.”

The words on his tongue crumble to ash once he nods in agreement. Your kisses dip lower, not even stopping when the reach the edge of his chest plate. Stars, you’re…he never entertained the idea that your lips could look so divine in contrast to the battered plastoid. When you fold onto your knees his heart leaps to his mouth, a flare of arousal flashing through his groin.

You rest your chin over his codpiece and smile. “Do you like seeing me on my knees, sir?”

Rex huffs and studies at the opposing wall—

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Your fingers find the claps over his codpiece. “Can I take this off?”

Rex jerks his head in a yes but grabs your wrist. Not a rough hold—a tentative one as hesitation swirls in his eyes. “Don’t—don’t have t’ do this for me—“

You quirk a brow. “I want to because I like you, Rexy.”

A rosy blush blooms over his sharp cheekbones. The captain nods again.

The codpiece clatters to the ground and immediately you move your hand to palm him through his blacks. He grunts and squeezes his eyes shut. There we go.

Biting your lip, you pull down his blacks as far as the plastoid plating allows, greeted with the hard length of his cock, beautiful and flushed a rosy brown. Fuck—he’s thicker than you thought. You wrap your fingers around the base, delighted by Rex’s airy gasp as he throbs in your palm. A bead of liquid shines at the tip and just the sight of it makes your mouth water.

Moons—you should’ve done this sooner.

With a stuttering inhale, Rex trails his forefinger along your cheek and tucks a stray hair behind your ear. The pads of his fingertips skim lower and lightly pinch your chin between his forefinger and thumb. Your eyes lift to meet his. “You—you sure?”

You answer with a kiss over the dip of his navel, the skin searing hot under your lips. Rex curses and rolls his head back onto his shoulders when your palm slides up the length of his cock and then back down. Your grip is firm and tight as Rex slumps onto the crate, goosebumps rushing up his exposed flesh. Stars, when’s the last time he’s gotten release like this?

You lean forward and lick a languid line from the velvety skin of his balls all the way up to the tip. Rex’s hips jolt. You purse your lips and suckle at the head, dipping your tongue over the slit then down to trace the ridge of his frenulum all the while your hand rolls up and down his shaft. Rex tangles his fingers into your hair with a hiss. You open your jaw a bit wider and take him down a few inches into the wet heat of your mouth, feeling your lips stretch around his cock. You you drag the flat of your tongue along the underside of his shaft to make the thickness easier to swallow down, but he's still only halfway into your mouth when he hits the back of your throat.

“Fuck—" Rex moans as his hips strain to remain still. “S’good—such a good girl.”

You glance up, eyes devouring the attractive length of his clean shaven throat and the underside of his chin. Rex swallows and let’s out another little sound. You whine softly in return and slip a hand into your pants, pressing your fingertips against your throbbing clit as you start to carefully bob your head up and down. Yeah—your jaw already aches just from holding his cock in in your mouth but fuck it—it’s worth it.

Rex's chest heaves with exertion as he mindfully rocks his hips up, pushing and rolling his cock deeper into your mouth until his shaft is nearly seated all the way in. Ditching your own pleasure entirely, you swallow around him, forcing down the urge to gag and simply hold him here. Allowing him a moment to just enjoy the soft warmth of your mouth before launching into the main event.

Rex murmurs your name and strokes his thumb over your cheek. “You’re beautiful—so pretty like—like this..ah—”

You pointedly hollow your cheeks and suck, his flattery warming your chest with pride. You swallow around him another time, squeeze his shaft, your fist following your mouth as you lift up then back down to the base. You grunt at the abrupt jolt of his hips. There’s no distinctive rhythm you can follow as you pull halfway up and let Rex rock his hips into your mouth—seeking out his pleasure without a coherent thought in sight. Just a cacophony of gasping breaths and rough moans of your name.

Soon enough he’s twitching in your mouth, his eyes fluttering shut as his head tips back onto his shoulders. The gloved hand sweetly cradling your cheek slips to the nape of your neck, tangling his fingers into you hair to anchor himself. He’s close—quiet gasps and broken curses tumbling out, hips unconsciously rocking into your mouth in search of release.

Rex whimpers your name, his leg jolting as you work your jaw wider and swallow him down, the dark curls tickling your nose once it brushes his groin. “Oh, fuck.”

You hum around him, delighting in the mumbled praises. Almost there…That’s it.

He’s dangling on the precipice—on tiny shove away from euphoria—

“Wait—“ Saliva dribbles down your chin when his cock pops out from your swollen lips, throbbing from the unintentional tease. “Maker—shit.”

If not for the gloves covering his hands, you’re sure they’d be turning white from how tightly he grips the edge of the crate. His eyes are squeezed shut, slightly bent forward as he falls away from the edge of his release. Rex sucks in a steadying breath, amber eyes meeting your confused ones.

“I don’t—can we—“ Rex’s eyes flit and focus on anything but you as he stutters and works up the courage to ask for what he wants. “Do we have time—“

You rolls your eyes and rest your cheek on his thigh. Silly man. “You wanna fuck me, Rexy?”

“Kriff, yes.”

You smile and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “I don’t think they’ll miss us."

Rex doesn’t complain when you take his hands and yank him onto the grubby floor and over your senatorial robes. He props his back against the crate as you shuck off everything below the waste and clamber into his lap. His hands, warm even through the leather, land over the swell of your hips and wrench you closer until your front presses up against his chest plate.

The rough prickle of his stubble is, in all sense of the word, addictive. He tilts his head to kiss you, the slick touch of his tongue on your bottom lip adding jet fuel to the fire low in your belly. Rex groans and cups your jaw, holding your mouth open to dance his tongue along the length of yours. You whine and shudder as he purses his lips and lightly sucks on your tongue before you both part.

Rex drags his teeth over your bottom lip as you both pant for precious air. His dark lashes sweep up his cheeks when he looks at you. This close you bare witness to the dazzling color of his eyes—crystalized pearls of amber over the crackled bark of pine tree in the midmorning sun. Muted gold threaded through the brown like fine lace and the slow shimmer of the sun dappled through water. To think such a man like him is dredged through the bloodied mud of war is despicable.

You blink away the swell of tears prickling at your eyes and kiss him once more. Sighing, you whisper down, mouthing soft nibbles and teasing kisses over his jaw and down his neck. Rex squirms and rock his hips up, your cunt clenching around nothing. You need him.

“Rex,” you groan. You slide your hand between your bodies and grab at his thick length. Rex gasps into your mouth, long fingers clamping onto your waist in a death grip. “I want you.”

“I’m yours.”

Your nibble at his earlobe as you grind your hips against his length, the folds of your cunt teasingly out of reach. “Touch me, Captain.”

Rex tears off his vambraces and gloves, hand wedging between your thighs, touching the very tips of his fingers to your throbbing clit. You whine and clench your jaw—the pleasure is raw—sizzling electricity that crackles with the deadly promises of your pleasure. It’s as if you’ve had the breath knocked out of your lungs the second he bears down a bit more on your clit, drawing tentative circles, each completion sending a shockwave of tightly spooled ecstasy through each and every nerve. You nearly sob as his fingers slip away.

“So wet already,” Rex moans as you tip your head back when two of his fingers begin circle your dripping cunt. They’re thick and long and perfect. Your hips stutter as your cunt easily accepts his fingers, the heel of his palm slotting perfectly against your pussy to stimulate your clit.

Maker you’re seeing stars as Rex rocks his hand into you—the bend of his fingers the perfect angle to catch all the right places that make you tremble. He kisses your cheek and moans your name into your ear, all low and gravelly—

Your body seizes up tight as you soar, plummeting off the edge only to tumble so fast and so hard that tears prick the corner of your eyes. Rex peppers kisses over your cheeks and runs his free hand through your hair, purring praise and adoration as you shudder—your mouth parted in a silent cry as you cum and dissolve into his hands.

When you suck in a steadying breath and open your eyes, Rex is gazing upon you with starstruck eyes—pure adoration that makes your cheeks flare hotter than the surface of two mini suns. Your teeth catch your bottom lip. You’re not sure you deserve to be looked at like this…

However, you’re impatient and running on stolen seconds. As much as you’d like to just simply stare at him—there’s not enough time. Rex wraps his fingers around the base of his cock and slides the tip of himself through your soaking folds. Each stroke against your still throbbing clit makes you buckle into yourself, but the angle that your knees are propped over his hips means you're stuck here.

Rex pauses and cups your cheek. His thumb scrapes over your cheekbone. “You want this?”

You place your hand over his and turn your head to mouth a kiss over the lines of his palm. Oh, fuck yeah. Kind of him to ask as if hadn’t just cum over his fingers but—no. “I need you to fuck me, Rex. That’s an order.”

Rex huffs out a low chuckle and bumps the crown of his forehead against yours. “As you wish, Senator.”

Rex runs the blunt head of his cock through your folds again, slicking himself up with your arousal. You mewl and dig your nails into the hard plastoid as the wide tip of him pushes into your entrance—he shudders as you clench and wiggle. It doesn’t hurt, but he’s in no small. You’ll feel him for days, you’re sure of it as your cunt swallows inch after inch.

You both groan as he finally bottoms out. His jaw his clenched tight as sweat beads at his blonde hairline—Stars above, he’s a sight, struggling not to loose control the second he’s buried inside of you. Desire tickles up your spine, tugging at the fabrics of your being until all you can focus on his how Rex isn’t moving. You shift your hips in tiny, almost imperceptible motions, and squeeze around him.

“Damn—“ A ragged moans slices through his words as your gentle rocking morphs into needy jolts. It’s easy to fuck yourself onto his cock like this, but the measly thrusts are meant to tempt him. “Fuck, cyare, you’re tight.”

You smirk and grab at his sculpted shoulders—it’s the push he needs. Rex snarls your name, cups his hands under the globes of your ass and pulls you off his cock nearly all the way out only to slam back in. There’s no time to adjust before Rex sets a pace, fevered and rabid All pent up energy collecting over the weeks you’ve known each other. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end after being denied for what feels like ages.

You squeal in surprise as Rex pushes you onto your back and hoists your legs around his hips. Rex buries his nose into the crook of your neck and moans your name like a sweet prayer wrapped in honeycomb. Rex shifts his weight, widening his knees to sink deeper into your cunt—his stubble tickling your throat as his staggered exhales burn hot over your skin.

You choke out a groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter. Electric heat sears down each vertebrae in your spine, scorching through each and every veins with the catastrophic brilliance of an imploding star. Shit—

“So good t’me—so perfect,” he huffs into your ear. Rex turns his head and steals a kiss. “Feel fuckin’ good stretched around my cock."

You clench around him hard as Rex’s hand sneaks between your bodies and rubs tight, little circles over you swollen clit. There’s barely any build up to your orgasm—just a blinding surge of devastating warmth that sweeps through your body, from your aching center down to your toes. It steals away all the air left in your lungs and leaves your clutching his arm and shuddering for a hold in your own reality—the steady warmth of his body that’s unburdened by armor a much needed anchor for the madness that threatens to drown you.

His gentle, and pliant kisses morph into little pricks of his teeth over your neck and collar bone as his hips struggle to keep a definitive pattern. Rex’s curses string together and blur into nonsensical noises and loose tongue admittances that are comparable to moving inches from an imploding star.

“Where can—can I?”

You grab at his head and whine his name. “Anywhere—in me—you can cum in me.”

With a loving caress over back of his neck and a sweet whisper of his name, he reaches release. Rex’s moan is airy as his eyes slam shut and captures your mouth in a sizzling kiss. He’s twitching in your arms as his hips erratically jerk, hot spurts of his release coating your insides and beginning to leak over your robes you lay over. Whatever.

Rex nips at your skin as the last dregs of pleasure jolt up your spine. Neither of you say a word as Rex’s hips come to a slow. Time trickles through your fingers like sand through an hourglass half empty but instead of rushing to dress, you choose to lie on the ground—two halves of a mess someone’s been meaning to clean up for the better part of a long while. You feel at home here—content as your fingers run up and down the back of his head, a bit irked by the armor still covering his back. You’re terrified of the months to come—but at least you have each other. After all, gardens will bloom and flourish with fresh blooded love and wild mistakes sculpted from passion forever if you believe hard enough…wont they?

#we out here #yeehaw #my writing #captain rex x reader #captain rex x you #ct-7567 #captai rex #clone x reader #clone trooper x reader #the clone wars #tcw #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #star wars #sw

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frankiefellinlove · 3 years

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THE STEVIE FILES PROUDLY PRESENTS - THE AMAZING ROCK & ROLL ODYSSEY OF STEVEN VAN ZANDT

From The Source to Soulfire via Springsteen and Sam & Dave

Recorded, transcribed, edited, written, produced, mixed and mastered by MIKE SAUNDERS

SIDE TWO (1975-1983)

Track 6: Miami Steve, The Asbury Jukes, Tenth Avenue and Hammersmith

In early 1975, Steven returned to New Jersey from Florida, inappropriately dressed for the winter weather. “I came back with the flowered shirts and the Sam Snead hat and continued wearing them in the snow.” For the next seven years, he was known as Miami Steve. He joined Southside in the Blackberry Booze Band and within weeks they’d altered and expanded its line-up (adding keyboard player Kevin Kavanaugh from Middletown and bass player Alan Berger from The Dovells’ backing band), transformed its musical direction, changed its name to Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes (referencing their mutual hero Little Walter’s band and first single release) and established a successful three-nights-a-week, five-sets-a-night residency at the Stone Pony in Asbury Park.

“Just before that, me, Southside, Bruce and Garry went to see Sam & Dave. A life-changing moment. So me and Southside basically decided we were gonna be the white Sam & Dave, with rock guitar. So the horns came in and although we didn’t know it, we would change the entire concept of what a bar band sounded like and the respect a bar band would get by making it creative, soul meets rock. ‘Bar band’ was an insult. ‘You’re a bar band,’ which means you can’t make it in the real music world. After the Jukes, they started using ‘bar band’ in reviews and they meant it as a compliment, with Graham Parker and Elvis Costello and Mink DeVille. We changed the way people thought about these things.”

The Miami Horns were a vital component of the new band. Steven composed the horn arrangements, but although he’s always possessed a natural ability to imagine horn parts, he doesn’t read or write music (“never have”) and has always required a little help from his friends to transcribe them. “I have people write ‘em down, to this day. I like that actually. You have to do a lotta things yourself so any excuse I find to collaborate I do it. I find other people will bring something to the party usually. That’s why [I’ve] used Eddie Manion for I don’t know how many years. He knows how I like to voice things. Once I think of something and create the parts, I get bored if I have to voice every part, exactly right. If I hear a voicing I don’t like, I will change it, but I get bored by the mechanics of everything.”

While the Jukes were building their reputation and growing their audience, Bruce invited Steven to hang out at the Born To Run sessions in New York, where he was working on “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out.” David Sanborn and The Brecker Brothers had been hired to play the horn parts, but Steven created a spontaneous new arrangement. He’s told this anecdote countless times, but I ask him to repeat it because it provides perfect examples of his innate musical talents in action (“I can hear the parts, who knows why?”), the nature of his friendship with Bruce (“I still am the only human being not afraid of him”), and his no-bullshit attitude (“I didn’t know anything about diplomacy”).

“So he says, ‘Whaddya think?’ I said, ‘It sucks, that’s what I think!’ I didn’t know how uptight everybody was. I didn’t give a fuck either. The managers and producers were all afraid of him already. He asked me a question, I’m gonna be honest. I’m trying to help my friend here, not make points with some fucking record company guy. Moment of silence. ‘He just said it sucks, which means we all suck.’ Bruce [says] ‘Alright then, go in and fucking fix it.’ So I did. I went in and sang the [new] parts. I didn’t know they were the most famous [session] guys in New York. It wasn’t insulting them, the chart was ridiculous. That was my thing, just from the Jukes being around maybe six months.”

“I wasn’t really feeling the pressure that Bruce was at the time. I didn’t realise his life depended on this album. His first two records hadn’t done very well. They wanted to drop him. I don’t know how aware I was of any of that. He invited me into the session and I’m laying on the floor. All I can think is, we’ve been hoping to get into recording our whole lives, I’m listening to this and it sounds fucking terrible. Not just the horn charts, everything. It was the worst period of recording in history. Virtually every record from the 50s and 60s sounded great, virtually every record from the early 70s sounded terrible. Because engineers took over, started close miking, padding the walls. Separation, separation, separation, all the things that make rock ‘n’ roll suck. The idea was, you isolate everything and make it sound exciting in the mix. Which they managed to do, miraculously, with the Born To Run album. Because it was pieced together in a bizarre way. Bruce made that record 100% out of willpower, he willed that into existence!”

Soon after making his instinctive artistic contribution (and singing backing vocals on “Thunder Road”), Steven was invited to join the E Street Band. It was a chance to complete the circle, play with his old friend again and settle any unfinished business from three summers earlier, when he’d been sent packing at the Greetings sessions. He made his live debut on the opening night of the Born To Run tour, which ran until New Year’s Eve. His input and influence over the next decade, onstage and off, would prove invaluable. (Bruce even began playing The Dovells’ “You Can’t Sit Down” as an occasional encore). In the fall, the tour took everyone to Europe for the first time, where the culture shock was off the charts. “There was no hamburgers, no peanut butter. The only place you could get a hamburger in the whole of Europe was the newly-opened first Hard Rock Café. There was a line around the block even then.”

Culinary deficiencies aside, Bruce also had to endure the overblown hype surrounding his first UK gigs at London’s Hammersmith Odeon, where Columbia had displayed the legend “Finally London Is Ready For Bruce Springsteen” on every available surface prior to his arrival. “[It was] completely obnoxious,” says Steven. “[Bruce] spent half the time ripping down posters. It was an embarrassing time for him, between that and Time and Newsweek. He didn’t like that stuff. You wanna be in charge of your life, that’s why we get into rock ‘n’ roll. Suddenly it was slipping out of his control. We made the mistake of playing a place with seats. It just made the show that much harder. But by the end, we got ‘em outta the seats. We went to Amsterdam, Stockholm, and back to London. The second one was a bit easier.” The experience had a prolonged effect on Bruce. “He was uptight in those days and would remain so through Darkness into The River, until he asked me to produce the record and we found a way to have some fun.”

Track 7: Epic Records, Steve Popovich and The Stone Pony

Back on the shore, Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes continued the Stone Pony residency throughout 1975, gradually consolidating their line-up. For the next three years, between Springsteen commitments, Steven worked as their producer, arranger, manager, part-time guitarist and principal songwriter. In early 1976, after circulating a demo tape, they signed a recording deal with Epic, with assistance from Steve Popovich, the label’s Vice-President of A&R. “I Don’t Want To Go Home,” the song that Steven had kept in his back pocket since his days on the oldies circuit, became the title track of their debut album and their first single. Ben E King’s loss was Southside’s gain.

“I produced [the song] in a way which was appropriate for the Jukes. They didn’t have a big background vocal thing going on,” explains Steven. “I was very conscious of being able to try and do most of it live, although I put strings on it, on my very first production! There was no synthesiser in those days that could play strings. That’s why I re-cut it [on Soulfire] the original way I pictured it, with the singer and background vocals answering. That idea of writing for someone else is extremely important, critical and essential. It changes the way you write completely, from when you think of writing for yourself, which is extraordinarily complicated and confusing. It’s not easy, but easier, to write for someone else. There’s their identity in your mind at least. I’m writing them a song. That’s a wonderful exercise for songwriters.” I Don’t Want To Go Home was released in the summer of 1976 (“I’ve never received one penny of royalties, but whatever!”). The Jukes later began their first national tour and made their European debut in 1977.

Recommended by Bruce, Steve Popovich was one of a kind. “The last of the real music guys in the business. The only other person I can compare him to would be Lance Freed on the publishing side, who’s unique. He’s actually into music and songwriting and the things you’re supposed to be into when you have a job description like that. And Frank Barsalona, the only agent who really did his job and would set the standard for everybody to follow. Those three guys, really quite historic. [It was] Popovich’s idea to launch the record with a broadcast from the Stone Pony. Never been done before. Popovich loved the local scene idea and he largely made it happen. It never would have been recognised nationally, I don’t think, if it hadn’t been for Popovich, who had the vision to say it’s cool if you’re not from New York. Rather than being embarrassed if you’re not from New York, LA or Nashville, it’s actually cool.”

Track 8: Production Credits and Political Awakening

Steven developed his talents as a producer and songwriter with the Jukes in the late 70s, following I Don’t Want To Go Home with This Time It’s For Real and Hearts Of Stone. Successive releases featured greater quantities of his original material, which included “I Played The Fool,” “This Time Baby’s Gone For Good,” “Take It Inside” and “Some Things Just Don’t Change,” apparently written for another of his heroes, David Ruffin of The Temptations. During this period, he also produced the “Say Goodbye To Hollywood” single for Ronnie Spector and the E Street Band and provided production assistance on Darkness On The Edge Of Town. His relationship with the Jukes ended when they left Epic for Mercury in 1979 and he went on to co-produce The River and two comeback albums for Gary US Bonds, Dedication and On The Line. It was an impressive fast-track apprenticeship. Steven had no production experience when he began. He acquired the skills and learned from his mistakes in the studio. “That’s why all three Jukes albums are different,” he says. “By the time we did The River, I knew what I wanted to do. I got it all down by then. That’s how I tend to do things. I can picture what I want. Jump in, do it, let’s see what happens.”

Steven also kept his promise to himself to bring his musical heroes out of obscurity, initially as guests on the first two Jukes albums. “I did what I could, but I wanted to do so much more,” he admits. “First time I get in a studio, got Lee Dorsey out from under a car, where he’s a mechanic. Got Ronnie Spector out of retirement. Second album, we reunited The Coasters, Drifters and Five Satins. Me and Bruce worked with Gary Bonds. We got Ben E King and Chuck Jackson on that record. Those artists had a talent level noticeably above everybody that followed. I wish I’d been insistent on doing more of them. In those [early] days, you actually had to have talent to make records. You had to be able to sing a song, beginning to end, perfectly in tune, perfectly the right melody, and if you fuck up one word, you gotta do the whole thing again. Couldn’t do enough for those people, they were so much fun to produce.”

In addition to his studio accomplishments, Steven played more than 300 shows with Bruce and the E Street Band between 1976 and 1981, primarily on the Darkness On The Edge Of Town and River tours. The majority took place in North America, but the River tour included a European leg that took the band away from home and out of their comfort zone for nine weeks. Much longer than their previous visit in 1975, it was their first significant experience of foreign countries, languages, cultures and political perspectives. They received rave reviews wherever they played, but Steven gradually became aware that not all Europeans viewed the United States in a favourable light.

One particular encounter was pivotal in dramatically reshaping Steven’s worldview. “A kid asked me, ‘Why are you putting missiles in my country?’ I said, ‘I’m not, I’m a guitar player.’ I realised, for the first time in my life, at the age of 30 I’m embarrassed to say, that I’m an American. What the fuck does that mean? I managed to grow up in the middle of civil rights, the Vietnam War, demonstrations about every fucking thing and had no interest in any of it. Amazing when you think about it. Redefining tunnel vision. Suddenly, the tunnel is gone. We’re now successful. Who would have ever figured that would happen, right? Now it’s like, uh-oh, what did I miss, the last 20 years?”

Track 9: Men Without Women, Motown and Mixing In Mono

This revelation accelerated Steven’s growing political awareness, one of two important developments in 1981 that would change the course of his life forever. The second came when he returned from Europe and was approached by EMI America about making a solo album. Having spent six years producing and writing for others, he welcomed the opportunity to have his own creative outlet, which soon expanded into a separate career. In the fall, he enlisted musicians from the E Street Band and the Asbury Jukes to record most of the material for his debut album, Men Without Women, using his established rock-meets-soul sonic blueprint. Including “Lyin’ In A Bed Of Fire,” “Princess Of Little Italy,” “Angel Eyes” and “Until The Good Is Gone,” it remains an undisputed career highlight for Van Zandt devotees, but Steven feels that an outside producer might have helped him make a more commercial record.

“Conventional wisdom is you never should produce yourself and I have to say that’s correct. The only exception I can think of in the history of the business was Prince, who was an extraordinary genius, but other than him, I don’t know anybody who successfully produces themselves.” Describing himself as “extremely schizophrenic, I’m twelve different people, never mind two,” Steven explains how his inner producer failed to control the whims of his inner artist. “Without knowing it, the artist takes over. I was into this extreme naturalism, no logical reason why. I did the whole album live in one day. Came back the second day, did it again, beginning to end. Couple overdubs, that was it. There’s one guitar. The horns aren’t doubled. Nothing’s doubled. Bruce did all the harmony on that record but we couldn’t use his name. We [did] a similar thing with Born In The USA, where we just recorded live in the studio.”

“I made Bob Clearmountain mix ‘Forever’ in mono, to try and achieve the perfect Motown record. It’s never gonna be exact and it shouldn’t be exact, why should it be, but I wanted to capture a Smokey Robinson Motown record. The only way I could do that in my mind was to make it completely mono. He was so good in those days. I mean Bob’s still the best, but in those days he was beyond the best. He was something else when it came down to that Neve board that wasn’t automated, and he’s feelin’ those faders. I made him do something he’d never done before, which requires a whole different way of thinking. You’re now thinking depth-wise and vertically, not horizontally.”

“That’s where my head was at. Can I achieve the emotional communication that my heroes had provided me? My heroes being Motown in general, 10 acts there. Or my heroes at Chess, another 10 acts. Sam Phillips did ‘Rocket 88’ for Ike Turner (Jackie Brenston) and ‘How Many More Years’ for Howlin’ Wolf, three years before Elvis Presley. Unbelievable genius. [I’m] trying to achieve that level of quality in my own world, in my own little bubble, which has these ridiculously high standards. I’m absorbing the 50s and 60s and then trying to integrate them in my head and reproduce them in my own way, not the least bit interested in what’s going on in the 70s or 80s certainly, because it was shit to me, comparatively. An interesting moment here and there. Punk was certainly interesting. But mostly it’s all coming from what I call the renaissance period, ‘51 to ‘71, where it all was created. And that’s true to this day. That’s all I was interested in and that was enough for 10 lifetimes. I didn’t need another bit of input after 1972.”

Track 10: Little Steven, Little Richard and Bob Dylan

In 1982, after recording with Bruce and Gary US Bonds, Steven completed his album, formed the Disciples of Soul (which included Dino Danelli from The Rascals on drums, Jean Beauvoir on bass and Eddie Manion, Mark Pender, Stan Harrison and La Bamba on horns) and played a debut concert at New York’s Peppermint Lounge. Released in October, a month after Nebraska, Men Without Women preceded his first national tour and was credited to his new professional name of Little Steven, which would be used for all future solo activities. “I just wanted separation [from] being the sideman,” he explains. “Each of my personalities required a different name, in order to keep it straight in people’s heads and my own head.” The name referenced his early heroes Little Walter, Little Anthony and Little Richard. In his role as an ordained minister, the latter officiated at Steven’s wedding to Maureen Santoro in New York on New Year’s Eve. Percy Sledge sang “When A Man Loves A Woman” as they walked down the aisle and the reception included performances from Gary US Bonds, Little Milton, The Chambers Brothers and the wedding band from The Godfather. “Little Anthony was doing a cruise at the time or he would have been there.”

“All I can think is, we’ve been hoping to get into recording our whole lives, I’m listening to this and it sounds fucking terrible. Not just the horn charts, everything. It was the worst period of recording in history. Virtually every record from the 50s and 60s sounded great, virtually every record from the early 70s sounded terrible. Because engineers took over, started close miking, padding the walls. Separation, separation, separation, all the things that make rock ‘n’ roll suck. The idea was, you isolate everything and make it sound exciting in the mix. Which they managed to do, miraculously, with the Born To Run album. Because it was pieced together in a bizarre way. Bruce made that record 100% out of willpower, he willed that into existence!”

Steven toured internationally in 1983, then dropped the horns, adopted a more contemporary rock sound and made his second album, Voice Of America. It was an explicitly political record that featured “Solidarity,” “I Am A Patriot,” “Out Of The Darkness,” “Los Desaparecidos” and “Undefeated.” Triggered by his River tour experiences in Europe, this radical transformation was completed with a long period of self-education. “I read every book about post World War Two [US] foreign policy. [It was] shocking how often we were on the wrong side. All of these bad things were happening behind the scenes and nobody was talking about them. No political consciousness whatsoever in the country. I decided I have an obligation to say something about this stuff that we’re all paying for with our taxes.”

“Being conscious of the fact that everybody needs their own identity, I figured who the hell needs another love song from a fucking sideman? I’ll be the political guy. Nobody else is doing it. There were people demonstrating of course. Jackson Browne, John Hall, Bonnie Raitt, Graham Nash, those guys. The Grateful Dead were doing a benefit every week, but rarely did it end up in the work. In general, people weren’t putting much politics into the lyrics of their songs.” For artists with commercial aspirations, he concedes, that’s a smart move. “Jefferson Airplane being an exception with ‘Volunteers.’ Big exception, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, with Neil Young’s ‘Ohio.’”

Steven contends that Bob Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues” introduced the idea of political consciousness in rock ‘n’ roll. “His first electric song. It’s not given enough credit. The first sentence from Bob Dylan’s electric period, ‘Johnny’s in the basement mixing up the medicine, I’m on the pavement thinking about the government.’ What? You’re doing what? You’re thinking about the government? Excuse me? Who does that? Whoever did that before, in a song, no less? There in that one sentence, Bob Dylan communicated what his entire career was gonna be about, which was having fun with language, with inference, symbolism, metaphor and nonsense lyrics that rhymed. ‘Johnny’s in the basement mixing up the medicine,’ what does that mean? It means whatever you want it to mean, right? Then ‘I’m on the pavement thinking about the government.’ Holy shit! You mean we’re supposed to figure out the government? That, to me, is the most important sentence in all the history of rock ‘n’ roll, right there.”

All photos below by Mike Saunders

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lov3nerdstuff · 3 years

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Voluptas Noctis Aeternae {Part 7.22}

*Severus Snape x OC*

Summary: It is the year 1983 when the ordinary life of Robin Mitchell takes a drastic turn: she is accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Despite the struggles of being a muggle-born in Slytherin, she soon discovers her passion for Potions, and even manages the impossible: gaining the favor of Severus Snape. Throughout the years, Robin finds that the not quite so ordinary Potions Professor goes from being a brooding stranger to being more than she had ever deemed possible. An ally, a mentor, a friend... and eventually, the person she loves the most. Through adventure, prophecies and the little struggles of daily life in a castle full of mysteries, Robin chooses a path for herself, an unlikely friendship blossoms into something more, and two people abandoned by the world can finally find a home.

General warnings: professor x student, blood, violence, trauma, neglectful families, bullying, cursing

Words: 4.7k

Read Part 1.1 here! All Parts can be found on the Masterlist!

______________________________

The two weeks that followed upon the dancing class were no different than Christmas time at Hogwarts always had been: it was snowy beyond reason, cold as hell, but the decorations that were put up actually brightened most people's mood and rendered everyone almost disgustingly cheerful. However, there were differences this year, and no matter how subtle they were, Robin still had no trouble pinpointing them with a striking accuracy.

One, both Cas and Jorien had chosen to stay at school over the holidays, mostly due to the fact that they were now in fourth year and thus officially allowed to attend the ball even without being someone's plus one. Besides that, they wanted to spend Robin's last ball at Hogwarts here with her, just once, all six of them together. Well, seven technically, but Robin still didn't know how she was supposed to get Snape into that equation.

Two, Robin spent significantly less time working for Sprout or Hagrid than she had during the last years (she did already work with them in the plenty during the school weeks at this point after all), and instead spent significantly more time with Snape, playing wizard's chess or reading during the days when the work was done, and drinking mulled wine, firewhisky or plain old coffee in his rooms at night.

And three, the two previous changes in addition to the revelations that had come up during lunch after the dancing class now made it near impossible for Robin to get the girls' words out of her head. Did Snape really look at her all that differently than at other people? Well, he certainly did, but that after all might merely be due to the fact that she was his best friend, just like he was hers. It didn't mean anything that his eyes followed her through the halls during meals, or that she slinked through the corridors on her way from his room to her own in an increasing frequency and like a bloody first year trying not to get caught after curfew. It didn't mean anything that he would sometimes just observe her with an expression that made her skin tingle while she rambled on about whatever had caught her attention now, and it most definitely didn't mean anything that he had gifted her that Japanese dictionary she had been trying to get her hands on for over a year now for Christmas. Without losing a word about it, of course, and in complete denial that it had anything to do with the holidays.

Put shortly, Robin couldn't help keeping her eyes open now that Jorien had so bluntly prompted her to. And every little thing she discovered made her want to sink back into deep denial indeed, and build a twenty feet brick wall around herself. Sometimes being the god of a universe of illusion is easier than being a peasant in the hell that is reality.

Honestly, she had never before actually considered that she might be scared to see the reality she found herself in, and found in herself. That she was scared to death not only of his true feelings, of being rejected, but also very much of her own emotions. It had been quite blissful to live in the easy fixed knowledge that she loved him, without actually paying attention to the reality of her feelings. And in reality, she felt something so intense and overwhelming that it terrified her to pieces. If only things were as easy as saying she loved him… Because if she was keeping her eyes open now, not only to her surroundings but also to herself, it was so much more than that. He was her best friend after all, her family and home, and after seven bloody years, there was no denying that he had also become a part of herself. Sure, she would be able to live without him, but what really mattered was that she would move heaven and hell to ensure she would never have to. Bloody hell, what a mess that would become once she left school in no more than half a year… And then, she could only hope that he would want to keep her in his life as well.

"Earth to Robin!" Jorien waved her hand in front of Robin's face, which was the first thing Robin noticed when she snapped out of her thoughts. "If you keep daydreaming like that, we'll be late to the ball!"

"We still have three hours until it's time to head up there." Robin huffed while rolling her eyes, but still shut the book in her lap she'd been failing to read for the last thirty minutes anyway. "I don't plan on sitting around in my dress until then."

"Are you sure that you want to wear the same one as last year?" Cas inquired in what sounded close to a whine. "I still stand by my offer to lend you one of mine!"

"Pff, yeah, Robin in a peach coloured glittery dress…" Jorien snorted, shaking her head at her friend. "You might be close to the same height, but your style is entirely different."

"I know that!"

"Obviously you don't. And Robin has a completely different body shape than you do, in addition to that."

"Hey, it's not my fault that I have muscles in my body!" Cas huffed with a glare at her friend. "Making the Quidditch team and staying on the team requires at least some level of physical fitness."

"Hey, I do have muscles!" Robin protested immediately, but she couldn't say that she felt offended by the girl's words. It was no secret that Cas definitely was the athletic type, whereas Robin's virtues were of a more academic nature.

"Yes, that, and I was actually referring to the fact that you are quite a bit more gifted in the upper regions than Robin." Jorien added with a pointed look at Cas, who crossed her arms over her chest with a blush and a pout.

"Guys, it doesn't matter, alright? I'm actually very much looking forward to wearing the same dress as last year." Robin tried to mend the field with diplomacy and an easy shrug. "The only reason I'm wearing a dress in the first place is so that I fit in a bit better."

"With Snape or with the crowd?" Cas returned with a smirk, all embarrassment forgotten. "Because while the former is quite the success with your dress, it logically eradicates the possibility for the latter to be too."

"That sounded way too Simon of you." Jorien snorted, then dodged the pillow that came flying her way. "What! It's not my fault that you guys are adopting each other's speech patterns more and more."

"So what's the plan for tonight?" Robin barged in before Cas could come up with a reply to get their bickering going again. There had been enough of that at breakfast. "Simon obviously is Cas' date, Gideon asked Lisa and Micheal's still trying to find someone. What about you, Jorien? Any prospects?"

"I asked Melissa." She shrugged casually in return, then started picking at her nails. "She'd rather go with a boy than with me. Better a date than a friend-date, and all that… Perhaps I should set her up with Michael, if both are so desperate to find someone to bring along. Quite pathetic, if you ask me. I'd rather go alone than be someone's last resort."

"Going alone is perfectly fine, I haven't ever had a date to the ball either." Robin shrugged with an encouraging smile. "You can be my date, if it means anything to you."

"You've been someone's unofficial date for all the past years, from what I was told, and I'm not getting in between that!" Jorien held up her hands in defense, and Robin rolled her eyes. "Upsetting Professor Snape wasn't on my agenda for tonight."

"Anyway…" Cas said after a few seconds of weird silence. "My plans for tonight include lots of dancing, hopefully some spiked drinks and of course some casual snogging."

"Cas!" Robin tried to sound scolding, but her laugh betrayed her exasperated tone. "That's nowhere near appropriate behaviour for a school dance!"

"Hey, I'm no saint and I never said I was!" The girl laughed in return, and the mischief that settled on her face should've been more disconcerting to Robin than it actually was. "Who knows, perhaps we'll visit the fifth floor hallway if things go well enough."

The mention of that make-out spot alone made Robin pull a face in distaste, and she couldn't help frowning deeply at her friend. "I would like to think that Simon has a bit more class than that."

"What, and I don't?"

"You just suggested going there, without a concern in the world. So please excuse me if I question your standards."

"She's got a point." Jorien added with a snicker and a shrug, and Robin gave her a high five with a smirk. Two against one; nobody was going to the fifth floor tonight.

"Fine…" Cas groaned and crossed her arms again. "But wherever else should we go, huh? Being classy while being a student isn't all that easy if you're not entirely immune to every boy's charme like Jorien or best friends with a bloody professor like Robin! How am I supposed to have fun, can you tell me that?"

"I'm not giving you pointers on how to snog your boyfriend, Cas. Or worse." Robin replied calmly, for she couldn't decide between being flustered and laughing at the girl's exasperation. "If you guys want to sneak around, you better do it without my knowledge. You know I can't lie, and chances are high that I would have to if I knew what you're up to."

"The alcoves are said to be a pretty good spot for making out." Jorien shrugged, completely ignoring Robin's previous statement. Great… now Robin would have to actively not listen to both of them. "And there's always our room, if you wanna go all out. With some sixth year charms work, it shouldn't be too difficult to find some privacy in the dorms… And I'd planned to sleep over at Melissa's tonight anyway. To hear all about her conquests."

"I did not just hear that, nope, absolutely didn't." Robin sighed to herself under her breath and turned on her heels, deciding that it was due time to take a shower. She'd gotten through puberty without too many losses, if she'd even had one in the first place, but she would be damned if she got dragged into her friends' shenanigans now as a late payback for that. So she grabbed her things and fled the room, after triple checking that everything she needed was safely tucked under her arm. She would not be smelling like pineapple tonight.

… … …

Luckily, when she returned to her room an hour later, the conversation had moved on and the girls were now discussing Cas' options for the dress she was to wear tonight. That was a topic Robin could very well live with, could very well ignore, and so she went back to reading like she'd originally tried to do before her thoughts had strayed. With a content sigh, she stretched out on the bed and focused on the article in front of her, until a light tap on her shoulder drew her eyes up and away from the page.

"It's just ten minutes until we're leaving, so you might want to get ready now at least." Jorien said to her with an amused smile, which only broadened when Robin's jaw dropped.

"But I literally just started reading! It can't be that late!"

"Yeah, well, that was two hours ago." The girl chuckled, then turned around to Cas for her to close the zipper of her dress. Both of them were already done with their preparations, in full makeup and beautiful hairdos, just a smile away from ready to go… and Robin was still in her pajamas.

With a groan under her breath, she flipped the book shut before tossing it onto her nightstand, then she scrambled to her feet to dig out her dress from the trunk at the end of her bed. Ten minutes; ridiculous, impossible… Well, not if she screwed decency for now. Without wasting any of the precious time on contemplation, she just went with it and shed her Queen shirt first, then her flannels without a second thought. Should they see her in her knickers, who cared at this point. They'd known each other for years now. Still, what she hadn't considered was the very reason why both girls gasped now and stared at her even as she stepped into the heavy black fabric of her dress and pulled it up her body with one swift move.

Robin sighed under her breath; she could very well imagine why the girls looked at her like that. It was one of the reasons why she never changed in front of anyone, and even less let them see her in any state of undress. "It's just a scar, guys. No need to be weird about it." She stated before either of them could say anything that would make the situation even more uncomfortable. "I told you that I was stabbed last summer, it's no big deal. Not a pretty sight, I know, but it is what it is."

"Didn't that hurt?!" Cas was the first to blurt out her thoughts. "I know that you told us about it happening, but… somehow I never really thought about the implications of that."

Robin snorted at the question, while she moved her hair out of the way to let Jorien close the many tiny buttons of her dress now. "Obviously it hurt. I almost died from blood loss, that's not going to happen from just a scratch. But it healed well for what it is. The scar really is a small price for my life."

"It's so weird to think that you've gone through something like that! I mean… you're just Robin, a bookworm too smart for her own good. To think that all those adventures you told us about actually happened is like imagining Professor Sprout in a wrestling tournament." Cas gestured wildly as she spoke, and Jorien just snorted at her friend's dramatics.

Robin shrugged all of it off with a smile that was as apologetic as it was evasive, then straightened her dress and put on the one pair of more or less dressy shoes she owned; they'd be covered by the dress for the most part anyway. Then she twisted her hair up with her wand like she usually did, and that was about it. Makeup still wasn't getting anywhere near her face, or any other body part for that matter.

"Wow… You look amazing! Powerful and dark and… pretty damn hot." Jorien commented when she got a glimpse at the front of the dress as well. "Like you're the essence of night itself."

"Right! That's exactly what I said last year!" Cas grinned and nodded in agreement, while Robin simply tried not to blush. Compliments about her wit and brains were fine… compliments about her looks however were just unusual and therefore weirdly uncomfortable.

"Thanks guys, but I'm really just trying to fit in." She shrugged, and both girls frowned at her in an instant.

"Fitting in is actually the last thing this dress does for you, I think." Jorien smirked as she slung her small bag around her shoulders, seconds before all three girls made for the door. It was time they got going, after all, and thus they mostly hurried through the common room and out into the hallways. "If anything, you'll draw attention. Make an impression on some people. Seize a few hearts, and steal a soul."

Robin just snorted while rolling her eyes at the comment, but Cas caught straight on to it.

"YES! Absolutely! Robin, you've got to take advantage of those killer looks… Try to seduce the subject of your affections!" Cas beamed, in a way that spoke volumes of her excitement about meddling in foreign affairs. "Use your womanly charm and go for it! Make him fall for you!"

"I love you, Cas, but do shut up."

"She's right though!" Jorien obviously had to side with her friend, and Robin groaned under her breath upon having both girls plotting against her now. "If he doesn't find you delectable now, he's truly as undeserving of you as every other male in this castle."

"And who would you be talking about?" Snape's deep voice made all three girls jump all of a sudden, and they each spun around to stare at the dark figure in the middle of the hallway behind them. They hadn't even made it out of the dungeons yet; they should've known better than to talk this loudly.

"Professor!" Cas shrieked, eyes wide and cheeks flushed as if she'd been caught doing something terribly wrong. Robin sighed under her breath and resisted the temptation to roll her eyes; so much for getting the two sides in her life a little closer together tonight.

"Nobody!" Jorien was quick to reply, and even quicker to regain control of the situation. "We were just on our way to the ball, actually."

"Obviously." Snape and Robin replied at once, and Cas snorted in return. Oh, this was going great alright… more fuel to their flames.

"Yes, it is fairly obvious, isn't it? So we should return to doing just that, or we'll be late." Jorien flashed a quick smile, then turned on her heels and grabbed Cas by the arm to drag her along while looking back over her shoulder at Robin. "You go ahead, and we'll find the guys and meet you in the hall later, yes?" With that, the two girls disappeared down the hallway and around the next corner mere seconds later, leaving Robin frozen to her spot with a frown on her face.

"Is it me or are they being even weirder than usual?" Came Snape's dry remark from just behind her then, and Robin's eyes flew to meet his while an involuntary smile pulled at her lips.

"Oh, they're absolutely bonkers. Delusional, really, if they seriously believe that I am looking delectable to anyone tonight." She chuckled, in the honest hope that he hadn't heard more of the girls' pep talk than that. But then again, he knew how to take their ridiculous ideas and teenage delusions by now, so it really didn't matter all that much. "It would take a blind man to find that mess on my head attractive."

"If you say so." He quirked an eyebrow at her in amusement, then offered her his arm instead of the usual subtle hand on the small of her back. "Let's make an effort to make it to the ball before we miss the headmaster's great speech, shall we?"

Robin's smile brightened before she could help it, and she didn't even hesitate to accept. This was the closest thing to a date she would ever have. "We shall indeed."

They arrived in the great hall just seconds before Dumbledore rose to gain everyone's attention, and luckily therefore nobody paid them much mind. A few glances here and there, more likely than not accompanied by frowning faces that studied the sight of the two dark figures in the shadows by the doors, who looked almost indignantly bored. And boy, the headmaster could talk and talk forever if he fancied it, about courage and justice and kindness and all those nimble ideals Robin fancied a more practical approach to. But finally his words faded into applause, and the crowds began moving and talking again.

"Is it me or does the speech get more righteous every single year?" Asked Robin, while she let Snape lead her towards their usual table in the far corner, only to find a group of adults sitting there already. In immediate confusion, they halted in the middle of the room, and her eyes found his in a silent question. Good thing it had become almost a bit of a routine that whenever she failed to take notice of something that was going on around her, he would know exactly what she had missed and could fill her in.

"Dumbledore opened the ball to a larger public this year." He explained, with a quiet yet undoubtedly disdainful tone. "Parents, important families, retired professors, ministry officials and the like."

"Why on earth would he allow them at a school ball? I mean… isn't this technically supposed to be for the students' enjoyment?" Robin inquired, while they continued moving through the room in search of an empty table, but finding none.

"Remember what I told you about the reasons for bringing this ball into existence in the first place?" Snape mused, and his eyes continued scanning the room, but not for a table anymore. Robin wondered who he was searching for.

"Oh. Yes, I do remember that."

"Well, let me assure you that this decision on the headmaster's end has something to do with the very likes of it."

"Great…" Robin sighed under her breath, and finally they settled for just standing at the edge of the dancefloor like everyone else who hadn't yet put a claim on a sitting spot. Somehow, the entire thing didn't seem like a fun night with friends anymore, but the very thing that was prone to make her anxious. Too many people, too many strangers mostly, and no certain place to sit and endure it all from the ranks… this was going to be hell. Or maybe, not entirely.

"May I have the first dance?" Snape asked, just when the occasion was announced and the musicians got ready to lead the way through the night. He held a hand out to Robin, in an expression of calm neutrality rather than the usual scowl even though they were surrounded by hundreds of people. Robin's heart skipped a beat, and she had to remind herself not to grin like a fool while yet her lips parted in surprise. Had he actually just asked her to dance? With words, in public, and for the first dance out of all the possible ones tonight?

"Isn't the first dance just for important people and their dates?" She quirked an eyebrow at him in mild amusement at last, choosing humour over astonishment and tingles, which would border dangerously on allowing herself to hope again.

"It is also reserved for the professors and overall staff, and even if you rightly so keep ignoring that, this group also entails me. As it is, I do not dance with anyone but you, so they will have to bear with the two of us, or live with neither." He replied so smoothly that Robin had no time to doubt or question his words when she placed her hand in his and let him lead her onto the dancefloor. Bloody hell… now all eyes were on her indeed, and she actually couldn't care less for once.

They got into position as did the other couples around them, some of which Robin knew and some of which she hadn't seen before, but when the music started, the world faded in return and left only Robin and Snape and the music behind. This wasn't hell, she found, but rather a piece of heaven on earth. Just the two of them, moving through the open space while never once looking at anything but each other. And in the very spirit of two weeks prior, Robin yet again couldn't help the smile on her lips as she held his gaze. The only thing she missed was the warmth of his hand on her back, the almost scorching touch, as now the thick fabric of her dress dimmed it down quite a bit and left her to feel the comforting pressure of it more than the heat. How nice would it be to have his fingers dancing across her skin? To dwell in his warmth for a bit and let it burn out the cold winter within her? She could only dream.

"I believe we make quite the sight." His quiet voice broke through her haze of excited, calm ambivalence, and the world regained it's hard corners and outlines. Gone was the dream, delayed to haunt her in her sleep tonight.

"We simply know how to dance." She replied with a subtle smirk, and found that the world wasn't quite so bad either if it still entailed the two of them together. "They probably don't get to see that all too often."

"I was thinking more along the terms of our common choice of… unusual wardrobe, but yes, I agree with your assessment as well."

"What other than unusual would they have expected of the dungeon bat and the insane girl?"

"Is that how people think of us?"

"I believe so." Robin smiled, but it took everything she had not to show the true effect his words were having on her. Was she so far gone by now that all it took was an 'us' ghosting past his lips to unravel the walls that contained her emotions? It seemed so.

The music stopped then, fading off the last strings as their flowing moments came to a halt as well. Too bad it was over. But perhaps they could do this again, now that the first dance had officially proclaimed them as partners for the night. It was an official custom after all, right? Robin held onto that string of hope at least as they made their way off the dancefloor and straight towards the far corner where their usual table lay empty now. Too bad for whoever had vacated it; now it was Robin's to keep.

They sat down to face the hall as always, and while it was significantly more crowded this year than it had been in the years prior, that also gave them quite a few more victims to observe and comment on. They got exactly two hours to themselves before their social invisibility was broken by the still distant but determined appearance of Cas. In her tow the other six people, who looked a lot less eager than her to get anywhere near Snape tonight. Robin sighed to herself in mild disappointment before anyone even spoke up; she would have to make a choice between her friends and her best friend now, and she hated that beyond measure. Why did life have to be so unfair at times?

"I know what you're thinking." Snape said then, quietly even though the ground of people still had to come anywhere near the table. "And you shouldn't be concerned, I understand the problem fairly well. I will leave if they wish to spend time with you."

He was already up on his feet and ready to just walk away when Robin caught his hand, and held onto it so tightly that his eyebrows lifted up when he looked back down at her.

"Don't think it's a decision I want to make, okay?" She asked with a sadness she didn't bother to hide. "It's not a decision I can make, actually, and I simply would've told them to deal with it or be the ones to leave if they've got a problem with your company."

"I know. And since it isn't a decision you should have to make, I made it for you now, by offering to leave."

"I don't want to spend the evening without you…" The words spilled past Robin's lips without any restraint now, and she was glad for that. It made the corners of his lips curl upwards for a fleeting moment at least.

"In that case, I might have to come and rescue you from their fangs in two hours for another dance. Good solution?"

"Make that one hour instead and we have a good solution indeed." She smiled up at him, and only now realised that she was still clasping his hand like a lifeline. Reluctantly but necessarily she finally let go. "I can't have four teen girls and three boys around me for much longer than that."

"As you wish." He returned a knowing not-smirk for a second, then turned on his heels and disappeared in the crowds just when Cas reached the table.

______________________________

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coruscantguard · 4 years

Text

Endless Night, Half a Sliver of Light

Requested by @roborails

Fox and Ahsoka for #98- “You’re actually a big softie, aren’t you?”

The clock on Ahsoka’s bedside table reads 02:09.

Nighttime on the Coruscant Guard’s ship is much quieter than she’s used to it being on the Resolute. It makes sense, since it’s a smaller ship, and there are less people on it, but the quiet still puts her on edge. In her experience, quiet is rarely a good thing

Barriss would disagree with that, but Barriss also reads ancient texts on Force philosophy in her free time, and eats space waffles without cooking them, so Ahsoka is inclined to disregard her opinion here.

The clock on Ahsoka’s bedside table has progressed to read 02:10.

The Guard’s ship is also quieter than the Temple, but in a less tangible way for anyone who is not Force-sensitive. While the Temple tends to be quiet and peaceful, the Force is always very alive in it. There’s a feeling of home that comes with all those strong Force signatures, and it’s an eternal reminder that she’s not alone. That as a Jedi, she’ll never have to truly be alone in the galaxy.

The clock on Ahsoka’s bedside table now reads 02:11.

Her attempts to go to sleep and the ever present quiet aren’t mixing in a way that’s conducive to her getting any shuteye. The briefing ended hours ago. She’s still awake.

The clock on Ahsoka’s bedside table still reads 02:11.

Ahsoka groans, buries her face into her pillow, and lets out a muffled scream.

The embarrassment from her little social mishap earlier is hitting full force now that the planning is done for the night, and she has nothing to distract herself with. She’s been wallowing in it, she knows that. Her attachment to those feelings is the furthest thing from productive, and she should be releasing it into the Force. There’s nothing she can do to correct the situation until morning comes.

She should release it to the Force. It's helping no one, and making her feel worse. She really should release it to the Force.

She’s not releasing it to the Force.

Master Anakin felt that Senator Amidala needed additional security, kriff’s sake, Ahsoka. Did she seriously say that? Force, it’s like all of Master Obi-Wan’s diplomacy training just flew out the window. And all the basic manners the Temple taught her.

“Ahsoka, you utter di’kut,” she mutters, and rolls over, flopping her legs off her bunk. The room is small enough that her feet can nearly brush the opposite wall, and she uses her toes to inch her torso off the bed until she can. Heck yes.

Not that he thinks you guys can’t handle it, her brain reminds her, efficiently quenching any joy that her victory brought. It’s just, well, Master has this thing about Senator Amidala, because like, they’re really close friends, right? So--

She groans again, and reaches a hand out to grab her pillow so she can smother herself with it. Right now, suffocation sounds like a great way to go.

Knight Skywalker, I regret to inform you that your padawan has joined the Force because she is a karking laserbrain who keeps putting her shoe on the other side of her mouth.

When Ahsoka pulls the pillow off her face, she’s disappointingly still in the land of the living, and the clock on her bedside table now just says 02:13. She manages to resist the urge to chuck the pillow at said clock, instead opting to throw it at the wall in front of her.

The pillow bounces off the control panel, and her door hisses open. The pillow falls to the ground by her feet, and Ahsoka forces herself to close her eyes, take a few seconds to breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Release your anger to the Force, young padawan. Do not use the Force to pick up your pillow and slam it into the clock, young padawan. Vandalism is not the Jedi way.

When she’s sufficiently managed to breathe through most of her anger and annoyance, she opens her eyes again.

Ahsoka calmly looks at her now open door. She looks at the pillow on the ground. She looks back at the door. Then back to the pillow. Then back at the door.

Well. There’s no way she’s going to sleep at this rate. Might as well see if anyone else is up.

She manages to pull herself up from her half on the bed, half off it position without using her hands, lets out a silent cheer in the form of a fist pump, and pops her head out of her room to look around. There’s nothing to the left, but when she swivels her head to the right, she sees some kind of faint yellow light at the end of the hallway, where the officer’s lounge is.

It’s as good of a sign as any, so Ahsoka grabs her lightsaber, clips it to her belt, and leaves her room. As she makes her way down the ship’s hallway, she instinctively reaches out with the Force to get a sense of what she’s walking into.

She senses only one other presence nearby, and one that flows easily with the jigsaw pattern of the world around her. With a bit of concentration, she’s able to catch sight of a flash of gunmetal grey, which makes it easy to figure out who the presence is.

Commander Fox’s Force presence is unassuming, both in it’s color and it’s general feel. Unlike Anakin, who’s Force presence was more akin to a supernova, the Commander of the Coruscant Guard’s presence was steady, unwavering, slightly darker than most non-Force sensitives tended to feel, but not enough to actually be concerning. The only thing that’s even remotely odd is the lack of color around him, but that’s not bad either, just different.

The door slides open automatically as she reaches the end of the hall, and the adjacent lounge. She silently slips inside, and the sound of flimsi rustling greets her.

Fox is sitting at a table near the back of the room, head bowed, presumably reading the pile of flimsiwork in front of him. On one side of the table, his bucket sits beside his elbow, and on the other side, there’s a cup of what at least smells like caf to Ahsoka. She realizes, belatedly, that this is the first time she’s ever seen him without his bucket on.

He looks old. Tired. Like he’s Master Obi-Wan’s age, not Skyguy’s. Not that Master Obi-Wan is old, of course, but… whatever. Moving on.

“Commander Fox,” she greets, and steps further into the room. He looks up from the flimsiwork, but thankfully doesn’t bother saluting.

“Commander Tano,” Fox says, and he slides his bucket closer to him as he stands up. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, I’m not… looking for anything,” she replies quickly. “I saw the light, and I got curious.”

Fox nods, and another spike of guilt gnaws her. She does her best to ignore it. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” he says, and it’s with a practiced politician’s calm that Ahsoka recognizes from her time around Senators Chuchi and Amidala. “There’s caf by the stove, if you’re in the mood.”

Caf. Kriff yes. Skyguy would never give her caf at 2am.

It takes three tries to find the cabinet that has mugs in it, and she pulls out the biggest one. As she starts to pour the caf into her mug, she looks over at the table. Fox has sat back down, and he looks just as engrossed in the pile of flimsi as he had when she came in.

Ahsoka finishes filling her mug, adjusts the sugar-to-caf ratio so it’s drinkable, and takes a small sip. It’s on the edge of being too hot, but it doesn’t actually burn her mouth, so she deems it satisfactory. She turns back to face Fox, and asks, “What are you working on?”

He doesn’t spare her a glance as he answers, “Reports, mostly. There’s never an end to the flimsiwork when the Senate gets involved.”

“Oh,” she says. Fox picks up a stylus, sets a stack of flimsi to the side, and moves onto another piece of flimsiwork. ...Right. Okay. Time to entertain herself. She can do that.

Her eyes dart around the room. Military sparse, nothing unusual. The lights are only half on, upon closer inspection. There’s nothing particularly remarkable around.

Carefully, she nudges herself up onto her tiptoes, and glances over Fox’s head at the flimsiwork. It’s all just words and numbers, none that catch her attention, and she’s about to look away when Fox moves the next piece of flimsi over. This one is different in that it has a photo on it.

It’s a portrait shot of a man, like what one would find on an ID card. He looks older than her, but not by too much, and vaguely familiar in the way many beings look due to all the different planets she’s visited. There’s something about this one that she knows, though, and she focuses harder on that knowledge, wracks her memory trying to connect the navpoints. Young, clean-cut, memorable but still one in a crowd-- “Is that one of Senator Organa’s aides?”

Fox doesn’t jump at the interruption, or react to her prying, just gives her a cursory glance before turning back to the flimsi. “Yes, Christoforos Massimo, de domo Mac Ghabhann.” Fox replies, and his voice is clipped, but not to the point of being rude. “He was one of Senator Organa’s aides. He’s also the third senatorial aide to die of mycotoxin poisoning in the last year.”

Oh. She looks back at the photo, lets herself feel the dull throb of regret that follows. It’s not-- she didn’t know him, not well enough to know his name, but all life is important, and she did recognize him. That’s something. It’s always something.

Still, he’s with the Force now, so she lets herself feel, but then she makes herself let it go. He’s not gone, not truly. No one ever is.

Ahsoka eventually takes another sip of her caf, and runs Fox’s words through her brain again. Mycotoxin poisoning, mycotoxin poisoning, mycotoxin-- “Wait, isn’t that poison that has cerulean slime mold in it?”

Fox signs something, then nods. The signature is longer than she would’ve expected, but she’s unable to read it, as he swiftly places the flimsi at the bottom of the stack. “The mold’s name is technically kytrogorgia, but, yes.”

“That’s evidence of foul play, right?”

“Not definitively,” he says, and takes a sharp breath in, slowly lets it out. “There can be accidental deaths because of it, but it’s rare to find naturally occurring on Coruscant.”

“Huh.”

Ahsoka goes back to drinking her caf, keeping her face by the mug so the heat of it warms her face. Poisonings. Huh. It makes sense that the Guard would deal with that, she just… never thought of it.

The silence of the ship is… odd. Besides the distinctive hum of hyperspace, and the scratching of Fox’s stylus, it’s quiet, a quiet she hasn’t experienced much since leaving the creche. Fox evidently has no issue with it.

She shouldn't have an issue with it.

“Doesn’t that mold smell like overripe kakadu fruit?” She suddenly asks. “I think Obi-Wan mentioned something about it a few weeks ago.”

“It has a relatively distinctive bitter citrine smell, yes.” Fox stops writing, and turns to look at her. She takes a sip of caf. “...Is poison a regular topic of discussion for the Jedi?”

Ahsoka pauses, thinking about it. “Not really,” she says. “I mean, we have an elective class on it, but that’s about it. Obi-Wan just likes that kind of stuff, you know, molds and rare species of worms and the like. It drives Skyguy up the wall.”

Fox makes a noncommittal sound, turns back to the flimsi, and starts writing again. “Sounds like one of my brothers.”

Ahsoka snickers. Then, carefully, remembering Barriss’s last comm call, and the look on her face when she mentioned the flesh-eating moths the 41st ran into, she asks, “Is there any chance that brother is Commander Gree of the 41st Elite Corps?”

Fox doesn’t quite smile, but the corners of his lips definitely twitch. “No comment,” he says dryly, confirming her hunch.

“Do you think Massimo was murdered?” Ahsoka asks, and her voice is quieter than she means it to be. Fox frowns, but he doesn’t comment immediately, so she leans in over his shoulder to get a closer look at the report. “This could all just be a coincidence.”

“It could be,” Fox agrees. “But when the Senate’s involved, assuming something is a coincidence usually ends with someone like Aurra Sing showing up, as it’s actually part of some larger conspiracy.” He grimaces. “Still, I don’t like the look of this, so lets hope you’re right.”

It’s not an actual answer to her question, but she doesn’t press, just hums in acknowledgement, and steps away. She moves to the other side of the table, and sets her mug down on it, then walks over to the stacks of chairs against the far wall. It’s easy to pull one off the top, and carry it back to the table, let it thunk down on the durasteel floor. She’s mentally weighing the merits of sitting down against those of raiding the pantry for snacks when a flash of movement catches her eye.

“What was that?” She asks, and moves forward, eyes scanning the officer’s lounge, montrals straining to pick up any noise.

“Hm?”

There’s another burst of movement seconds later, a pitter-patter of paws accompanied by a blur of fur, ears, and a large fluffy tail that quickly disappears under the sofa. She must’ve disturbed it when she moved the chair.

“Is there any chance that there’s a loth cat on this ship?”

Abruptly, Fox’s stylus stops moving. “What?”

Ahsoka cranes her head to the side, trying to catch sight of the blur again. “I think I just saw a loth cat.”

Silence. Then-- “Is it grey?”

She opens her mouth to reply right as the blur comes speeding out from under the couch, and she barely twists out of the way in time as it launches itself at the table. It lands on the table with a thump, and turns to look at her for a second, accessing.

Then it moves over to the flimsiwork, and rubs its head against Fox’s hand and stylus, before flopping down on the flimsi, and starting to purr.

Ahsoka stares at it silently for a minute, then bursts out giggling. “Yeah, it looks to be a grey cat,” she somehow manages to say. “Why do you ask?”

Fox sighs. “Commander Thire apparently has less sense than I thought he did,” he says, and he’s staring at the grey loth cat as well, a look of resigned exasperation etching away at his bland facade of indifference. The cat rubs its head on Fox’s bucket.

Ahsoka snorts, then pauses, frowning. She leans in, and-- “Isn’t this Senator Chuchi’s cat?

She examines the cat further. It blinks it’s yellow eyes at her. “This is definitely Senator Chuchi’s cat.”

Fox sighs again. “Yes,” he replies, his voice long-suffering. “If I’m remembering correctly, her name is Mayday.”

“Mayday?” Ahsoka questions, wrinkling her nose. Weird. “Why would the Senator name her cat after a distress signal?”

“Why indeed,” Fox says, and he looks pained, but nothing in his Force presence backs that up. All she can sense around him is a feeling of vague indifference. It’s mildly disconcerting.

“Why is Senator Chuchi’s cat on one of the Guard’s ships?” She asks, turning her attention back to more important things. The cat- Mayday is now stretching on the table. Ahsoka is pretty sure loth cats aren’t usually supposed to be on tables, but Fox doesn’t seem to care, so, whatever.

“Why indeed,” Fox repeats, and reaches a hand up to massage the bridge of his nose, scrunching his eyes closed. “Force. If I run into Thire anytime soon, it’s going to end in property damage.”

Right as he’s lowering his hand, the loth cat’s tail flicks up, and hits him straight in the face. Ahsoka clasps her hands over her mouth to muffle her laughter, but she’s not very successful in that endeavor. Fox’s eyes are still shut when he sighs, and it’s a sigh that reinforces the expression of long-suffering pain on his face. Then he reaches one hand up to scratch behind Mayday’s ears.

It takes away from the dramatics of the sigh, but Mayday seems to like it, so Ahsoka lets it slide. The cat’s tail flicks again, and this time it hits the underside of Fox’s neck, drawing her attention to the edge of a scar--

“Sithspit, what the kark happened to your throat?” She blurts out, her jaw dropping. There’s an ugly scar across it, deep and painful looking, like someone tried to literally slit his throat, and very nearly succeeded.

“Well, it’s a funny story,” Fox says, and his voice is as dry as the Geonosis desert. He looks up from Mayday to meet Ahsoka’s eyes. “Someone tried to slit my throat.”

Ahsoka stifles a snort. Oh man, the 501st better work a mission with the Guard soon. Anakin and Fox would get along like a spaceship on fire that ends up exploding. It would be friendship at first dramatic understatement.

Fox gives Mayday a few more pets, then steps backwards, away from the table, and gestures at Ahsoka. It takes her a few seconds to realize what he’s getting at, but when she does, she wastes no time taking the spot he abandoned.

She moves so that she’s a bit farther back than Fox had been-- he obviously had a history with Mayday that she lacked-- and crouches down so that she’s eye level with the cat. Once it meets her eyes, she forces herself to blink as slowly as possible, the closed eyes a silent gesture of trust and vulnerability.

Mayday blinks slowly back at her.

Kriff yes, kriff yes, kriff yes!

She holds out her hand, moving her head slightly to the side to make her gaze less intense, and it takes all her Jedi training not to cheer as Mayday comes to nuzzle her hand. Force, would the Resolute be a safe environment for a loth cat? Surely they could make it safe, right? A cat would undoubtedly help improve morale. Maybe she could convince Senator Chuchi to let her borrow Mayday when she pitches the idea to Skyguy and Rex, just to help sway their support to her cause.

“The nape of her neck,” Fox says, interrupting her planning. “Or the small dip behind her left ear. Stay away from her tail unless you’d like her to claw your face off, though.”

Nape of neck. She could do that. “Speaking from experience?”

Fox actually huffs a laugh at that. “Let’s just say that Vice Chair Amedda and the concept of respecting personal boundaries get along in the same way that Senator Amidala gets along with Viceroy Gunray.”

Ahsoka stops petting Mayday, and spins around to look him in the eyes. “You’re joking.”

“I have to give kudos to his medical team. Those scratches definitely should’ve scarred.”

“Force, seriously?” He nods, and Ahsoka grins, not even bothering to try and hide her teeth. “I knew there was a reason I didn’t like that guy. That’s hilarious.”

“The Chancellor thought so as well,” Fox says offhandedly, and crosses his arms, leans back against the counter. “I mean, he muffled his laughter quickly, but…”

“Sith hells,” she breathes out. “I think I might want to be on Senate rotation more often, if that’s what goes down there.”

Fox winces, takes a sharp breath in, and shakes his head. “Unfortunately, that sort of incident rarely happens. Usually, it’s just a lot of yelling.” He pauses, looks over her shoulder, and, “I think Mayday may have taken our lack of attention personally.”

Ahsoka spins around, and sure enough, the grey cat is jumping off the table, and heading for the door. “Awwwwwwwwwww, no,” she says, disappointed.

They watch Mayday leave the room in silence. Once the door hisses shut behind her, Ahsoka goes back around the table, and slumps into her chair. Fox pulls out his comm with a sigh, and heads for the caf machine, picking up his mug on the way.

Whoever he calls picks up almost instantaneously.

“Senator Chuchi’s loth cat is on board. We need to keep it from the airlock and the hyperdrive. I’m putting you and Candor on cat-sitting duty.” He says, and starts to pour the caf into his cup. There’s a pause, where he doesn’t say anything, then, “Rocket, that’s an order, not a request. If you have an issue with this beyond the fact that you don’t want to, you can file a complaint, and Internal Affairs will look into it. But I warn you, if you interrupt Swan’s leave with a complaint about how this isn’t what you were made for, he won’t be merciful when he rips you a new one.”

The pause is longer this time. “Yes, well, Lieutenant Swan will learn the concept of mercy around the same time that Tatootine freezes over,” Fox says, and he sets the caf pot back down. “I trust you know where to find any supplies needed?”

This pause is only for a moment, presumably how long it takes the trooper on the other end to say yes, sir! Fox replies with a, “Fox out,” then hangs up the comm, sighs, and takes a long gulp of caf. Ahsoka pauses, briefly considers the possible consequences for her next words, and decides that it’ll be worth it.

“You’re actually a big softie, aren’t you?”

“What.” Unfortunately, he doesn’t spit out the caf, but he does do a double take. “Yeah, no, I’m sorry, what.”

She does her best to put on an innocent looking expression. “Oh man, you totally are.”

“...Commander Tano, as you chose your next words, I’d advise that you keep in mind the fact that I can put you on cleaning duty if I feel like it.”

“Ugh,” Ahsoka grumbles, dropping the charade. “Wait. No? We’re both Commanders. I could just put you on cleaning duty right back.”

Silence that follows that statement. Fox’s face is unreadable. “Have you read the regs?”

Uh-oh. “Why are you asking?

“Have you?”

Kriff kriff kriff kriff-- “How about… I’d like to invoke the fourth right of sentience?”

“Force, Commander,” Fox’s tone sounds similar to the one Kix uses when he’s exasperated. Ahsoka winces reflectively, because an exasperated Kix is not a fun Kix. “First of all, when you’re invoking a right, don’t make it sound like a question. You’re not asking to invoke your right, you’re not saying that you’d like to invoke it, you are invoking it.”

“Are you seriously--”

“And secondly, just say that you’re invoking your right to remain silent. I applaud you for remembering exactly what right it is, but it’s usually best to be as direct as possible in these matters. First and fourth sound alike enough in Basic that you could run into some real trouble if an officer “mishears” you, and the right to be free from slavery is not helpful when you’ve allegedly committed murder in the first.”

“You don’t need to tell me this, I’m not a youngling.”

“You sure about that?” Ahsoka glares at him, and opens her mouth to retort, but Fox cuts her off again. Kriffing chizk. “Thirdly, yes, I am the highest ranking officer here. Jedi Commanders have authority over everyone up to and including Clone Captains. They’re subordinate to Clone Commanders and Jedi Generals”

“...Right,” she says, “I… totally knew that.”

“Really.”

“Yes!”

There’s no verbal response, but Fox rests his elbow on his bucket, and blinks at her.

“I did!” She protests. The look on his face tells her that he doesn’t buy a second of it.

...Okay, time to move on. “Anyway, the fact that you’re my superior officer doesn’t mean that you aren’t also a big softie.”

His eye roll is unnecessary, and completely overdramatic. “There are a fair amount of people that would disagree with that assessment of Commander Fox’s character.”

Oh thank Force, he’s willing to go along with it.

“Yeah, well, I guess it’s a good thing Commander Tano isn’t asking those people then, huh?” Ahsoka sends back. Then she pauses to take a sip of her caf. “Now, is there a reason Commander Fox hasn’t actually answered Commander Tano’s original question yet?”

A beat of silence.

“Osik, you got me there,” Fox says, and Ahsoka lets out a whoop of celebration at the small victory. “Don’t go spreading it around, I have a reputation to uphold.”

She mimes locking her mouth, and throwing the key out the window. Fox doesn’t look particularly reassured by that, but he doesn’t comment on it either, so, victory.

Wow, if only she’d bothered to shut up earlier, her brain suddenly hisses at her, imagine how great that would’ve been.

Ahsoka takes a long, long drink of her caf, stopping only when she finishes the mup. She stares down at the mug mournfully, willing more caf to suddenly appear.

More caf does not suddenly appear.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s 2am, and that the distraction the caf provided is gone. Maybe it’s the guilt that’s still curling up her throat when she stops to think about it, the regret that’s coating every word she says. Maybe it’s the fact that the kitchen feels warm and comforting, the fact that it reminds her of the Temple and being safe, being able to make mistakes without having people die for them.

Whatever it is, it has her speaking again before she considers what she’s going to say, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she even processes them.

“Master Anakin is out of contact right now,” Ahsoka says quickly, and stares determinedly down at her mug. Oh kriff, kriff, kriff, did she really just-- oh, Force, kriff. Okay. Just… it’s a bacta patch, Ahsoka. It’s best to rip it off as quickly as possible. “He’s on Mygeeto. Since it’s Seppie space, it’s a risk to send any messages. He didn’t send me here. He doesn’t even know there’s a threat on Senator Amidala’s life.”

Silence. She doesn’t dare look up. She knows she’ll lose her nerve if she does.

“The Temple is really empty these days, and the 501st is with Anakin, so it’s really boring as well, cause literally all of my friends are on campaigns right now. And I overheard Master Windu mention something about the Chancellor, and security protocols, to Master Plo when they were in the refractory, and like, the Chancellor is Anakin’s friend, so I kinda just started... listening. I don’t know, I was curious. But they mentioned the threat on Senator Amidala, and Padme’s my friend, right? So I did some snooping, and I realized that there weren’t going to be any Jedi sent, and… it would kill Skyguy if anything happened to her, you know?”

Wow, that came out badly. Way to shift the blame again, Ahsoka. Great job, truly.

Commander Fox probably didn’t know about… them anyway. Kriff. Double kriff.

Excuses, you’re making, her mind whispers at her. Apologize, or don’t. Do, or do not. There is no try.

“It wasn’t Anakin that thought additional security might be needed,” She says, hurried, the words tumbling out of her mouth. “It was me. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed that Jedi presence would be needed to keep Senator Amidala safe, and I definitely shouldn’t have just used that assumption to try and justify my actions.”

The next few seconds seem to stretch on forever. The dull void in the Force around Fox feels more oppressive than ever, the absence of anything leaving Ahsoka stranded in the middle of an ocean, with no life raft to cling to, and nothing that gives her even the littlest bit of direction. Commander Fox doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make any sudden movements that her montrels detect, and she finally forces herself to peak up from her mug.

He looks floored. Half stupefied, half incredulous.”I- you- what?”

She opens her mouth to respond, but he raises his hand in the halt symbol, rubs at one of his temples with the other. “Sorry. I’m just- so, you got yourself put on this mission… because you were bored.” He says. She nods. He shakes his head. “Because you were bored, and thought you knew better than the Jedi Council and all of the Generals. Force. That’s… something.”

“Yeah, my justifications definitely made a lot more sense in my head,” Ahsoka admits weakly, forcing herself to loosen her grip on the mug. “I shouldn’t of--”

“It’s… fine, kid. Trust me,” he says, and there’s the edge of something twisting in the Force, some kind of internal conflict she’s catching flashes of. It’s the most activity she’s ever seen with his Force presence. “I hear worse on a daily basis. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

Ahsoka frowns. “But that doesn’t make it okay.”

The look he gives her is undecipherable, but she can tell that it’s weighted. Weighted in a way she’ll probably never understand, in a way she doesn’t think she wants to understand.

“No,” Fox finally says. “It doesn’t make it okay.” The words come out hushed, as if it's a forbidden confession, some kind of radical heresy, blasphemous in it’s very nature.

Something loosens in his Force presence with that, an alteration so small that Ahsoka’s surprised that she even notices the change. It looks like a ray of light cutting through the lacuna that surrounds him. It sounds like a breath of fresh air, and it creates a sudden connection, a burst of clarity where there had been none before. It feels like leaving the core worlds, how it seems as if a switch is flipped when one gets far enough from Coruscant, and the Force suddenly becomes so much clearer.

Ahsoka looks down, looks away, pulls her attention away from the metaphysical world of the Force. This isn’t something she’s supposed to see, and given the fact that Fox isn’t Force-sensitive, it’s not like he’s going to raise his own shields and block her off. She busies herself with trying to get any remaining bits of caf out of her mug instead, anchors her mind firmly in the physical world.

Fox doesn’t say anything else for a few long minutes, just stands, staring off into space, that look still on his face. When he speaks again, his voice is back to normal.

“Thank you for your honesty, Commander Tano,” Fox says, ducks his head to stare down at his drink for a few seconds. Ahsoka places her mug back on the table while he ruminates. When he meets her eyes again, the undecipherable look is gone. “And thank you for your apology. It means more than you know.”

Ahsoka nods. She’s not sure if she should say something, or if this is one of the times silence is better. He seems more comfortable in the quiet than she ever will be, so she bites down on her tongue--

“Right,” he says, and abruptly stands up, jarring her from her thoughts. “I’m going to make some more caf. Do you want a refill?”

Kriff yes she wants a refill. “Yes, please.”

#commander fox #ahsoka tano #tcw #the clone wars #my writing #prompts

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5lazarus · 3 years

Text

Dragon Eyes: an Avatar-The Last Airbender Fanfic

Dragon Eyes

On a diplomatic mission to the Fire Nation, Katara leaves the children with Aang to have tea with Zuko and Mai. But the two of them have something they want to talk about. They've lived enough of fathers neglecting one child for the other, and they have seen enough.

Katara wishes they had propositioned her, rather than bring this up. Read on Archive of Our Own here.

Years of travel in the Earth Kingdom and Fire Nation have not made handling the heat any easier. Katara rejoices in shedding her layers, showing off some skin. Aang is entertaining all the kids—all of them, not just Tenzin, and Zuko’s daughter, too. She is relieved to have them out of her hair, to have the time to sit down and comb through her hair. She twists her hair into her old Fire Nation fashion and grins at herself in the mirror. She loves her hair loopies, but it’s nice to shake things up a bit.

Aang is taking the kids through the palace and tormenting the tour guide Zuko sent them with Ty Lee. Katara is taking advantage of the break. Zuko told her he’ll be in the garden with Mai, doing a tea meditation. Apparently they do that every morning, to keep a finger on each other’s pulse. At first Katara was nonplussed, wondering if that was a euphemism, and was slightly alarmed when he invited her to join them. Aang has talked about how the Air Nomads practiced polyamory. The Water Tribe does not. Katara does not.

It is terribly, terribly hot, humidity a caress on the skin, and she bends it cooler around her limbs, swiping the sweat away. Barefoot she walks down the tile path into the courtyard. Mai and Zuko are sitting by the turtleducks, drinking tea. Mai sees her first and raises a small cup in welcome.

Zuko says, “I told you she’d come.”

Mai rolls her eyes. “Hot tea on a hot day? Only offer this to Katara, not any other officials from the Water Tribe.”

“Fair,” Zuko says. He smiles at her. “Aang’s got the kids?”

Katara settles down at the tea table, one of those elegantly-carved pieces of wood that look deceptively simple and thus cost a fortune. Zuko uses wooden prongs to place a small porcelain cup before her and Mai. She touches it, eggshell thin. It’s warm.

“The tea tastes better that way,” Zuko says. Mai looks at him fondly. “Easier now that I don’t have to hide the fire bending.”

Katara smiles. “I really am surprised we didn’t run into each other earlier. Your uncle’s tea shop was so popular!”

Zuko hides his face behind his hair, and Mai puts her hand on his arm. Iroh’s death is still raw on him. She takes the tongs from him and begins pulling thin, silvery green leaves from a jar. She places them in a scoop made from bamboo.

“Bai hao yin zhen,” Mai says. “Early spring.” An eagerness underlays her usual drawl. Katara raises an eyebrow. She really likes the tea. Mai says, “Here. Smell.”

Katara leans forward. “The things I do for diplomacy!” She grins, and takes a cautious sniff. Her eyes widen, and she inhales deeper, drunk on the scent. “That’s like the sun!”

Mai smiles, and Zuko shakes himself out of his reverie to say, “Uncle always said the tasting notes were honey and sun fruits, after the rain. This is the new buds of a tea tree. There are other white teas, just as exquisite, that include the leaves, but I’ve always loved this one. It’s a treat.”

Katara says, “Well, thank you for sharing with me. If it tastes anything like it smells….”

“Uncle always served you red tea, right?” Zuko takes an open pot and closes a hand gently around its handle. The water begins to bubble. “He thought you’d like a deeper flavor. It’s good for the cold. But white tea cools me down.”

Katara leans back on her haunches, raising her face to the sun. She listens to the burble of the koi pond behind her, where Zuko has placed a shrine to Yue. Reparations, she thinks. Not enough: Sokka and Suki broke up, of course, and he has never quite been able to settle down since. She’s there, silent in the bright sky, and while it is not enough, at least the world is whole.

The courtyard is gritty under her hands, and she wipes at them, wincing at the soreness in the joints. She’s been stressed. These family trips are always stressful. Aang, for all his meditation, never seems to be able to focus on packing and he makes Bumi’s inattention worse, and then Kya gets upset that Bumi is bothering her and kicks up a fuss, and then Tenzin of course cries, and Appa covers him in slobber trying to comfort him, which makes him cry worse, and then he needs a bath, and then Bumi and Kya get upset, because the baby is the baby and the Airbender and everything, as Kya once screamed. She sighs. It is good to have some time in the sun, while Aang takes care of the kids, and have some intelligent conversation besides when she was having her next baby. She wasn’t. Three and a husband were enough.

Mai says, apropos of nothing, “Dragon eyes.” She slides the tea from the scoop into a gaiwan, shaking the leaves to spread them on the bottom.

Katara opens her eyes. “What?”

Mai says, “It means the water’s boiling. When the bubbles are that large, like dragon eyes. It means it’s the temperature that’s good for this kind of white tea. Though some brew it cooler—with crab eyes, rather than dragon eyes.”

Zuko takes his hand from the pot and skillfully pours the boiling water into the waiting gaiwan. He places its lid on the top, and pours it swiftly into another exquisite porcelain pitcher, almost translucently blue. Like blood, Katara thinks, and then banishes the thought. Hama wouldn’t like her here. The honeysuckle smell fills the garden. Zuko pours the tea, almost silver-green, into her cup.

He says, “Don’t drink. Just smell.”

Katara looks at him doubtfully. It seems like such a waste of such wonderful-smelling tea. The Fire Nation court has always struck her as excessive, though she is leery of people who prattle on about decadence.

Mai says, “You can drink it. But it’s the rinse, you rinse leaves like this the way you do rice.”

Katara says, “You ever cooked rice?” Zuko laughs, and Mai rolls her eyes.

“Very funny,” she drawls. “When we searched for Ursa. Eventually I got it right.” Zuko grins in a way that makes Katara think that perhaps she never did.

He points to the figure, painted in blue, sitting serenely at the center of the tea table. “Or you can offer it to her.” Katara picks up the porcelain figurine. It’s of a woman, a mother, holding a child close. She catches Mai’s eye. Zuko still hurts for his mother, for his father, for his cousin and his sister and his uncle. It manifests in such obvious ways, how he grieves his family. She doesn’t even need to hear it, but Zuko says it anyway. “It was my mother’s. Noriko, I mean.”

“Have you spoken to her recently?” Katara says carefully. She places the figurine back onto the table and unceremoniously dumps her cup over it, hoping it scalds through the paint. Families are complicated, Zuko’s insanely so. Mai gives her an amused look and does the same.

Zuko shrugs. “I just wish she’d talk to Azula. She hasn’t visited her once. And I know it’s hard, and you never really know when the lucid period will end, but—“

Mai says, “Loving Azula isn’t easy. It might get better when Ozai dies.”

Then they are silent as Zuko picks up the pot again and flash-brews the tea. It is hard to be sour with such a sweet smell filling the air. They don’t need to say it. It would have been better if Aang had killed Ozai. It is easier to come to peace with the dead father than the living disposed king and his mad daughter.

Zuko pours the honey-sweet tea into her little cup. She sips it, lost in its clear light taste. This is what the dew hidden in a flower tastes like, she thinks. She tries to slow down sipping at this minuscule cup, but too fast, the tea is gone. Zuko is smiling.

“Another cup?” he says, and she nods eagerly. “This was one of my uncle’s favorites. One of the many things he loved from the Earth Kingdom.”

They drink, reveling in the sheer loveliness of it. It’s like drinking light, Katara thinks. Earth and fire and water, in one cup. The warm porcelain soothes her aching hands. A muscle relaxes in her neck, and she lets her shoulders down. She rolls them, happy in their mobility.

Mai looks at her with an acupuncturist’s eye. “Pinched nerve?” she asks. “I can look at that. If you’re comfortable.”

Katara stops, cup halfway to her mouth. She’s going back to her original thought that they were hitting on her, which is flattering, but no. Absolutely not. She’s got enough going on, even if Aang wouldn’t mind, or even be into it. No.

Zuko leans forward. “There’s something we’ve been wanting to ask her.”

Katara’s heart stops. She puts the cup down, a little too hard. “I—uh—“

“Have things been alright with Aang?”

Mai’s mouth twitches. “I think she thought we were going to ask her something else.”

“Everything’s fine!” Katara blurts. Mai can be such a troll sometimes. “I mean. Traveling with the kids is always…a lot, but—why?” She’s irritated now. She has not been pleased with Aang, but three small children take a toll on communication in a marriage. She’s embarrassed that it has been that obvious. She fiddles with the figurine on the table.

Zuko and Mai exchange a look. They look like they’re waiting for the other to speak. Finally, Mai heaves a sigh.

“Bumi wrote Izumi something in a letter,” Mai says. She folds her hands in her lap. “You know how they’re friends. And it made her very upset.”

“Well,” Katara says. “If he was nasty to her, I’ll speak to him, but I don’t see what this has to do with my marriage. Bumi is—“ She stops. Bumi is always in the middle of things, fussing around, crashing into walls just like his namesake. She loses patience with him too often, she knows that, but Kya’s easy to distract with a waterbending lesson, and Tenzin just sits with his scrolls when Aang isn’t putting him through his paces. He’s so much like his father, an absolute whirlwind of energy. She’s privately thought it’s a shame he didn’t inherit his father’s bending, rather than Tenzin, but that is something she can not let herself think for long.

“He says he doesn’t think his father loves him, because he’s not a bender,” Zuko says. “Which I know is not right. But I have been in that position before. And he told her that Aang is never around, that he just travels from temple to temple with Tenzin, and he and Kya are just left at home. And that he’s worried about you too. It was a very…” He trails off, and looks at Mai.

Mai finishes, “The ink was smudge. He’d been crying. So we wanted to talk to you, because it scared Izumi. Because we both know what it is like to be ignored by our fathers.” She smiles thinly. “And the toll it took on our mothers.”

Zuko says, “I’m sorry if we overstepped, it was just—hard to read.”

Katara says, “Why didn’t he tell me? It’s—he does his best to present for the kids, but Aang has his Avatar duties, and as the last airbender, there’s so much he needs to teach Tenzin, so it’s just easier for him to bring only him along. Have you tried to move three children around the world on bison-back?”

Zuko looks wry for a second. “Well,” he says. “It depends if you count Sokka as a child.”

Mai puts her hand on his arm: not the time.

Katara says, “I wish it was better, but I knew I wasn’t walking into something that was easy. From the start. He could be a better father, but what can I do? What can I do?” She’s furious now, tears rising to her eyes, and she looses a ragged breath, surprised at her own fervor. Wordlessly Zuko pours her another cup. She downs it, barely tasting it.

Mai says, “If he’s not being a good father to your children and a good husband to you, you can leave. We’re not our mothers, Katara.” Zuko looks at her warningly. “Sorry. I don’t know how it was in the Southern Water Tribe, but for my mother, she thought she had no choice. But there is always a choice. Even if it isn’t easy. I don’t—“

Zuko says firmly, “You deserve better. Bumi and Kya deserve better. And Tenzin too. That sort of resentment between siblings is poison. I should know.”

Katara would have preferred that they proposition her. She closes her eyes. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispers. Louder, she continues, “I know Bumi deserves better. From both of us. I know it hurts them. I can see it in the way they treat Tenzin. Kya already barely speaks to Aang. But. Tenzin is my son, too. And of course he and Aang would be closer. It’s just—if I take my children and go, I’m taking Aang’s family away. And I know the Air Nomads were different, he wasn’t raised to stay in one place, if you were a bender and a boy you’d be sent to the temple and that was it, but—“

“Bumi is Southern Water Tribe,” Mai says. “And even if his father is an Air Nomad, only his brother counts as one. Because of bending. And that isn’t fair for him. For Kya either, because they are both. And you know you need to do something about it.” Katara looks up, surprised at the emotion in her voice. Mai stares at her steadily. “Katara, you saved the world. You’re the hero of the Fire Nation, the Painted Lady, the chief of the Southern Water Tribe. You deserve a husband who is a coparent to all your children, not just one.”

Katara says, “You don’t—“ and then there is a crash and a scream and the sound of raucous laughter as Aang comes running in on an air ball, Tenzin nipping at his heels.

“C’mon,” he yells behind him, “faster, you snail sloths!” He and Tenzin pause, perched on the air they so effortlessly bend. Tenzin looks a little harried. Bumi comes running in, panting, then Kya, and Izumi at a more sedate pace.

“That’s…cheating,” Kya says. She grips at the wall. “That wasn’t fair!” She is genuinely angry, almost at the brink of tears, and Izumi bumps her reassuringly. Bumi throws himself on the ground.

Tenzin says pedantically, “You didn’t say no bending.”

Izumi snaps, “Maybe it didn’t need to be said!”

Aang jumps onto his feet, and Tenzin follows. Kya is crouching over Bumi now, muttering to him. Mai’s face is a stone. Zuko is blushing.

“What’s up?” Aang says, grinning. “Did I miss anything fun?”

Katara pours herself a cup rather than answering. She considered the heat and sweetness in the air. With a flick of her risk, she bends it over the mother figurine, washing her clean.

“Oh, you know,” she says. “Diplomacy. We’ll talk about it when we get home.”

#avatar: the last airbender #atla #atla fanfiction #atla fanfic #fanfic #anti kataang #katara #mai/zuko #katara & mai friendship #katara & zuko friendship #friendship #bad dads #divorce #post canon #family drama #family issues

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shestrying2write · 4 years

Text

She’s Real

Pairing: Ivar x reader

Warnings: One curse word? Sigurd being a jerk

Word Count: 1,514

Author’s notes: This is for the writing challenge of the lovely @youbloodymadgenius . Please go read their work, if you haven’t already. I may have cheated a little bit with the prompt, but when I saw it, this idea instantly came into my head. I hope ya’ll enjoy it!

Prompt: “I’m done. We’re done.”

Summary: Family dinners never go as expected

Masterlist

“Come on Ivar. It’ll be great.” Y/N’s arms were around Ivar’s neck, playing with his hair as she knelt over him, keeping a knee on either side of his laps while he sat on his bed. His brothers had invited her over for a “family” dinner, but really they just wanted to see if Ivar’s lover was real or if he had made her up.

Ivar had met Y/N on a raid. Her father had insisted she come along from her village in order to understand the full cycle of being a Viking; from diplomacy to the gore of it. Her father was an earl and soon enough she would be ruling by her future husband's side and her father wanted her to be prepared. She had stayed in camp to help patch up the wounded and hopefully make alliances for her father. Her father's wishes were that she would find a fierce and worthy Viking to marry, never did he imagine that it would be a Ragnorsson, nor was he happy about it, but he loved her and so he sent his only daughter overseas to reunite with her lover. He however had not sent her directly to Kattegat to meet with Ivar, but to his trusted friend Floki, along with four of his most trusted guards. Floki had gladly welcomed them into his home, and in exchange she had brought him several materials native to her area for Floki to build with.

“You just don’t understand.” With a sigh Ivar leaned his forehead on hers, eyes closed.

“Well seeing me will shut them up won’t it?” He had told her of Sigurd’s mockery, and of all three of his brothers skepticism that someone who loved Ivar existed. He had told her all about Margrethe and what happened with her. She also knew, from plenty of experience, that he could in fact please a woman.

“Can we just not go? Can we just stay here, curled up in bed? My lips..” he placed a kiss on her lips, “exploring” then her jaw “every part”, then the crook of her neck “of you?”

She let out a small hum as her eyes fluttered closed and her head tilted to give him easier access to more of her skin “As tempting as that is” she took a deep breath and stood up, much to his annoyance. His long groan of anger made her laugh “I want to meet your brothers. I want to prove to them I’m real. I want to show you off and tell the world you’re mine”

With a roll of his eyes and head he grunted “You’re going to be the death of me woman”

“And what a great death it’ll be” she teased, leaving a small peck on his lips before walking out and into the great hall where she saw three men laughing and drinking. When she stepped in all their eyes turned to her with curiosity. She looked around at the great hall, it was her first time there and she was mesmerized. “You must be the princes of Kattegat!” She said excitedly as her eyes finally fell on them. They nodded and continued staring at her. It was her turn to tease them a bit like they teased Ivar. She pointed at Hvitserk “you must be Hvistra” then Ubbe “Uno?” and finally she pointed at Sigurd “and you...I always forget the third’s name. Not significant enough I suppose” and she shrugged. They looked at her bewildered. Did she really not know who they were? She was wearing fine silks and expensive jewelry, she must be someone of high lineage, but how could she be if she didn’t know who they were by name and reputation. They hadn’t noticed Ivar crawl in until they heard his voice

“Y/N… Behave” with amusement in his tone he crawled past her into his seat. That’s when they saw her break into a small laugh, amused by their reactions, a glint of mischief in her eyes.

She took her seat beside him pecking his cheek. “What? I was just teasing” she emphasized the last word as she made direct eye contact with Sigurd.

“Brothers. This is my lovely Y/N Gunnarsdottir” he brought her hand up to his lips. To say they were all taken back was an understatement. She was real, she was here, she was with Ivar. Tales of Gunnar The Blood Thirsty were what any Viking could hope for. He had helped Ragnar in their youth until Gunnar settled down in his homeland to take care of his people.

With bashful eyes she looked at all of them “Prince Ubbe, prince Hvitserk, prince...Sigurd” she let out a half grin after bowing her head to all of them.

“So you do know who we are?” Hvitserk laughed as he continued drinking.

“So I’m not too Insignificant for you to know” he chuckled as he emphasized the word you had used to wound him.

“Of course not my Princes” she reached for a cup of mead and drunk as Ivar began to speak of her arrival.

Before he could finish, Sigurd interrupted him. “So why is it that none of us saw you sail in?” He stared at her, with suspicion in his voice.

“As Ivar was saying…” she squeezed his hand under the table “My father sailed me directly to Floki for me to settle in. I arrived not too long ago” she put food in her mouth as Ivar dropped her hand to clutch on to his arm rest in anger.

“Or he dressed and paid you to pretend to be Y/N. After all. None of us know what exactly she looks like” Sigurd mocked nonchalantly with a shrug of his shoulders as he continued eating. Not even looking in their direction. “That would make more sense than the daughter of a fierce viking, that our father admired, falling in love with a cripple.”

Y/N looked around to the other two, both heads down not saying anything. Well no wonder Ivar was angry all the time, his brothers did nothing to defend him. And Sigurd, well Sigurd was just plain cruel. She felt Ivar stiffen and lean in to her “I told you this was a bad idea” she could hear the hurt in his voice. She couldn’t take it, that someone would hurt her Ivar. She was however the daughter of a great viking, one that had taught her to never bite her tongue in the face of the enemy.

Pushing her plate forward, and leaning her elbows on the table, she looked at Sigurd with her head tilted “That would just be plain stupid Siggy, to pay someone to pretend to love you,” she briefly looked at Ivar and smiled, the smile that Ivar knew was trouble. Before he could protest or tell her to just ignore Sigurd, all her attention was back on Sigurd as she continued “When you could just bed a slave with no free will.” She shrugged and then went back to picking the food on her plate “That’s much smarter for a man with not enough charm to get free women, but I guess you would know that huh Prince Sigurd?” She heard Ubbe choke on his drink and Hvitserk try to hide his laughter. Beside her, Ivar was staring at her with admiration and love. No one, aside from his mother, hel not even his mother, had ever stood up for him like that. She could also see Sigurds face turn red with not only embarrassment, but anger.

“WELL AT LEAST I CAN PLEASE A WOMAN!” Sigurd yelled out, desperate to have the last word, to be the one to embarrass Ivar. “Ivar’s legs aren’t the only thing that don’t work you know”

That was it, the final straw. She grabbed her empty cup and flung it as hard as she could, hitting Sigurd right on the forehead, leaving a red mark. Her vision went red, blinded by anger, she felt Ivar grab her arm as she tried to jump over the table to further attack Sigurd. “You know what? I’m done.” She smoothed her dress and squeezed Ivar’s hand “We’re done.” She heard the older two laugh as Sigurd stared at her in shock. “You got lucky this time because Ivar made me leave my guards and my knives at Floki’s. But I wouldn’t push my luck if I were you” She threatened, before taking a deep breath and turning to Ivar with a smile “Now. If you’ll excuse us. I have truly missed Ivar. We will be going now, to fuck until I can’t walk anymore.” She turned to walk out but not before winking at a bashful Ivar who nervously chuckled and waved at his brothers as he followed behind her.

As they walked out Ubbe chuckled “Looks like Ivar managed to find the only person in the world with a temper worse than his own”

“And with the aim to match” A breathless Hvitserk laughed poking at Sigurd’s red spot.

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highsviolets · 4 years

Text

breathless: lifeguard!obi-wan x reader

summary: a self-described “90s!au Summer lifeguard job with obi and he saves you from drowning”

word count: no clue. once again this was written on my notes app so pls excuse typos!

rating: pg-13 for language, themes, kissing

A/N: fulfilling a prompt request for @afogocado, who sent me the following photo and summary last night for inspo. gosh this was absurdly fun. enjoy, loves -xx.

breathless, a fic by corellians-only

“Sorry about your cigarette,” you mumble, crossing your arms to ward off the chill. your eyes focus on a triad of water droplets suspended on his left bicep even as he takes another step closer, vaporizing the gap between you.

“ ‘s not a problem,” he returns with a half-grin. It makes you weak. It shouldn’t. But it does. A new feeling is rapidly bubbling up to replace the onslaught of adrenaline. Effervescent heat starts fermenting in your core — he runs a hand through shaggy hair, now limp and loose around his face — he reaches around you — his palm skates over your bare arm — he’s looking at you perplexed, repeating his question more insistently now.

“would you like one? A cigarette?”

your brain — your eyes, really — toggles between his azure eyes and the pack of Marlboro’s now secure, comfortable, in his palm. His fingers, still damp judging by the condition of the cardboard, are extended towards you, a link, a bridge — an offering? — in that charged space between you and him. His eyes drag themselves from the cigarette curled in his fingers ((what would it feel like to have his fingers curled around your wrist, around your—)) to your face in time to catch your nod.

He watches you. Watches you pluck the white stick from his fingers. Watches you place it to your lips. Watches you lean forward, this time foisting yourself into his space, that forbidden no-man’s-land. Watches you watch him — he’s fumbling with the lighter, more awkward now that he’s not in the water — he’s got it now, the flame appearing with a muted click, and he’s raising the fire to your lips ((you haphazardly wish he would set you on fire in a different way)) — you inhale and close your eyes as the heady scent fills you.

Reluctantly you take a step back, exhaling the smoke and turning your head as you do so to avoid his face. The wind changes, though — what’s that they say about the best-laid plans? — and it’s thrown back into him and he splutters and coughs, pausing his own efforts. your jaw drops. Aw, hell.

“This just doesn’t seem to be my day, does it?” The remark, and your self-deprecating smile, brings a hitherto unseen light to his eyes. Something more than interest, more than mischievousness. maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s neither. his rejoinder is too quick for you to angst over it for more than a moment.

“why would you say that?” the cigarette twirls in his hand, like that kid who sits behind you in geometry does with his pencil when he’s bored. There’s no accusation dancing at the edge of his tone.

you shrug. Squint as the sun starts to make an appearance again. “Well, I nearly drowned, for starters” you drawl. His eyes, those ungodly aquamarine orbs, are boring into you, so you take another drag of your cigarette. Christ. It’s been a while.

“Near-drowning is a pretty low threshold for a shitty day.” The upwards lilt of his voice tells you he’s just messing around, so you roll your eyes. A thought seizes you.

“Well, I do you have you to thank for the ‘nearly’ part, don’t I?” you muse, matching his airy, unaffected tone. It’s your turn to examine him, now, and you rake your eyes over his form, patches of corded muscle still wet, glistening in the sun.

from the corner of eye you see him bite his lip. another impulse screams at you and you listen. You reach out and tug the lighter from his grasp — his hand clutches at the now-phantom object, reaching at nothingness — you take his other hand, the one with the Marlboro, and raise it to his lips — you murmur a few words that cause his eyebrows to shoot up in gentle surprise.

“Will you permit me?”

he nods ((once, twice, rapidly, easily)) and maybe you’re a fool but it seems like his breath hitches and his eyes flicker down to your lips when you light his cigarette.

He nods again, this time in thanks. He tosses the pack onto the table, and the lighter joins it quickly thereafter. it’s the least you could do, you say, as though you did this sort thing — share cigarettes with attractive half clothed life guards — all the time. Maybe you did, in another life. He wouldn’t know.

“I’m Ben.”

“Hi.”

there’s a silence. a few heart beats? half-dozen light years? You’ll never know. He runs his hand through his long hair again ((not quite to his collarbone, but shit, it’s better looking than yours)) and you says something that gives rise to a smirk playing across his diamond-cut features.

“I already know who you are.” Another long drag. A sidelong glance. Strains of The Cranberries waft over from over the iron fence. He shrugs. Another drag, maybe two. “I like the Indigo Girls better.” Another pause. “But Rites of Passage was better than Swamp Ophelia.”

“1200 Curfews is the best of both.” your eyes narrow. “Don’t avoid the topic, Ben. How’d you know who I was?”

A toss and vigorous stamp of your foot and your cigarette joins his, dead in the dirt.

He laughs and the heat in your stomach is back ((did it ever go away)) and it’s creeping through your rib cage straight to your heart and it’s climbing through you and creeping to your fingertips and trickling down to everywhere, everywhere and you grasp onto the table behind you with urgency and it’s all you can do stand upright, damnit and the rickety table sways under the sudden stress.

Hands — strong, sweet ((can hands be sweet)) immediately reach out to steady you, clutching your forearms, holding you in place — pinning you down, ((god you wish)) — thumbs caress your muscled shoulders in small circles — his head is bent, obscuring his vision — trying to get a better look at you — you nod, yes you’re okay, if you really knew me you’d know I was a klutz — he nods — smirks — he already knew that, knew you.

“You’ve been at the pool nearly every day this summer.”

once more he reaches around you and this time, Ben emerges with a towel. He wraps it around you gently, authoritatively, no doubt having noticed the goosebumps on your sensitive flesh. a hand tugs at the edges of the cotton cloth near your neck, dragging it back from slipping off completely. It lingers. He meets your eyes for the first time in what feels like years. You can breathe again now.

“Even if your head’s been buried in books, your friends, they’re still talking about you. Trying to get your attention.” He cants his head. “So how’s The End of History? Worth the hype?” Hands are near, around you, always. Chlorine and salt and sweat and cigarettes envelop you both, heavy, but not cloying.

“You know Fukuyama?” he simply looks at you and nods. “Well, he makes an interesting argument, but I don’t think he adequately rejects Huntington’s thesis.”

Ben smiles, a brilliant, radiant act that could act as your life force for days, you’re sure of it, you would do anything to make sure he smiled like this the rest of his life, he’s so beautiful. “Wise words from a wise woman.”

A man — boy? — yells over the fence — hey, kenobi! — that politics and diplomacy never won over any girls, tell her about the time in the Sheddu Maad neighborhood — he ducks his head — tells Anakin to shove off, mate, leave it alone.

You laugh at his embarrassment, only detectable because you’ve been analyzing him, only because he seems to make sense to you the way no one else does, only because he saved your life, how the hell would you know?

A hand scratches the back of his neck. “You wanna get out of here?” Ben ignores the jibing of his friend and speaks quietly, assuredly, like he knows you’ll say yes.

The fire surges in you again and you wonder what it would be like for that voice to tell you to hold still and you haven’t even finished giving form and sound to your assent when he’s wresting the towel off of your shoulders and pulling the baggy white lifeguarding t shirt over your head and his muscles are bunching with the effort ((and for your benefit, you suspect)).

The towel gets draped gracefully over a lightly tanned arm, the cigarettes and lighter and keys tossed into the pocket of his now-dry swim trunks, your book is secured in the crook of an elbow.

Ben grabs your hand and starts leading you to his car with an errant grin ((shit, he’s strong)). It’s a make and model you don’t recognize. He makes quick work of the necessities, tossing notebooks and periodicals and a set of brass knuckles into the backseat. the towel and your book join the island of misfits, but he’s more careful about those things. he’s like you. He doesn’t do this often. More interested in words and cigarettes than Alicia Silverstone’s clothes in Clueless.

He doesn’t let go of your hand. The nail of his thumb is tracing patterns in your palm and it’s achingly tender and the faintest bit teasing and just enough to grip his hand a little harder than necessary and you ponder how you can exact revenge for his antics.

Rummaging complete, he turns to face you. He’s serious. You can see it in his eyes — they’ve changed — they’re a more delicate shade of blue now, more like glinting sapphire than cerulean — Ben turns so you’re in between him and the car. His hair, too, has changed color, more copper-toned with flecks of gold. You like it better like that, and you tell him so.

“one thing left.”

“What’s that?” you hope you don’t sound breathless. Or maybe you do, and you decide you don’t care. He’s probably going to kiss you anyway. What’s the sense in not telling him you want him to, with all the ladylike weapons you have in your arsenal? He’s nervous now. His thumb has stilled. Ben’s eyes are the color of the sea before a storm, a rippling kaleidoscope of blues and half-greens.

still, he smiles, and it reaches those tempestuous eyes, crinkling and compressing their thunder and lighting around the edges.

a kiss imprinted on your knuckles — his mouth against you — a tongue grazes over your skin, tasting for the first time — you stare unabashedly — the heat has reached your cheeks now, and you don’t even care — his thumb replaces his mouth now, drifting over you the peaks and valleys of your hand.

“May you permit me?” He murmurs gingerly, echoing your previous words with obstinate formality.

and you, too, mimic him, simply nodding. Your hands drop as he leans forward and —

Oh.

the pressure of his lips on yours is feather-light. It’s seeking. Reassuring. Gentle. Exploratory.

But you do not want gentle. You are too far gone for that.

Your tongue insistently licks the seam of his lips and his gasp of surprise gains you entrance to his mouth — he retaliates with a gentle nip on your lower lip — hands move — now on his stubbly cheeks, now threading through his hair — tugging, grasping for purchase for your own stability as much as for pleasure.

he moans again when your fingers rake his scalp and his hands go to your hips, skimming under his oversized t-shirt and gripping your waist, holding you in place even as your legs seem to fall open of their own accord, at this juncture when instinct and pleasure formulate a compound, a melange, a hydrogen bond with irrationally high ionization energy.

Ben’s tongue delves into your mouth ((dominance)) and his chest brushes against yours and he tips his head to get a better angle while his left hand abandons its station on your hip and traverses bare skin, hiking upwards. a mewl erupts from the back of your throat.

he’s migrated to kissing — biting, really — your neck — your head has fallen back against the warm metal of the car — eyes fluttered shut — hands in his hair, scraping at his bare back — fuck, he’s good — it’s not enough —

a car horn startles the both of you. he lifts his head, blinking as though he’s been rudely jolted awake from an REM state. Ben eventually straightens and you follow suit, gathering yourself off the car and twiddling with the edges of your braid.

It’s you who laughs first ((laughing with swollen lips)) and you’re so glad you do. Ben smiles again, that jaw-dropping display of warmth and aliveness it makes your heart skip a ((non-proverbial)) beat. that’s happened so many times in the last few minutes you can’t believe you have yet to pass out.

He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “ready to get out of here?” a kiss to your cheek. “for real this time?” another to your nose. His eyelashes brush up against your skin — left breathless at the simple intimacy.

you beam up at him. “yes, Ben. I’m ready.”

Fin.

#obi-wan x you #obi wan x you #obi wan imagine #obi-wan x reader #obi wan x reader #cristina writes #afogocado #prompt request #cg's og's #never did i ever think i would write this #BUT HERE WE ARE #usernobie

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drawlfoy · 4 years

Text

Faux Diplomacy P.3

masterlist (find parts 1 and 2 here!) request guidelines requests are open! but make sure to read my guidelines first :)

pairing: draco x reader

request: yes part 3 has been highly requested :)

summary: reader is a muggleborn ilvermorny exchange student taking a year in hogwarts. takes place in 6th year. but there’s a reason why all the students with her were placed into slytherin, and that very reason may completely backfire on them.

warnings: angsty, stressful, language, mentions of a dead mother

a/n: ahahahahaa so. over a year late in typical drawlfoy fashion. so sorry! idk if i’m going to continue this, but let me know if you’d really like me to! i’ve been sitting on this story for a long, long time and if this is requested to continue i’d like to actually outline it so i can figure out where it’s going. i kinda hated the first part of this so....we’ll see if this keeps coming out

music recs:

girls idk

word count: 2.2k

tags!! @accio-rogers @geeksareunique @gruffle1 @missmulti @cleopatera @hahaboop @accio-rogers @geeksareunique @eltanin-malfoy @war-sword @cams-lynn @itsivyberry @ayo-cowbelly @nerd-domland @yesnerdsblog @shizarianathania @icintliviinyiniilsiji

“Malfoy?”

Y/N was stunned still, watching as the boy scowled in her direction.

“It’d be in your best interest to leave now, you know.”

She swallowed, stepping forward a few more steps. “You look like you could use some company, though.”

His lips tightened, but he discreetly waved his hand in the direction of his face, dispelling all of the tears and blotchiness but leaving the nasty expression on his face. “Leave.” Malfoy’s voice was stronger now, void of the shakiness that had been present before.

Now, Y/N was never the most confrontational person. She’d even go as far to say that she did everything she could to avoid confrontation, but there was just something about the way Malfoy looked at her, something that twisted her insides and made her feel like she would be failing him if she left. So, she did the last thing she would’ve expected.

“No.”

His sour expression deepened as she strode over to him, plopping down about a foot away from him and tucking her legs up. His hair was ruffled--something that she had hardly ever seen before from him but found somewhat endearing. Malfoy didn’t look nearly as intimidating when his knees were to his chest.

“You said something to me,” she said softly, “at the beginning of the year. Something about how you knew why I was here. I know you probably don’t want to talk to me, but can you please tell me? I at least deserve to know.”

Malfoy slumped against the wall, turning his head up to the sky and sighing dramatically. “If I tell you, will you leave me alone?”

Y/N stayed silent. His eyes darted in her direction, raising an eyebrow expectantly. Instinctually, she scooted away a few inches. The way he was looking at her was so calculated that she almost felt violated.

He huffed again. “Just say you will.”

“Fine.”

“Fine what?”

“Fine, I will.”

Seemingly satisfied with her answer, he tilted his head back down and looked at her. “I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yet, really. The entire lot of you are muggleborns, right?”

Y/N stiffened at the word, but as she thought about it, he was right.

“And do you really believe that there’s no room in the castle except for in Slytherin?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know,” she retorted. “It’s not like I know anything about Hogwarts. I didn’t even know that Hufflepuff was a thing until I got here.”

Malfoy snorted at that. “Do you get it now? They wanted to ease blood tensions by introducing you into Slytherin. It’s almost entirely pureblood, you know.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous. It hasn’t even begun to work.”

He chuckled, making Y/N deeply uncomfortable. “You and Zabini seem to be plenty close.”

“We’re just acquaintances,” she defended. “I hardly think Blaise would consider us close.”

“Close enough to be on a first name basis, eh?”

“It’s different in America. Not as big of a deal.”

Instead of giving into her banter, Malfoy cast a disgusted look her way. “I told you. You’re done, you can go.”

In no hurry, Y/N stood up and began to brush herself off as she processed the information. It all made too much sense...

“Do you think it’s safe for us here?” The words fell out of her mouth before she could stop them. Malfoy’s face adopted an expression that she couldn’t quite identify. Before she had a chance to think about it further, he ducked his head down to his hands.

“I think,” he carefully stated, “that you should be...mindful. I don’t care, but if I were you, I’d think of this trip as a very unwise choice.”

Y/N gulped. “Really? Do you think I should...try and go home?” Her voice dropped to a hushed tone, embarrassed that he was rattling her so much. But at the same time...she could tell that he was being honest with her.

Malfoy sighed again, rolling his wand around in his hands. “That would be a good decision.”

“Thank you.” Y/N’s words hung heavy between the two of them, and Malfoy’s head snapped up in surprise, his silvery eyes wide. “And...Malfoy...” She took another deep breath, already regretting the words about to come out of her mouth. “Are you going to be alright?”

He smiled then, a stomach twisting, sickeningly fake smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t need your pity. Go away now. I want to be alone.”

Y/N nodded briskly, turning her back and trotting down the stairs. As she reached the bottom of the staircase, she thought she could hear gasping sobs, muffled from the distance.

“Bella, no, he wasn’t just trying to scare me!” Y/N protested, rubbing her temples. “I could see it in his eyes. And what he said made sense!”

“Okay, you’re crazy,” her best friend told her, raising an eyebrow. “This is Malfoy we’re talking about. He probably went back to his room and reveled in the fact that his precious house would be purified in due time.”

Y/N huffed, flopping back onto her bed. “He was crying. I don’t think he’s that manipulative.”

“Oh, I certainly think so,” Bella retorted. “He totally planned the whole thing.”

“He couldn’t have known that I was coming!”

“You don’t know that. The dark magic or whatever he knows probably does more for him than we know.”

“You’re assuming so much about him!”

“And you’re defending him, Y/N! Have you ever thought about that?”

Her mouth suddenly dry, Y/N brought her hands to her face. “You’re right. But you can’t deny that something isn’t right here. Katie Bell being cursed, Ron Weasley being poisoned...”

Bella nodded. “You’re not wrong. But I wouldn’t be so quick to believe Malfoy. He’s a nutter. However, I will say that I see the motive behind sending us now.”

“Thank you.” Y/N suddenly giggled. “A nutter? I dare you to call him that to his face.”

Bella burst out laughing. clutching her stomach. “Oh, god, then we’d definitely be dead.”

Y/N savored the lightheartedness of the present. Something deep inside of her told her that as the year wore on, things were going to get worse. She might as well just enjoy it in the time being.

“I want to go talk to Blaise,” Y/N suddenly said. “He’s friends with Pansy and Malfoy, and I’m sure he’d tell me if he was lying to me.”

Bella pondered this for a moment. “I mean, I guess. There’s no pain in doing that.”

“Can you promise me something?” Y/N turned on her side, looking Bella directly in the eyes. “Promise me that you’ll believe us if he says Malfoy didn’t lie.”

“Well of course, dumbass,” she giggled. “Blaise is calm. I like him.”

Y/N was about to poke fun at her statement when their door flung open to reveal a very concerned looking Laurel.

“Hey Laurel, what’s up?”

The brunette was struggling to catch her breath, clearly having just ran from somewhere. “I..I just got a letter from Anna,” she wheezed. Anna was a halfblood Thunderbird who was rejected from the exchange program.

“And?” Y/N could sense that she wasn’t going to like what she was going to hear.

“And she said that America is going to completely close its borders!”

“What does that mean?”

“It means...” Laurel suddenly looked very ill. “It means that no more owling back home. And...we can’t go home. Effective next Monday.”

Y/N turned to Bella, watching as she turned a sickly white.

“Why on earth would they do that?”

The rest of the day was filled with chaotic letter writing addressed home and trips to Snape’s office. The grease ball simply recounted the following to Y/N and Bella: the threat of Death Eaters was far too strong to keep international travel open. Many other countries around the world had already done so, with their only mode of transport being muggle air travel.

He assured her that they’d still be able to send them home and would do so as soon as possible, but that at the present moment, they were unable to book any flights. After the various Death Eater attacks in London, even Muggles were feeling uneasy and trying to get out of the country for a bit. All of the upcoming flights to America were completely full, and there was nothing that they could do about it.

“However, may I remind you,” Snape had finished, “Hogwarts is the most secure place for muggleborns such as yourself. I don’t suggest any...plots... to escape.”

Y/N and Bella returned to the common room, each as concerned and freaked out as the other.

“What if I never see my parents again?” wailed Laurel from the other side of the room as she gazed out into the lake. Peter was by her side, comforting her and brushing her hair away from her face.

“I didn’t know that that was a development,” Y/N commented absentmindedly, her own thoughts preoccupied with the recent news.

“That’s probably the least of our worries.” Y/N couldn’t tell for sure, but she thought she could see an extra layer of shine over Bella’s hazel eyes.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Y/N said. “You heard what Snape said. This is the safest place for us right now until they figure out how to get us home. I’m sure that Dumbledore will make it happen as soon as he can. He seems to know what he’s doing.”

“Why isn’t our own administration doing something about this, though?” Bella responded, her eyes nervously flickering to the windows into the lake. “You’d think that they’d make sure that we’d be the first to know so we could make travel arrangements.”

“Haven’t you heard?”

A silky, male, unmistakably British drawl sounded from behind the two.

“Heard what now, Malfoy?” Bella scowl deepened once she saw Blaise step out of the shadows as well.

“The Ilvermorny administration is in big trouble for ignoring the Council’s wisdom and sending exchange students abroad anyways.” He leaned up against the dungeon wall and cocked an eyebrow. “Their hands are tied. There’s nothing they can do to take immediate action until they get the funding needed.”

“He’s not being serious, Blaise, right?” Bella prompted.

“No, he is,” he confirmed, his head resting against the window behind him. “I wish he wasn’t.”

“Fuuuck, dude. This is a mess,” Y/N uttered. “Now what are we gonna do?”

“Write our parents and tell them that we love them? For the last time?”

“Great idea, I’ll get right on that,” Y/N snorted. “But actually, though. We’re all being messy. We need to get everyone together and find out the best course of action.”

“You can feel free to do that on your own,” said Bella. “I’m going to go to my room and write heartfelt letters to my loved ones in case I never get to speak to them again. I’d suggest that you follow suit, but it’s totally your choice.”

Bella turned and made her way to their room, her brown hair swinging in the ponytail she had hastily put it up in. It was incredibly late already, late enough that the rest of the student body was tucked safely away in their dorms, but sleeping was out of question. Adrenaline was still running through Y/N’s veins, and out of everything, she just wanted to do something, something to make it better.

Blaise was watching her curiously at the side of Malfoy, who was also gazing at her with a raised eyebrow.

“What’s the plan, kid?” Blaise finally said.

“Start swimming.” Y/N’s lame attempt at cracking a joke fell completely flat. “Do you guys really think this is the safest place for us right now? With Katie Bell and...”

The dim dungeon lighting combined with the mention of Katie Bell’s name suddenly hit her with the realization that she had been on the brink of for weeks. Katie Bell’s necklace--the one that had cursed her--had been in Malfoy’s room the night that she played Truth or Dare. She had seen it.

Nervously, her eyes met Malfoy’s, and a wave of realization passed over his face as well. His already pale face seemed to become even more pasty as his silver eyes, illuminated by the dungeon lanterns, hardened.

“Y/N?” Blaise prompted, stepping forward to poke at her arm. “Is everything okay?”

“Uh...I gotta go find Snape, or Dumbledore, or someone,” Y/N managed, yanking her eyes away from Draco’s.

“Oh no, why?” Blaise asked, his face seeming to actually exhibit concern. “Would you like me to take you? You shouldn’t walk around the dungeons this late at night.”

“No, Blaise,” Malfoy interrupted, his composure regained. “No need. I can take her. You must be tired from practice.”

“Oh, no, that’s really okay,” Y/N said. “I’ll go alone.”

“No, really, I insist,” he said.

“Please, that’s unnecessary of you,” Y/N countered. “I can manage myself alone.”

“It would be an insult to my conscience to let a lady go alone at this hour,” Malfoy mused. “It’s really no bother.”

With that, he pushed off the wall and held out his arm for her to take.

“Lead the way,” he told her.

final a/n: okkkkkkk so. idk how to feel about this but it is a nice little return to my roots after the crazy AU that is wonders of ohio. let me know what you think! do you like it? do you want me to continue it?

#draco x reader #draco #draco malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #draco imagine #draco malfoy imagine #draco x you #draco malfoy x you #draco x y/n #draco malfoy x female reader #draco x oc #draco malfoy x oc #draco malfoy x y/n #draco x female reader

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sparrowwritings · 3 years

Text

Final Fantasy 14 Writing Challenge Day One: Exchange

Masterpost -- Day Two

The day had started out rather well. The usual overcast weather that covered Ishgard had prompted Lara and Roger to suggest a day inside Fortemps manor with warm drinks and stories. While there was plenty that he could have been doing elsewise, the two had coerced Alphinaud into joining them. He’d told himself it would be a brief interlude, but as the clock chimed the passing of morning into the noon he’d found himself enjoying this rare moment of leisure.

He’d finished regaling the other teens with a story about an incident occurring on his and Alisaie’s nameday when Roger had blinked and looked to Lara. “You know I never thought to ask...when is your nameday?”

She’d looked confused and told him. There had then been a stillness as Roger’s already large green eyes widened further.

“That’s my nameday too!” Before Alphinaud could interject that many people shared namedays, Roger further exclaimed, “And it passed just before we met! Why didn’t you tell me??”

“I didn’t even think about it…” Lara’s own dark blue eyes were also round with realization. “The echo shared a lot about us to each other, but it didn’t show everything...” She’d trailed off with an odd expression. Roger mirrored it.

Then, suddenly, the two had left their mugs on the drawing room table and stood. They moved quickly enough that anyone else could have thought that they had rehearsed it.

“I’ve got to go do something.” “I need to take care of something.”

Lara and Roger had said over each other as the two left as if being chased by dragons. Leaving Alphinaud behind and very confused.

Now here he was, braving the cold of Ishgard’s city to find out just what in the world was happening with the Warriors of Light. Someone had to, so it might as well be him.

It didn’t take long for Alphinaud to find someone who would be willing to talk to someone still considered an outsider (not even going into the results of the heretic trial). After all, Lord Haurchefant Greystone was considered something of an outcast himself. “Ah, young Alphinaud! Good to see you!” He called out with far enough enthusiasm to draw the attention of passersby. They turned away just as quickly, which was expected of the folk of the Pillars.

“Good to see you as well, Haurchefant,” Alphinaud gave a nod, though it was still odd to address the commander so informally. The widened smile on the man’s face indicated that he approved.

“Are you also on a quest to find a gift for Roger, or is it something else? Lara seemed in quite a hurry when she spoke with me.”

Well that answered the question that he didn’t even need to ask. “No, I was actually about to question you about where they’d both gone. We had been chatting when something came to mind in both Roger and Lara and they had rushed off. I suppose if Lara was looking for a gift for Roger, then he must be doing the same for her.”

Haurchefant barked a laugh, which drew temporary attention again. “You know, I think you’re right young Alphinaud! Those two do seem to be of one mind more often than not! Almost like twins if I didn’t know any better.”

Ignoring the sudden tightness in his chest, Alphinaud gave another nod. “Indeed. But back to the topic at hand; did you have a suggestion for her?”

“Alas I did not.” The commander sighed and folded his arms. “While I’ve been blessed to have assisted and been assisted by Lara and Roger, I’m afraid I’ve spent far less time with them individually. ‘Tis a shame, for their lives are most fascinating. Just hearing your story of how you came to be on my doorstep is almost nothing compared to the one I participated in. And mine had such complex twists and turns as it stood! Think of what they’ll accomplish next!”

Alphinaud suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

It didn’t take much for the man to sing the praises of the Warriors of Light. While this trait was invaluable for helping himself, Roger, Lara and Tataru to be invited to the Holy See, after a while such enthusiasm was a tad...tedious. Not that either of the Warriors of Light had ever indicated that they felt the same. In fact, they seemed to flourish under the attention of their practically-adopted older brother. Half a wonder that Lara had gone to him first for ideas.

Thankful for all of the lessons in diplomacy that he had been forced to learn, Alphinaud hid his annoyance behind a polite smile. “I’m certain the Warriors of Light will surprise us yet. Although at the moment I was wondering where Lara had gone off to after she spoke with you.”

Remembering himself, Haurchefant cleared his throat. It didn’t do much to hide the embarrassed flush on the elezen’s cheeks. “Right. I suggested she try talking to Tataru. I may also not know much about her, but she seems to be the industrious type. Perhaps try there?”

Industrious was one way of describing the lallafel, but the idea was quite sound. If anyone was around that could feasibly suggest gift ideas, it would be Tataru Taru. Alphinaud nodded and made to leave with the standard farewell when the commander offered, “Are you sure you don’t wish for me to join you?”

“I will be quite well, thank you.” Alphinaud answered quickly as he left.

------

“Sorry, you just missed’m! Both of them!”

“Drat,” Alphinaud said under his breath.

The Forgotten Knight was as busy as the tavern ever was. People were wandering in from the snow flurries that were steadily falling from the grey skies, looking for warm food and company. One could almost forget that Ishgard was cut off from the rest of Eorzea for how crowded the place felt. Thankfully the corner that he and Tataru were chatting in was relatively clear even as people came and went.

“Aw, you don’t have to be so worried about them. You know Lara and Roger can handle themselves!” The lalafell woman patted his hand, her small legs dangling from the elezen-sized stool she’d sat in.

“I’m not worried about them in that sense,” He protested. “Even separate, those two are far more capable than many groups of warriors I’ve encountered.”

Tataru opened her mouth as if to say something, but then closed it while biting her lip. He didn’t have to guess at what she had decided not to bring up.

“Yes, the Crystal Braves can be included in that. If I hadn’t been so foolish then they couldn’t have been--” A thick slice of bread inserted in his mouth cut off his sentence. Tataru huffed and clapped crumbs off of her hands while he took the piece out and coughed.

“No. We’re not going to do that right now. We’re talking about Roger and Lara, not your guilt. You are worried about your friends so I’m not going to hide what I know. But. You’ve got to stop blaming yourself for something that wasn’t your fault and that you’re not being blamed for.” She levelled a violet glare at him. “So. If you want to know what they’re up to, you’re not going to go on about how you could’ve changed things with the Crystal Braves. Okay?”

Alphinaud was once again feeling left behind and confused, but in a different way than had happened earlier that day. He’d just wanted to know what the Warriors of Light had been doing. When had his own emotions gotten in the way of finding that out? It hadn’t even been at the forefront of his mind, and yet his guilt had been summoned unconsciously. He turned the hard slice of bread over in his hands as he mulled over the offer. After a beat, he sighed. “Very well, I agree.”

As if the sun had come out from the clouds (as rare as such an occurrence was in Ishgard), Tataru beamed and spoke as if she hadn’t just told off the boy. He chewed on the part of the bread that had already been in his mouth while she chattered on. “WELL, first Roger came to me asking if I knew what Lara liked to eat so I asked why and he said he was getting her a late nameday gift so of course I offered to help. I sent him on his way to the markets and talked to a few folk in the tavern about places to find rare herbs, so by the time Lara came in asking for gift ideas for Roger I already knew where to send her so that I could help with the cooking while she was away!” Tataru spread her arms wide, her fingers splaying out and shaking in a theatrical fashion. “So! If you want to find gifts for them, they should be fairly occupied until the end of the day.”

He swallowed the last of the bread before he spoke. “Where is Roger practicing his cooking?” He didn’t need to answer her about potential gift giving, after all.

“Oh he’s in the kitchens here. I have someone making sure he doesn’t burn anything important.”

“I see…” His eyes slid to the door towards the room in question.

The apprehension must have been apparent because Tataru retorted, “He can’t burn anything yet, he’s still got to mix ingredients and such.” She openly rolled her eyes when he looked back at her.

“You make it sound as if he might burn down the whole tavern.”

“He won’t! Probably. Hopefully.” She was suddenly nervous, pulling at the ends of her sleeves. “...I’ll...go see how he’s doing. In the meantime, think about what I said. About all of that.” The lalafell then hopped off the stool and made her way into the back.

Alphinaud let the surrounding conversation wash over him as he thought. After some time, he got up from his seat and made his way out. He’d made a decision and he was going to follow through with it.

-----

“You really didn’t have to find these for me!” Roger exclaimed as he examined the variety of plant life that had been neatly tied together with a red ribbon.

It was just past supper, and the teens plus Haurchefant and Tataru had retired to the drawing room of Fortemps manor. As soon as everyone had sat down, Lara had shoved the green bundle in her best friend’s direction and he’d fumbled but kept his grip on it. Tataru had clapped happily at the sight. Harchefant’s face seemed to be stuck in a proud smile.

Alphinaud was no expert on botany, but he was fairly certain that the shrubs and flowers had been picked more for their looks than their usefulness. Still, Roger looked at them as if they were rare ingredients. Lara relaxed her nervous stance at the sight of his appreciation.

“I know, but I wanted to find something useful and it was the best thing I could think of at the time. Now that I know when your nameday is, I’m going to blow you away with a proper present next year.” She grinned.

Now it was Roger’s turn to fidget in his seat. “W-well. I hope you like this too.” From his pocket came a small paper bag, fastened with a green ribbon. The paper had a flower pattern printed on it. Lara gently took the bag and pulled until the ribbon came undone. In the middle were a handful of cookies. The bottoms were slightly burnt and the size of them were inconsistent. “I-I know you like to cook but I wanted to try to make your something and Tataru suggested honey cookies and it was way harder than I thought so you don’t have to eat them but--” Before the poor boy could nervously ramble on, she had already picked up the top cookie and taken a bite.

The whole room held its breath as Lara closed her eyes and chewed. After what felt like ages, she swallowed and smiled at Roger. “These are pretty good! Between Tataru and I, we’ll make a culinarian out of you yet!”

It took only a moment for the two to fall into fits of giggles, and for the adults in the room to join them. Alphinaud took that distraction to stand and head towards Lara and Roger. When they had recovered a little, he presented them both a small plain blue box. “‘Tis equally late for your actual nameday as what you’ve already exchanged. I’ll do my best to have something better by your next one.”

Wearing similar expressions of confusion, the two opened up the boxes. Inside were identical sketches of Lara and Roger, happily chatting with one another. The quality was such that one could be mistaken in thinking that they were directly copied off of another work, though obviously no paintings had been made of the two. Roger and Lara stared at each other, then to the drawings, then to Alphinaud in a cycle. “It’s rough, but if you wish I can touch it up at a later date. I was hard pressed for time, muchlike you both were and--”

All of a sudden he was sandwiched between Lara and Roger in a warm embrace. Alphinaud could feel his face and pointed ears turning scarlet as the oblivious Warriors of Light started complimenting his work. “I didn’t know you could draw!” “What do you mean that it’s rough, it’s amazing!” “I need to find a place to hang it--oh wait maybe I could get it framed??” “This is the best nameday present ever!” He was too flustered to respond, much less pay attention to who was speaking.

He’d forgotten how physically affectionate Lara and Roger could be. At least this was a more embarrassing than fatal mistake.

Through the press of bodies he spotted a grinning Tataru elbowing a chuckling Haurchefant. Nevermind, he was going to expire right here in front of everyone.

He desperately hoped that Alisaie wouldn’t hear a word about this.

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kiradaxx · 4 years

Text

Critical Care

This idea jumped into my head soon as I saw the scene with Tuvok and Janeway holding hands on the bridge in the episode Critical Care. This is definitely not a criticism of that scene because I loved it and found it hilarious and Janeway and Tuvok are bros for life. Tuvok's reaction was priceless and both actors crushed it. But I couldn't help reimagining this scene with a J/7 twist, cause, of course. So here we go, enjoy my brief, goofy J/7 rewrite of this episode's fake dating trope.

Also on AO3 here

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A powerful headache was throbbing in Janeway’s temples as she waited for the communications link to be picked up by yet another Delta Quadrant inhabitant in the long line of fruitless interviews she’d been conducting all day. Patience was a virtue she did not possess, but diplomacy she had in spades. So she’d been smiling and charming and biting her tongue down on more acerbic comments all day as she attempted to track down the scam artist who had managed to steal their doctor’s program right out from under her nose.

After hours of chasing down contacts and bouncing from one rumor to the next, from one unhelpful, frustrating source to the next, not only was Janeway tired, she was bored out of her mind. However, they had finally found a workable lead in Gar’s current girlfriend. They had just concluded a call with her husband- a sad, weepy man with little dignity left to his name. He had divulged far more information about his wife’s adultery than Janeway cared to know, but at least they had learned something to go off of. Now, they were hoping this woman could give them Gar’s actual whereabouts, rather than just tell them yet another story of how he had conned some unsuspecting soul and made off into the ether.

Janeway leaned heavily against the railing of the main command stage of her bridge, staring at the still empty view screen. Her chin rested in her right hand, her elbow on the railing, and as she stared out into space, she suppressed the urge to tap her fingers restlessly against her cheek. Waiting for the call to be picked up was about as thrilling as watching paint dry, and while she hoped for a more productive conversation this time, she wished she could be doing just about anything else at the moment.

Finally, their hail was answered, and the view screen displayed a pale woman with a large forehead of unique ridges sitting luxuriantly on a couch in what appeared to be a sunroom of some sort. Making quick work of her initial assessment of the woman and the necessary introductions, Janeway wasted no further time in explaining who they were looking for. This held little interest for the woman, though, and rather than offering any information about Gar, she instead asked how they had found her. When she was informed that her husband had given them her name, a look of vague disgust overtook the woman’s features. Janeway lamented internally as she realized the moment the woman opened her mouth that she was about to be subjected to still more details of this couple’s relationship problems.

“You’re a woman, you saw my husband with your own eyes.” Her tone carried a distinct distaste as she continued, “Overweight, depressed. You would have left him too.” A playful spark and a vapid smile lit up the woman’s face next, and she added, “Especially if you had met someone as exciting as Gar.”

Nasty comments about the man’s size or emotional state were hardly necessary, but Janeway couldn’t afford to lose this lead now. Not when they’d finally come so close to getting the scammer’s location. So for the sake of her missing crew member, once more she bit down on the inside of her cheek and held back on her criticism of the woman’s shameful attitude. She was only just able to restrain an eye roll when the woman began extolling Gar’s seductive qualities. But her day had been long and exhausting and filled with some of the most inane conversations she’d ever entertained, and when she offered a placating agreement to the woman’s assessment, she didn’t bother to muster any more enthusiasm than she would have for extensive dental work.

Chin still in her hands, posture slouched, and boredom leaching through every syllable, she said, “Yes, he’s very exciting.”

Somehow, unfathomably, this woman managed to interpret her words as genuine interest in Gar. As a threat of competition for her lover. She stiffened, growing defensive and accusative, throwing a glare through the screen while asking, “That’s why you’re looking for him, isn’t it? You want him for yourself.”

Janeway stared at her incredulously for a long moment, at once both insulted at the implication that she would be attracted to a sleeze like Gar, and baffled at how dense this woman must be to believe her lackluster agreement had constituted any actual desire.

Her patience had long ago run out, and even her dedication to diplomacy was wearing thin at this point. Her battle against the roll of her eyes continued to be hard fought, but not fully won as she felt herself blinking rapidly through her exasperation. She lifted her head off of her hand but changed little else about her posture, and replied, “I assure you I have no romantic interest in him whatsoever.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed and her shoulders remained squared, clearly still offended. “Why, not good enough for you?”

“No it’s not that, it’s just-” Janeway began to reply earnestly, but cut herself off. This was maddening, and she did finally allow herself to roll her eyes then. How did they even get this far off track, and why was she continuing this ridiculous topic? She exchanged a quick glance with Seven, who was serving a duty shift on the bridge and standing not too far from where Janeway was leaning against the rail of the main command well. The quirk of Seven's ocular implant and the amused but critical gleam in her eyes told Janeway she was not alone in finding this woman impressively asinine.

An idea occurred to her then, an absurd one. A ridiculous solution for a ridiculous problem, she supposed. She needed to get their conversation back to the matter at hand without angering Gar’s lover or drawing out this argument any further, and when she looked to the woman standing to her right, she saw a method to do just that. With an expression that made little effort to hide how unimpressed Janeway was with this whole situation, she reached her hand out expectantly towards Seven. She was completely bemused, but understood what Janeway was asking for and, albeit hesitantly, she placed her hand in the outstretched one the captain offered. Their fingers interlocked, sliding into a comfortable position without thought, and Janeway made sure to hold their hands up in clear view of the screen. She squeezed Seven’s hand in silent reassurance, and thanked the universe that she had played along without spoken question, even if she could feel Seven’s confused stare burrowing into her profile.

She intentionally allowed a little extra husk to fill her voice, a smoky lilt accompanying the suggestive look in her eyes as she said, “Gar’s not really my type, if you catch my drift.”

The woman observed them for a moment with no reaction at first, her defensive demeanor unchanged. Tom Paris turned from his position at the helm in surprise, and Harry Kim chuckled to himself while Tuvok merely lifted one eyebrow in their direction. Janeway ignored all of them; allowing herself to be embarrassed would hardly be conducive to getting the information she sought, and she didn’t have the intention of giving any of them the satisfaction. She had nothing to feel embarrassed about anyway. She was dealing with con artists, a little misdirection was necessary. After a few more seconds, she saw the understanding dawn on the alien woman, illuminating her expression. She observed them more curiously now, fixating on their joined hands and seemingly sizing them up. Her hostility deflated, and she appeared to be appeased by the insinuation that Janeway’s interests lay in a decidedly more sapphic direction.

Relieved that the ruse had worked, Janeway tried not to think too hard about the pleasant warmth suffusing her skin where her hand remained cradled by Seven’s. She hadn’t expected Seven’s touch to be quite so gentle, almost tender, and she wasn’t sure what to do with this information now that her brain was aware of it. But this was neither the time nor the place for her to feel a fluttering in her stomach that she wouldn’t want to analyze too closely even in the best of circumstances. She wasn’t actually attracted to women after all, she was simply skilled in the art of deception when the need arose. So, she pushed the thought aside and refocused.

“We have a business opportunity for Mr. Gar.” She said, resolute professionalism twice enforced now to maintain her composure. “One that will expire if we don’t find him soon.”

With all of the fight in her posture vanished, the woman released a slight sigh and finally, finally gave them Gar’s current location. “He’s on his way to the gambling tournament on Selek IV.” She paused, then in a softer tone, she added, “When you see him, tell him to hurry home.”

Janeway bit her tongue down one last time for that afternoon and refrained from saying that there was very little chance Gar considered their affair to be more than a quick romp in the sack, let alone his home. She hoped the look she gave the woman wasn’t too pity filled, but as the connection was terminated and the star filled vacuum of space retook the screen, she indulged in one last roll of her eyes. Just a small one, well earned after having had to insinuate herself even peripherally into the marital drama of several random civilians.

In the next moment, she remembered she was still holding Seven’s hand. Her skin tingled at the comforting warmth still present, and she looked to Seven with a slightly sheepish expression. Seven, for her part, was staring rather intently at Janeway, brows furrowed deep in question. Janeway was about to apologize in case she had made her uncomfortable, but the other woman spoke first.

“Are you sexually attracted to women?”

Well, at least Janeway could count on Seven not to beat around the bush. She fought the flames of embarrassment licking at her heated skin, and instead quirked her lips up in what she hoped was a confident grin.

“I was just trying to get Gar’s girlfriend to focus on the question. I needed to mislead her a little, make her think you and I were an item.”

Seven studied her another moment before replying, voice devoid of inflection. “I see.”

Janeway couldn’t shake the peculiar feeling that she had disappointed or upset Seven in some way, and she returned to her original plan to apologize. She still hadn’t let go of Seven’s hand, though she wasn’t sure why. She squeezed the hand in hers lightly, and said, “It seemed like the easiest way to get the information. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable. Thank you, for playing along.”

Seven nodded but said nothing, leaving Janeway to feel like she was still missing something. She offered Seven one more crooked smile, one more small squeeze of their hands, and finally dropped her hold on the other woman. While Seven returned to her normal work, Janeway strode over to her command chair, sinking into it with purpose. She put aside the seed of worry digging into her mind for the sake of focusing on their task. Crossing her legs and assuming her authoritative positioning, she commanded Tom to lay in a course for Selek IV. She would apologize to Seven again later if she needed to, perhaps find a way to make the offense up to her if she were still upset. But for now, she had a member of her crew to rescue.

#j/7 fanfiction #j7 #j/7 #kathryn janeway #seven of nine #seven x janeway #janeway x seven #captain janeway #star trek voyager #a fun little oneshot that came to mind #episode tag s07e05 #i have an idea for a second part if people like this one

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fifteenleads · 4 years

Text

love and war (and long lines)

Today's battle is a co-op effort, of all things.

Well, not really, because it's Atsushi who volunteers to keep their place in the line while Akutagawa grabs them lunch.

They've been at this for half a day now— very stupid, really, but desperate times calls for desperate measures. Their broadband subscription would be cut off, otherwise.

The money in the envelope suddenly feels a lot heavier now. Atsushi is still pale— he had this penciled in his planner since the beginning of the month. He just had to use said planner as a mug coaster last week.

"A once-off mistake," Akutagawa dismissed when he had called, half-panicking and full-on babbling. "Get dressed, jinko. Pick you up in ten."

They arrived at the telco center just in time as it opened, but the queue of desperate last-minute payors reached two blocks over.

Yikes.

Akutagawa had kept him company for the first two hours, arms crossed impassively as the line trudged on ever-so-slowly every ten minutes or so. Everything was going swimmingly, as it were.

Soon, morning turned into noon, and the sweltering heat as they left the shade and stood in the open left Akutagawa pale with exhaustion, and Atsushi immediately picked up on his boyfriend's trembling shoulders as he struggled to keep himself upright.

So he diffused that cause for alarm before it got worse: "W-Why don't you go and get us lunch first, Ryuu? I'll be fine here."

Akutagawa blinks. "Are you sure?"

"Of course," Atsushi laughed. "Cats like me love the afternoon sun."

A blatant lie, of course, and his sensitive skin will pay for it, but Akutagawa needed to get out ASAP.

"... Okay, then." He was being calm about it, at least. "Burgers?"

"Extra pickles," Atsushi completed. Akutagawa made a face at that, but didn't comment any further. "Be right back," he nods, silently leaving the line.

Atsushi waved back, hoping the line wouldn't drive him crazy for the next few hours.

But as fate would have it, Akutagawa still isn't back a good few hours later.

Atsushi begins to worry— what was taking him so long? Forget long lines, what if he had fainted somewhere? There's been no reception since this morning due to the sheer volume of people there.

What if, what if, what if—

The line moves forward, once more, and Atsushi realizes with a start that he's already at the shop's entrance. "Air-conditioning," he mumbles in relief, his worrying temporarily broken mid-cycle.

Just then, a sharply-dressed old lady swiftly cuts into the line before the guard could even stop her.

Atsushi's aghast. Who in this day and age would even—

He's always been patient, but not today, after all his buttons have been pushed, and—

"There's a line, Ma'am," a smooth baritone cuts in. "Kindly follow."

Atsushi looks up at Akutagawa, surprised. Him and diplomacy don't mix at all, but just today, he looks the part very well, coat fluttering and visor glinting.

Everyone else is starstruck, too, but they also nod, eyes flashing in anger.

A swift victory. The guard gives them an appreciative look, and Atsushi is only mildly embarrassed. Mostly proud. Yeah.

The home-stretch before they finally reach the counter proves to be very rewarding. The air-conditioning is a huge part of it, but Atsushi relishes more the feel of Akutagawa's arm around his shoulder as he is softly held close, the mix of sweat and light cologne intoxicating.

It leaves him in a decidedly much better mood than where they had started, and the errand is (finally) successfully completed, just like that.

Five minutes to five PM— just in the nick of time, too.

"Well, at least we have internet for another month," Atsushi shrugs as they exit the building, sorry eyes trailed on the rest of the queue as the guard declares a cut-off for the day. He has a feeling they won't be so lucky next time, but it's always better to count one's blessings, as they say.

Akutagawa rolls his eyes. "Remind me not to lend you my friction pen anymore. I don't always have the time to come to your rescue like this."

'What?!' is the first thing that comes to Atsushi's mind, because he seriously thought it was a mechanical pencil ever since, but one look from Akutagawa makes him admit defeat at once.

He pouts instead, biting into his cold sandwich. Mmmm— tuna, his hidden guilty pleasure. Maybe he should get Akutagawa to buy him lunch more often after this.

For now, Netflix (and chill) await.

Today's result: They both win— barely, that is. (The 'chill' was totally worth it.)

#bungou stray dogs #shin soukoku #sskk #nakajima atsushi #akutagawa ryunosuke #sskklovewar #long lines #paying bills #worrying #fluff

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yandere-daydreams · 5 years

Note

uhhh requests are open?? Huh??? I thought I'd never see the day. can we get uhhh fuyumi going apeshit on shouto bc he wont leave the fukening maid alone?? gender neutral BROnouns blease and thank you

He’s just,,, such a little brat,,, and I’m so passionate about that. I’m going to assume you mean Prince Shoto (from this oneshot), but he’s really just a little bitch either way.

TW: Mentions of Abuse.

Fuyumi’s maturity never failed to amaze you.

Whether she was dealing with back-lash from Touya’s ‘diplomacy’, budgeting Natsou’s latest charity effort, or putting up with Shoto’s… personality, she never lost that sweet smile of hers, at most taking a deep breath during a particularly trying court-session and never batting an eye. While you were still on the castle’s general staff, you would often deliver tea to her room at ungodly hours of the night, only to find the princess still filing paperwork and talking with her (grudgingly awake) advisors. You admired her for it, her work-ethic your sanctuary when her little brother’s temper tantrums grew too difficult to bear alone.

And now, you only looked up to her more, after all she’d done for you.

It would’ve been hard not to, really.

Considering how closely you were pressed to her side.

“What the hell is this supposed to be?” Shoto growled, his tone so primal, you wouldn’t help but flinch back. Thankfully, the hall he’d decided to confront Fuyumi in was empty save for their ever-present bodyguards, but the way his voice echoed off the stone walls still made you cringe, reminding you of all the times he’d dragged you into an empty room to berate you, or how loud he could get whenever you spoke to another noble. Fuyumi must’ve noticed, because soon, there was a gentle, gloved hand on your back, pulling you into her side, letting you burrow your nails into the stiff fabric of her corset.

Shoto didn’t find this nearly as comforting as you did, his eyes narrowing in your direction, never drifting towards his sister. “Not only does (Y/n) fail to wake me up, but now I have to see my maid clinging to my own sister like a kicked puppy,” He paused, if only to through his hands up in the air. “What the fuck?!”

Fuyumi didn’t yell, nor did she raise her voice. Her voice was nothing short of sweet, level and tranquil and kind, even as you were practically shaking against her. “It’s been brought to my attention that there’s been some… misconduct, among your staff. (Y/n) will be my personal assistant, from now own.” She pursed her lips, scanning over her brother with a calm, measured stare. “You should’ve gotten a transfer notice day ago, unless you’ve been neglecting your responsibilities again, Shoto.”

He was silent, mouthing the words ‘transfer notice’ once before shaking his head. “No, no, you can’t… you can’t do that.” He took a step forward, now close enough to grab for you. Hesitently, you let go of Fuyumi, stepping behind her, as you’d been instructed to do if he did something brash. The Princess held her ground, only frowning as her brother’s face grew flush. Whether it was anger or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell, but you weren’t sure you wanted to know. “(Y/n) is supposed to be mine, they are mine. You can’t just take something that belongs to me away.”

“Yes, I can.” Again, she was nothing short of apathetic, as passive and as patient as you could ever hope a royal to be. “Our staff aren’t prisoners, brother. If someone requests a change in position, we’re inclined to accommodate. And this is something you’ve wanted for a while now, isn’t it, (Y/n)?”

It took a moment for you to realize you were supposed to answer, but as both siblings turned towards you, the words seemed to surface on their own. “I… I’m sorry, Your Highness,” You mumbled, barely loud enough for either to hear. “It’s just, I don’t think I can take… whatever this is, anymore. You’re just… you scare me, and Her Majesty doesn’t.”

You watched as Shoto went tense, rigid, his expression contorting into something awful as he tried to process what you were saying, what this meant. Reflexively, he attempted to push past Fuyumi, but the guards were quick to step forward, not restraining the young prince but ready to, if the safety of their another royal depended on it. Shoto took the swords suddenly pointed in his direction as well as he’d taken anything else, in this conversation, huffing and crossing his arm, shaking his head. As he always did, when he was preparing to do something childish. “I am our father’s heir, the crowned prince, your future king-”

“And I am your older sister,” Fuyumi hissed, her fists suddenly balled at her sides. “In a few years, you might have some power over me, but right now, we’re both just kids of the same tyrant. Wait until Enji’s dead before you start to order me around, and maybe I’ll obey you. And even then, you’ll have to kill me too, before I let you abuse another human when you, you, of all people, should know better.” She let out a ragged exhale, turning away from her brother before he could continue, gesturing for you to follow as she fled the hall, storming and gritting her teeth and brewing.

You wanted to hug her, to thank her until your throat went sore, to grovel at her feet and beg her to never let Shoto near you again. But, you held yourself back, simply grinning like a maniac as you trailed after her, watching as the princess decompressed and brought herself down, soon just as regal as she was minutes ago. Because you admired that about her, how mature she was, how kind she could be.

And you adored her for it, too.

Meanwhile, Shoto wasn’t as forgiving as his sister.

The guards were still swarming around him, buzzing with paranoia and trying to decide who would follow Fuyumi and who would watch the emotional prince, but he didn’t pay them any thought, staring at the door she’d… at the door you’d walked out of, suddenly feeling so much more devoid than he had, yesterday. Empty, lonely, freezing, for the first time since he’d met his faithful companion.

He rolled her words over in his mind, looking for loopholes, catches, anything that might explain why he was alone, now. She was right, technically. They were equals, both princes and princesses on a balanced standing, even if one was predetermined to be more. But, that would only happen when the king died, once Enji died. Either of war-injuries or old age, or most likely, by the hand of a displeased subject.

Subconsciously, he reached for the sword at his waist, not noticing he’d moved until his fingers brushed against cold, smooth metal.

He wouldn’t have you back until the king died.

He wouldn’t be able to hold you again until the king died.

But, he’d have you back when the king died.

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galleywinter · 4 years

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A Prayer You Can Borrow

It's been a year since my last update, and all I can do is apologize and offer some attempt at an explanation: last year, both of my children were in middle school for the first time, and that presented a host of issues my husband and I hadn't been prepared for. It took the school year, but we were finally getting those issues under control, and then COVID happened.

The good news, though, is that we're all healthy and well, the kids are doing better, and we've reached a sort of tenuous new normal within quarantine existence (my youngest and I are high risk).

I did promise this story would never be abandoned, and I meant it. I just had to set it aside while other, more important things cropped up. But now that those are handled, now that we've got some measure of equilibrium - as odd a one as it might be - I have the emotional space to pick the story back up where I left it.

Thank you to Eleneri, for her tireless edits and encouragement, to my husband, for being my partner through all of the mess that the last year has been and for being the guy who reads the stuff to make sure it's still a good read, and thank you to you: if you're someone who's been sticking around patiently and waiting, I thank you (and you make me want to cry); if you're new, buckle up and I hope you enjoy the ride, and thanks for making it this far!

Either way, I do hope you feel this chapter is worth the wait it's been to get here.(Also, a couple of brief story notes are at the end.)

As with the last few chapters, I won’t be providing links to previous chapters or to my AO3 or FFN as I don’t want tumblr to eat it, but it’s all there and findable if you’d rather read it there than here. ____

Chapter 14 It's been over forty-eight hours since Camdyn last slept, more than fifteen hours since she'd eaten. She knows the grace of the Light is the only reason she can even still find her feet. But find them she has, because she still has a duty to perform.

Has it really only been a handful of hours since her world turned upside down?

A heavy, messy knot of emotion sits like a lead weight in Camdyn's gut as she steps through the portal and into the Petitioner's Chamber. The droning buzz of carried conversation that washes over her is both a blessing and a curse, a white noise to dampen the specters of guilt and grief echoing hollowly through her thoughts while slamming into her overwhelmed psyche with all the force of hitting a physical wall.

It doesn't help that everything hurts.

Pain blooms through her legs as she exchanges the give of the soft soil of Valgarde's training yard for the unforgiving stone floor of the Keep. Her hips and thighs ache from too many hours in the saddle. More worrying is the realization that the skin around her right arm is still tingling and burning. Iomhar's healing had been only a patch job, something meant to keep her functional, and the limits of his magic have long been exceeded. The prospect of fel poisoning is starting to feel like a very real concern.

And her feet are throbbing in her boots.

The sharp aches that come from simply standing there make Camdyn whisper a prayer of thanks for the mage at Valgarde who'd been willing to create a portal for her rather than forcing her to switch out her exhausted gryphon for a fresh one and endure the day's ride to Stormwind.

To have been allowed to return to Light's Hope with her brothers and sisters, to have been given even the small reprieve of company to distract her from the torment ripping its way through her soul, would have been a blessing. But that path had not been hers to take.

The thought of being surrounded by people who understood her grief, people who had seen the same horrors - people who had no use or need for her diplomacy - swells her throat shut with a sudden ferocity of need.

She shoves it back just as fiercely, swallowing against it until her next breath comes easier than the one before.

She needs to keep breathing. If she can breathe, she can move. Camdyn takes a moment to fill her lungs with the comforting familiarity of incense and wood smoke, letting it scrub clean the sense memory of charred flesh and brimstone. A snort of derision dies in her throat at the sudden realization that she's likely giving off her own particular reek. She's come straight from a half day's ride, after all. Straight from the battlefield of the Broken Shore, from finding Tirion, from standing knee-deep in demon guts and the viscera of good friends.

She shoves the thought down as quickly as it had arisen, determination flaring hot and bright in her chest. Ashbringer is as heavy and firm a weight on her hip as grief is a lodestone around her neck, but she still has not the time to spare to give into it. She's the Highlord of the Silver Hand now. And she still has a duty to her king to perform.

Without conscious thought, Camdyn finds her right hand reaching to lay carefully over her belt pouch, her fingers curving delicately around the latch and worrying at it in a familiar, mindless gesture as tension bleeds from her spine in marginal degrees.

With a final lungful of cleanly smoky air, Camdyn pushes forward. Her boots ring against the tile as she strides for the door, searching for anyone who can direct her to the king.

The hour is relatively early, but the Chamber is already full of nobles in fine robes more than the kind of people she needs. It takes her a moment or two to spot someone in Stormwind's distinctive blue and gold livery against the riot of colors, but eventually, she spots a splash of bright blue against the white marble wall.

Despite the fact that he can't be any older than twenty, the boy stands a full head taller than she. Reflected magelight gleams and bounces off of his coppery red hair as he swings his head to and fro, his eyes wide as he surveys the chaos of the Petitioner's Chamber, looking almost as confused as Camdyn feels

A much older man stands next to him, his gnarled, knotted fingers curving gently over the boy's shoulder. The old man's stoop straightens somewhat as she nears, and Camdyn is almost sure his fingers squeeze gently around his charge's shoulder before falling away to press smartly against his own stomach in approximation of a salute.

"Highlord," the old man murmurs with as much of a bow as the hunch of his back will allow him. "How may we serve?"

The air locks in Camdyn's lungs for half a heartbeat. It's silly that such a simple salutation could feel so embarrassing. "How did you-"

Before Camdyn can even finish asking the question, the elderly man levels a careful gaze at Ashbringer. "I've never seen aught but the Highlord wield that blade, Your Grace."

A gently chagrined "Oh," is all she manages before the boy's brow knits in apparent confusion and his gaze shoots from the old man to her. His eyes widen almost comically as he registers the sword on her belt before he, too, stammers out a greeting and bows.

Embarrassment, because they're bowing, because she had almost forgotten what wearing Ashbringer would mean in a place like Stormwind Keep, makes heat lick like wildfire up Camdyn's neck. By the time they straighten from their reverence, her cheeks are painfully hot.

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, Camdyn is aware that the volume of conversation swirling around her is markedly softer than it had been even moments before. Her fingers tighten over the latch on her belt pouch. She still has a job to do.

"I need an audience with the king. He's expecting me." The words are thick in her throat, foreign and strange on her tongue. Immediately, the hair on the back of her neck prickles with awareness. The din of conversation has almost wholly stopped, and Camdyn has to fight the urge to shift in her boots as what feels like the weight of every gaze bores into the back of her head.

The old man, however, seems unfazed, only bowing a second time before extending a hand in the direction of the door.

"The king did leave instructions that he was expecting an urgent report from a paladin, but we were not expecting the honor of having the Highlord of the Silver Hand deliver it." His voice is firm and warm despite the slight wobble of age in his words. "Let me apologize for failing to attend you properly, your Grace." He pats his young charge on the shoulder. "Young Winoc will show you to His Majesty immediately."

The redhead sketches a quick bow himself. "Highlord." He waits, bent at the waist, his eyes expectantly glued to her face. It's a jarring moment before it clicks into place: he's waiting for her to acknowledge him.

Camdyn's stomach flutters with nerves as she offers a quick prayer for patience - and etiquette - and offers him the only response she can think of apart from a salute. She nods. The dip of her chin is awkward and a bit stiff, and she only barely stops herself from adding a reflexive curtsy, but it all seems to be enough. Looking relieved, Winoc straightens. "Please follow me, Your Grace."

Camdyn doesn't hear the echoes of conversation resume flowing from the Petitioner's Chamber until she and Winoc are halfway up the massive hall. A shuddering breath rolls from her before she can tamp it down, the bleedoff of accumulated adrenaline and pain and hurt and embarrassment expressing themselves in a single breath, and Winoc's step falters briefly at the sound of it before recovering as if it hadn't happened.

As they step into the throne room, a line of a dozen men and women in sumptuously rich, well-tailored clothes file from a room to Camdyn's right, the last of them closing a massive oaken door behind himself. A handful of them gather in a small knot several paces from the door. They manage to keep their voices low, but Camdyn can tell from the sets of their shoulders and the thin lines of their mouths that they're displeased with something.

Despite the fact that these well-dressed nobles pass by without so much as a spared glance in her or Winoc's direction, he bows for each of them.

As her initial confusion gives way to the realization that these men and women could only be the House of Nobles, Camdyn's mouth goes suddenly dry. Fear pits her stomach as the memory of the last time the House had been so displeased flashes before her: the Defias and the conflicts with them had been borne of that upset. With Azeroth facing a war for its very existence, she prays with every ounce of faith within her that the House of Nobles wouldn't repeat the same foolishness now.

When Winoc straightens from his final bow, Camdyn reaches out for him before he can move away, the fingers of her gauntleted hand clasping around the small billow of sleeve at his elbow, catching against the fine fabric of his shirt.

At least his eyes aren't wide as he turns to her, though his mouth is slightly parted in surprise and his eyebrows are nearly lost in his hair. "Highlord?"

"What's going on?" she whispers, clamping down tight on the anxiety spiking through her.

"I'm afraid I don't know, Highlord," he murmurs in response. "All I know is that King Varian summoned the House of Nobles for a meeting this morning." Her fingers fall away from Winoc's arm, and he moves toward the massive oaken door the House of Nobles had exited from.

He raises his fist to knock but then pauses, turning to her. "Might I inquire how you would prefer to be announced, Highlord?"

She can only blink at him, completely unprepared for such a question. It's also not a question she cares to deal with in this moment, so she settles for what she knows. "My name is Camdyn Morris."

With another dip of his chin that nearly turns into another bow, Winoc raises his hand and knocks. The sound echoes through the throne room, and Camdyn sees one of the nobles still in a tight throng near the Lion's Seat - a gentleman in a dark green doublet with shrewd brown eyes - cast a curious glance in the direction of the door, of her, before frowning and turning back to the conversation.

Varian's voice is more an impression of sound through the heavy door, his deep baritone rumbling sharply through her belly. As Winoc disappears into the room, the nobleman lifts his chin in her direction and two more pairs of eyes bore into her from across the room. A gentleman in a burnished gold doublet shifts on his feet, the muscles of his calves bunching under his hose as the shift of his weight gives away his intentions of movement, and she knows they're meaning to corner her.

Camdyn forces a swallow and braces herself for questions that she won't be able to answer, that she can't answer, when Winoc is suddenly, blessedly, back by her side.

"King Varian and Prince Anduin will see you, Highlord."

The breath of relief she releases is so sudden and sharp it almost makes her dizzy. "Thank you," she whispers, more than sure her gratitude for his rescue is writ plain on her face.

His answering smile is a oddly askew, but he only bows and leads her into the room.

If Camdyn had spent any time imagining what the chamber where the king met with the House of Nobles looked like, she likely would have pictured a richly appointed room with silk banners bearing the arms of each house who held a seat hanging from the walls, a long ebony-wood table polished until it looked like molten chocolate with a miniature throne at the head, and an oversized marble fireplace big enough to roast a shardhorn in Stormwind's bitter winters.

What she finds, however, is so much simpler. So much more welcoming.

There is a long table, but it's warm walnut rather than intimidating ebony. Papers sit stacked neatly on one end. The walls are gorgeous Stormwind marble, unadorned save for the blue barding draped artfully along the borders of the ceiling. There is no fireplace, but there is a solid wall of floor to ceiling windows that allows sunlight to spill freely into the room.

Then she sees the king, and Camdyn almost swallows her tongue.

Varian Wrynn is halfway through rising from a chair that's only slightly reminiscent of the Lion's Seat. His powerful figure is backlit by the sunlight streaming in through the massive leaded windows, shafts of light gleaming around him and gilding the queue of his long, dark hair. His dark blue brocade tunic hugs his broad shoulders, tightening around his biceps as he pushes his chair back. He's clean-shaven, the stubborn line of his jaw free of the dark beard she'd last seen him with.

He's lost a little of the hollow, ferocious look he'd had on the Broken Shore and through everything that had happened after Dalaran, but as his blazingly blue eyes lock on her, she realizes that he still looks like he's prepared to charge into battle at a moment's notice.

Camdyn is aware they aren't alone in the room. Prince Anduin is seated at his father's left, apparently deep into his own stack of official-looking papers, but she really can't spare a thought for him. Her whirling brain is focusing on only one thing: the memory of the sensation of Varian's beard under her lips.

The knowledge that she kissed him.

As her eyes adjust to the flood of light, Camdyn realizes that Varian is looking her over very thoroughly. Her mouth goes dry, and her knees weaken in a way that they never do when she's facing down demons ten times her size.

She can taste the salt on her tongue, smell the musk of his sweat, and her head swims as she wonders how she ever dared to kiss this man.

The king's mouth twists into a harsh frown as he lifts a hand to dismiss Winoc, his hard blue eyes never leaving her.

Self-consciousness wells in Camdyn's chest. She's a mess, and she knows it. Her right arm is bare, her armor missing from rerebrace to gauntlet, and the strip of skin around her bicep is angry and red, threatening to blister in a distinct chain pattern; despite the fact that she'd taken a moment to splash her face clean, her hair is both windblown from hours on gryphonback and splattered with dried ichor and gore; the sheath that holds her boot knife is conspicuously empty, and most tellingly, her hammer is missing.

And even should he have missed a single detail of that, neither he nor the prince can possibly miss Ashbringer glowing like a beacon on her hip.

The silence stretches, growing almost uncomfortably heavy. She opens her mouth to speak, but she can't. The words refuse to come. So much has happened in the handful of hours since she had last stood in Varian's presence, so many ways that her life has been completely upended. So many people lost.

Her left hand drifts unconsciously to her hip, her palm curving around Asbringer's pommel. A flicker of warmth, of conviction, blooms deep in her gut. The Light does not abandon its champions, even when the path they walk seems endlessly dark. The last handful of hours have probably been the darkest of her life, but she still stands. And Varian needs her information if Azeroth is to stand, too.

She takes a deep, bracing breath and tries again.

"Your Majesty." Her voice is splintered and cracked, and the swallow she forces to clear it feels sticky and dry. "Your Highness." She takes a knee, hiding a grimace as the movement makes fresh pain shoot through her legs. "It is with a heavy heart that I come to confirm that Highlord Tirion Fordring is dead."

"What?" Anduin leans heavily on the table. A stone-faced Varian puts a supportive hand on his shoulder, but the prince shrugs it off as he pushes his seat back. "Never mind. Tell me later." He strides the length of the table to her, the soles of his boots making almost noiseless against the marble floor even as he walks with the same determination Camdyn has seen in Varian.

Anduin's face twists as he draws near, his brow pinching and his breath catching in his throat. "How are you still moving? I can feel the fel. It's...I can...Ugh." He swallows and reaches a hand toward her arm. "Just let me...I can heal you."

"Your Highness," Camdyn drags herself to her feet as panic surges in her gut at the prospect of her prince being her medic, "it's fine. I'm fine."

His eyes are flint. "I've heard that too many times."

Before she can protest again, Anduin's gentle fingers wrap around her bicep, pulling it from her side and delicately turning it for examination. His hand is warm, his fingers soft against her skin, and Camdyn can't help but be grateful for the grounding sensation of physical touch. Her head is starting to swim in earnest, and she's feeling increasingly disoriented. Whether she's losing her battle against shock and grief, or if her body is finally telling her that she's past her limit with the Light no longer sustaining her as her duty is complete, she isn't sure.

"Your Highness, I can't let you-"

"We fought our way past Sha corruption in Pandaria. You told me we could be friends then." He huffs out a breath. "Camdyn. Let me be your friend now. Let me heal you before that fel digs deeper roots."

Something in his tone rocks Camdyn to her core. Any objection she could have made dies in her throat as she really looks at him for the first time since entering the room. That he hurts from the loss of an idol is obvious, but a determination burns in him she hadn't noticed before. The boy who stands before her isn't the fabled golden Prince or the lost boy she'd helped drag from the jungles of Pandaria.

He arguably isn't even much of a boy anymore - the shadow of the man he was always meant to be drapes over him like a mantle. Hazily, she wonders when he had finally decided to don it. When he had grown up. A small smile she doesn't try to fight edges at her mouth.

"Then, thank you, Your Highness."

"Anduin," he says firmly. He shoots a look over his shoulder at his silent father and whispers the beginnings of a benediction. When he lifts his hands, they glow with Light.

"I'm sorry," Anduin whispers as he passes a glowing hand over the fel burn on her arm. Skin knits together slowly as she watches, blisters fading as the pink rawness of new skin rises beneath them. "I know it hurts." He resumes his prayer as he turns his attention back to her her injury and smudges the pad of his thumb just below the blistering brand the fel chain had left. Her skin pulls against the burn, drawing a small grunt of pain from her.

"It was worse." Somehow, she manages a smile. "Trust me - it was worse."

Fractures of Light dance and flicker through Anduin's irises as he frowns down at her arm, blue shot through with glimpses of gold. "Not this. This is bad, but I think I can pull the fel taint out. I meant-" his voice cuts off abruptly, and his extraordinary eyes are glassy with tears that threaten to spill, "- I meant about Tirion. I know how much he meant to you. I'm sorry."

"He meant a lot to you, too, Your Highness." Camdyn refuses to acknowledge the huskiness of her own voice, the tightness in her throat. There will be time for it - for all of it - later.

She doesn't know when it happened, but at some point Varian had made his way to the near end of the conference table. He leans against it, arms folded across his broad chest as he watches his son's prayerful invocations of healing. The weight of his attention makes Camdyn's gut twist itself into knots.

She tries to shove back the heat rising in her cheeks, tries to logic that Varian watching her healing is no different from Tyrosus watching her be healed, especially when waiting for a report from her.

The fact that she can still remember the smell of Varian's sweat puts lie to the thought before it's even fully formed.

"Camdyn."

Varian's deep voice pulls at her attention. She straightens immediately, her stomach flipping with the fear that he had somehow followed the line of her thoughts. "Yes, Sire?"

The king straightens from his lean against the table. "I'm sorry."

Camdyn feels her mouth drop open and snaps it shut so quickly and firmly her teeth clack. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm sorry for what you went through to find Tirion." Varian's voice is low and quiet, and while his words are sympathetic, his eyes are that of a warrior who has lost too many friends to not know the real question to ask. "Did you avenge him?"

Her left hand drifts to her hip before she thinks better of it, her palm curving around Ashbringer's pommel.

She meets Varian's eyes without flinching. "Yes, Your Majesty. I did."

"Good. That's good." His smile is as sharp as any blade. "Has the Order decided who will lead the Silver Hand?"

"Highlord Tirion's final act - " The words are rough, and she has to pause to clear her throat. If she says it, it's real. It's real, and there is no turning back. Warmth flickers under her palm where it still curves around Ashbringer's pommel, and she wonders if there ever was any turning back to begin with.

"I lead them." She breathes out, slowly, and meets Varian's gaze dead on. "I am now Highlord of the Silver Hand."

Camdyn's head spins. It's the first time she's claimed the title as her own, and it makes her stomach churn.

She swallows back the bile, refusing to give it purchase. Wanted or not, she is the Highlord of the Silver Hand, and she will die before she disgraces the Order or the man who trusted her to take up his mantle.

Varian says nothing at first, no doubt watching the emotions chasing across her expression. Eventually the taut crease between his eyebrows softens. "I see. Tirion chose well." The line of his mouth relaxes. It's not quite a smile, but neither is it a concerned frown. "Your report, Highlord?"

This much, at least, is familiar. "I don't know yet the extent of our casualties or where the strength of our forces stand. The battle was. . . catastrophic." The voice speaking the words is her own; she can hear it, can feel her mouth moving and the vibration of her voice in her throat, but it all feels oddly, inexplicably distant. "Lord Tyrosus should be back at Light's Hope shortly and is preparing the information for me. As soon as I know, I swear that you will, as well." Camdyn sets her shoulders back in as close an approximation of standing to attention as she can manage with the prince still working on her wound. "Regardless of whether one of the Silver Hand survived, or a thousand, we stand ready to defend Azeroth, Your Majesty."

Varian's eyes are sharp and probing as they sweep across her face. He's silent for a long moment, then lays a careful hand on her shoulder. "How long has it been since you slept?"

Camdyn blinks as she tries to process the question. Given how he's already once shared a meal with her, she's not sure that she's surprised he would ask. Varian Wrynn is a king of the people, and he cares for his soldiers. But she doesn't see how the exhaustion of a single paladin really makes a difference. She's just told him that one of the great lights of Azeroth has gone out and left her in charge of a shattered order, and he wants to know if she's slept?

But she still has to answer because the king is still waiting.

"Before Dalaran, sire."

A frown flashes across Varian's face, an emotion Camdyn can't place flickering behind his eyes. "When does the Silver Hand expect your return?"

"As soon as possible, Your Majesty." She's less aware of Anduin's fingers brushing over the burn on her arm in concentric passes than she is of the relentless intensity of Varian Wrynn's gaze on her. "Though, if I'm honest, I'll admit that no one predicted that I would have reached here before this time tomorrow."

Varian takes a deep breath, something that sounds final and decisive, and then nods sharply. "Excellent. Then you shall stay here to rest. Tomorrow, I'll have Farron make you a portal to Light's Hope. If you go after mid-day, you won't miss more than breakfast."

Camdyn can only blink at him, at them both, as the prayer Anduin had been incanting finally ends. Words of benediction as familiar to Camdyn as her own name close the recitation, but she can hardly process them. The warmth of the Light still flows through her from head to toe, and it feels for all the world like being submerged in a warm bath, yet all she can feel is the cold prickle of nerves under her skin and the anxious knotting of her stomach.

"I appreciate the offer, Sire-"

A not unkind shake of Varian's head makes the objection die in her throat. "It isn't an offer, Camdyn. A room shall be made ready for you for the night, and you will return to Light's Hope tomorrow after mid-day."

"Just tell him yes," Anduin mock-whispers, leaning in. "It's much easier than trying to argue when he gets like this."

Varian makes an amused noise that's somewhere between a snort and a grumble, and his hard eyes finally soften from blue flint to something warmer. It's oddly endearing.

Camdyn's tongue feels leaden in her mouth. "Of course, Sire."

The corner of Varian's lips quirks up at that, just slightly, and her heart clenches in her chest.

"See? That wasn't so bad," Anduin says as he claps her genially on the shoulder. She rocks with it, the movement making her belt pouch thump heavily against her thigh. Her heart stutters in an odd echo of it as adrenaline spikes through her.

She can't believe she'd almost forgotten.

"Your Majesty," she says, grateful that her voice finally feels something like her own again, "I apologize for the oversight, but I have a second purpose in coming here. It's," she licks her lips, searching for the appropriate words. "Personal," she finishes lamely.

All traces of warmth instantly fade from Varian's face, his eyes immediately sharp and quizzical.

"Personal?"

There's a pause, and Anduin looks at her, then his father. His eyes narrow before he schools his expression to neutrality. "Father? I believe I should write to Velen and ask if he knows any techniques for fel-healing. I'm not sure I got everything from the Highlord's wound. It is a matter of utmost urgency. May I take my leave?"

Varian nods. "Go with my blessing, son."

"Father. Highlord." The prince bows to his father, then to her. Camdyn has to bite back the urge to curtsy. Bow. Something. She's not used to this. She doesn't think she ever will be.

The massive door shuts surprisingly quietly behind him. Camdyn watches it close for a few seconds before realizing she's run out of excuses not to look at the king.

She's alone with Varian Wrynn. Again. Something else she doesn't think she'll ever get used to.

Camdyn swallows hard and looks at him.

Varian stands in front of her, his stance wide, heavy muscle bunching across the breadth of his shoulders as he folds his arms casually across his chest. "All right. You have my ear."

The words are simple, professional. Words he's said to her more times than she cares to count in the years since she came to his attention. But he's never said them to her while they're the only two people in the room.

Her breath shakes but her fingers miraculously don't as she raises them to the latch on her belt pouch. "Ashbringer wasn't all we found on the Shore," she says as she flips the top of her pouch open and carefully extracts the little package that's felt so weighty since she reclaimed it, still carefully wrapped in her handkerchief.

His frown deepens, but he reaches for the wrapped item as she holds it out to him on her palm.

She nearly gasps as his fingertips brush against the outside of her hand, his calluses catching slightly on her skin and the warmth of his hand hotter and brighter than even the Light still swirling through her from healing, before dragging against her palm as he gathers the package into his hand.

Her heart is suddenly thundering in her ears, and her throat feels far too tight. She tries not to flex her fingers, to curl them into his palm and savor the fleeting contact of his touch.

She offers a quick word of thanks to the Light that Varian seems not to notice, all of his attention on the item in his hand as he lifts a corner of the handkerchief. The white cloth falls away, revealing the gilded edge of the compass, and she watches as Varian's mouth nearly goes slack in surprise. He blinks down at his hand as sunlight gleaming off of the battered lid. His eyes snap back to her face, skating over her features before he finally meets her gaze and lets out a slow breath.

"You-" He cuts short whatever he'd intended to say, then licks his lips and tries again. "This is my father's compass."

Varian hums a small noise in his throat as he carefully unwraps the compass from her handkerchief. When it finally sits golden and gleaming in his palm, he rubs his thumb gently across the back in what seems a familiar motion. A deft press of his thumb has it popping open, despite the fact that it's battered and a little salt crusted, and Varian's expression warms when he sees the intact portrait inside. He runs a fingertip over the miniature for a long moment, then carefully closes the compass with a gentle click.

"I thought I'd lost this forever. Where did you find it?"

"On the Shore." Camdyn has to set her stance fighting wide to counter her suddenly shaky knees. "After we recovered Highlord Tirion."

"I sent you into hell and you not only came back...you brought this back to me." After a long moment, Varian stops looking at the little miracle in his hand and raises his eyes to her. He's looking at her as if the fact she found the compass isn't the miracle...she is.

Five thumping heartbeats later, he finally looks away. "I-" He stops himself, shakes his head slowly, then the corner of his mouth curves upward and a slow breath leaves him. "I had truly thought I wouldn't see it again." His deep voice is softer than she's ever heard it. "Thank you, Camdyn."

Camdyn could swear to the Light that her blush is so intense it melts her bones.

"I'm glad to serve, Your Majesty."

"Varian." The correction isn't sharp, but it pulls her up short all the same. Her stomach flips at the warmth in his voice.

"V-Varian," she repeats with a small smile, swallowing back a giddy, choked noise as his name crosses her lips. It's the first time she's called him by his given name when they aren't in the heat of battle, and she's sure her cheeks could be used to ignite a fire. She only hopes he'll chalk the flush up to windburn or side effects of fel magic. "The Light led me to it; I just followed."

Varian smiles at her, his eyes warm. "I owe you a large debt for this, Camdyn."

"Sire, I-"

He shakes his head, the long, rough silk tail of his hair grazing his shoulders. "Varian."

She's definitely immolating. Felguards and pitlords have nothing on Varian Wrynn.

"Varian," Camdyn manages.

"Good," he murmurs as rewraps the compass in her handkerchief and tucks the little package into his belt pouch. "As I said, I owe you. The House of Wrynn always pats its debts. Allow me to lead the Light's champion to her quarters." He strides to the door and gestures for her to follow. "You've done much for too many in the past few days. You need rest. Azeroth can ill afford to lose you."

Camdyn's hand is still tingling with the memory of his touch as he ushers her through the door. ____ This is a story I've been working on since Legion launched. Some things we learned in the lead-up, the writers changed. Generally, I liked what we learned first better. So the compass belonged first to Llane and was passed to Varian (which I alluded to in earlier chapters as well). In the grand scheme, though, I know that's a small change. The largest change is how I've handled Anduin.

Initially, after Pandaria, it was disclosed - or perhaps hinted at, I honestly don't recall - that the immense healing he had received had left him with chronic pain and the implication that he was sort of infused with the Light because so much had been poured into him. Before the Storm turned that experience into Anduin essentially becoming a (questionably faulty) walking lie-detector test. As with the compass, I preferred the initial idea better and have chosen to run with that instead of what they gave us in canon.

#Varian Wrynn #Anduin Wrynn #Camdyn Morris #WoW #Warcraft fanfic #World of Warcraft fanfic #A Prayer You Can Borrow #OTP: A World With No More Night #Universe: The Winds of Change #Galley writes stuff

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summoner-kentauris · 3 years

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cleaning out old drafts, this was one where the askrans went to go visit the capital of embla and zach got to be all smug about how nice it was. that was the whole point

also was going to be a thesis on just because the place is apparently not as prosperous as askr doesnt mean that the capital isnt bangin subtweet they werent always dark godded and certainly couldnt have mostly been insane if they managed to keep an empire together

Few Askrans had ever traveled to Embla, in the times since Alfonse’s birth. Only scarce more had traveled deep into the heart of Imperial holdings, at any point in time. Of course, it doesn’t stop the Askrans from coming up with stories, with ideas, with vague and frightening notions of what Embla looks like. A dark, shadowy, shaded land, filled with twisting forests and horrible chasms and creeping fog and all else that befits the land of the original enemies. And the imperial capital of modernity, well. It could only be worse. Alfonse will admit this: despite the few very brief interactions he’d had with those Emblians living in Askr throughout the war, he was expecting the city to be really more of a town, an old and unpleasant place, perhaps with blood rites on the walls of buildings, and darkness seeping out of ruined homes.

The guilt and embarrassment he feels is almost, almost stronger that the total and absolute sense of wonder that engulfs him when he steps from the gate and into the resplendent mosaic plaza. The buildings crowd effortlessly around the edges, clean and covered in bright colors and plant life and twinkling tiles roofs of glass and clay. Endless bright light air winds through cracks and crevasses, carrying sweet flower scent through the area. Someone, a merchant perhaps, shoves past Alfonse with a grunted complaint, as if seeing people jump through Gates is a boring, completely uninteresting event. With that, Alfonse finally turns his attention to the people…

And gods, are there so many. Many in number, and many in kind. He can pick out at least three extrazenikian languages at once, five otherworldly styles of dress at a second glance. There are those with darker skin, those with pale, and gods-be-believed, there is even a gaggle of half-shifted manakete children giggling in a corner over some sort of game involving cups with numbers on them.

True, everything in the square has a deep sense of wear and tear to it, but despite that – or perhaps, to spite that, everything echoes with joy.

Someone slams into him from behind, and he and they go toppling over.

“Whoopsie!” Sharena says brightly, and rolls to her feet. “Oh, wow. It’s a lot nicer than I expected!”

Though Alfonse had been thinking the same thing, he frowns sharply. “Sister,” he hisses. “We are here for diplomacy.”

“Oh,” she quips. “That’s what we’re calling it then?”

Before he can chide her further, she actually has to bold audacity to run off into the crowd. Exploring already to be sure, but it’s here, it’s Embla, and though there is peace she need not be foolish.

He pushes himself to his feet only to go right back down as Anna comes tumbling out of the gate, too.

“Oops!” Anna says brightly. “Oh, wow, this place is a lot-”

“Enough!” Alfonse huffs, with what breath hasn’t been knocked out of him.

#my drafts #original title was: me mooning over describing authumbla #authumbla

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solynaceawrites · 4 years

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Promise Me Forever [1]

Fandom: Devil May Cry Characters: Dante, Lirael Thorne (OC) Rating: M Tags: Slow Burn, Romance, Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe, First Time Friends to Lovers Chapters: 1/14 co-written by @lickitysplitfic Summary: An old, long-forgotten promise between gods comes back to haunt Dante when it deposits an unfamiliar woman on his door. Claiming to be the descendant of Ler, she says that they're meant to fulfill the oath made by Sparda centuries ago, and all he can do is watch as she turns his life upside down. Yet when her parents come knocking, demanding the oath be fulfilled, he's forced to choose: return to the bachelor ways he loved so much, or give in to the emotions brewing between them.

Hello, solynaceawrites here! I'd like to welcome you to Promise Me Forever, an indulgent arranged marriage AU that lickitysplitfic and I have been working on while cooped up due to quarantine. It stars Dante and an original character named Lir, and features what we believe are all of the good points to have: mutual pining, angst, and, of course, the eventual smut. If you enjoy this fic, please let us know, whether through comments, kudos, or sending us a private message.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

As the vehicle—a taxicab, she reminds herself—lets her out at the curb, Lir takes a moment to simply observe her surroundings. While she knows of the outside world, she has never experienced it for herself; her life, until now, was spent in the compound, being trained in the arts of seduction and diplomacy and the more mundane things expected of a wife, and she is startled by how loud, how filthy, the city is. It makes her more than a little homesick for the clear air of the coast where she was born, the peaceful silence of the library within which she whiled away the hours between her lessons.

Still, she is here to perform a duty, and so she squares her shoulders, lifts her chin, and climbs the stairs to the building in front of her, glancing only briefly at the sign that reads Devil May Cry.

The second she opens the door, the scents of old food and stale beer assault her nose. Breathing shallowly through her mouth, she steps inside and frowns. The room is spacious, to be certain, and hints at the grandeur it could achieve, but with the busted jukebox in the corner, the old, ratty couch on an equally threadbare rug, the beer bottles and empty pizza boxes littered across every surface, she's surprised anyone actually lives here. Her eyes trace the strange weapons hung haphazardly on the walls between posters of scantily clad women before landing on the chipped desk and, settled behind it with his feet on its surface and a magazine over his face, a man.

"Excuse me," Lir says, approaching him with the same care she'd use for a wild dog, "I'm looking for the son of Sparda."

The magazine shifts as the man turns his head. With a glove-covered hand, he lifts the pages to peer at her from beneath before dropping it back into place with a grunt. "What makes you think he's here?"

"My mother told me that I would find him at the shop known as the Devil May Cry. This is the correct place, is it not?" She works to keep her hands from fidgeting with her skirt. A lady, her mother had informed her, never twiddles her fingers. "Am I in the wrong place?"

"Nope, this is the shop. My shop, actually." He sighs as he sits up, his boots thudding to the floor, and she takes in the pale hair and handsome face, noting the similarities between it and the portraits she had been shown of Sparda. "Name's Dante. What can I do for you?"

Slowly, still wary, she steps forward, reaching into the bag at her side to pull out a letter that she holds out for him to take. "My name is Lirael, but you may call me Lir. I'm here regarding the promise made between Sparda and my father."

"Sparda, huh?" He folds his arms and leans back in his chair, ignoring the letter, the leather creaking a bit as he regards her. "Sparda is long gone, you know."

Lir swallows nervously. "I'm sorry to hear that. We had known he hadn't been seen for many years, but not that he was . . . Well." She waits for Dante to say something, and when he simply stares at her, she clears her throat uncomfortably. "I understand he had a son. That's who I am looking for."

"He had two sons, actually," Dante replies.

Her eyes open wide in surprise. "Oh! That I didn't know. Where is the eldest?"

"He's dead, too."

Lir feels heat on her neck, a mixture of embarrassment and anger. "Are you mocking me?" she snaps. She takes a step forward and presses her lips together. "Who are you, anyway?"

Dante chuckles, the sound bearing an edge of scorn. "I said he had two, didn't I? I'm the second. Gotta say, though, the old man never mentioned anything about some promise. Sure you got the right demon?"

"Yes, I'm certain," she replies, her tone clipped. "The promise was made millennia ago, during the war between the worlds. In return for aid in sealing the portals, Sparda promised his son's hand in marriage to one of the daughters of Ler."

"Lir? Thought that was your name."

"I was named for the god my people serve." She lifts her chin. "If you are truly one of his sons, and the eldest is . . . gone, then that means I now belong to you."

His brows lift. "Tempting, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline. I'd offer to pay for your cab home, but I don't have the cash. Have a safe trip."

He goes back to lounging, and she can only stare at him, her heart beating uncomfortably in her chest. If she fails here, it will mean a life of solitude and seclusion and being stricken from her family's records, and she swallows thickly and moves around the desk to stand next to him. "Is there something about me you find displeasing? I know that I am not . . . the most endowed of my sisters, yet I was trained just as they were in the arts of pleasure, so I am certain I can satisfy you."

Slowly he lifts his face, his expression completely unreadable. Lir stares back, trying not to panic as she waits for him to speak. "Well?" she finally demands.

"Sorry, I . . . uh, what did you say?"

She sighs loudly, hands balling into fists so to keep her temper. "I said, I am trained in the arts of pleasure, and—"

"That's what I thought you said."

He stands and takes her by the arm, and for a moment Lir does panic as he drags her behind him. This is what she has been raised for, instructed her whole life: fulfill the promise of her god and become wife to the son of Sparda. But to be handled so roughly and dragged to his bedroom, to be used like this—

Until she realizes he is dragging her towards the door, bending to pick up her suitcase on the way. "Hey!" she cries. "What are you doing?"

"This has been swell, and I don't know if it was Lady or Trish that put you up to this, but you gotta go."

Lir struggles against his grip, forcing Dante to curse under his breath as he tugs her along. "It's not a joke! Please, just listen!" She pulls as hard as she can, wrenching from his fingers and landing in a heap on the floor.

Dante stands over her with a scowl and his hands on his hips. "Enough is enough. What do you want?"

"I told you! I'm here to marry the son of Sparda and fulfill . . ." Her voice fades as emotion wells in her throat, and in frustration she swipes at her eyes, hot tears threatening to fall. "I thought I was coming here to meet a legendary knight, not some buffoon in a dirty warehouse!"

"I am a legendary knight," he bites back with a frown.

"You are rude and disgusting," Lir shouts, climbing to her feet. "If I were not bound to marry you—"

"Woah, woah, sweetheart, slow down with the marrying," Dante yelps, putting his palms up. "I ain't marrying anybody. Look, I don't know what my old man said to your old man or god or whatever, but I'm not marrying you, and I sure as hell not gonna date some, uh . . . whatever it is you are." He gestures up and down as she goes red. "So you're gonna have to just go back to where you came from and explain."

"I can't."

Dante rolls his eyes. "You have to."

"No, I can't! I can't go back, they'll . . ." She sucks in a sharp breath, digging her nails into her palms. "Can we just . . ."

"Oh, no." He leans over, peering closer. "No, no, no. Are you crying?"

"No."

"Because there is no crying in my shop."

"It's not like I want to be!" Humiliated both by having been caught crying and by how poorly this whole thing is turning out, she turns away from him to rub at her cheeks, trying to wipe the moisture away. "I can't go back," she repeats, miserably. "They'll punish me, and a failure of this magnitude would mean . . ."

There is a heartbeat's worth of silence before he says, "They really take this, uh . . . this marriage that seriously?"

Lir nods, still refusing to look at him. "I'm not the eldest of my line, but the council thought . . . well, they thought that I would be best suited as your wife, because my magic is stronger than my sisters'. I was raised for this purpose alone. If I return to tell them that you refused me . . . It would mean I'm too flawed, and they would take my voice and send me to the archives."

She wraps her arms around herself, waiting for his word. Anger still simmers below the surface despite her best attempts to soothe herself; hasn't her entire life been waiting for someone else's word on where to go, what to wear, who to marry? And here she is again, waiting on the word of someone else.

Lir risks a glance to see him rubbing his cheek, covered in a line of stubble. "Okay. You don't have to, uh . . . go get your voice taken or whatever. Just stay right there, okay?"

She nods and watches him walk over to his desk. Dante faces her as he moves backwards, his hands out as if she were something dangerous, about to pounce or explode. Lir frowns, wondering why he is behaving this way; surely he fights demons every day, and isn't afraid of anything?

He picks up the receiver of his telephone and presses a few buttons. "Hey," he says, his eyes still on her. "You busy? . . . No, I don't have your money, but . . . Will ya listen to me? There is this girl here and, uh . . . she's crying."

"I am not!" Lir shouts.

"Just come." He bangs down the receiver and sweeps a hand through his hair. "My friend Lady is on her way. She'll help you figure out what to do."

"Is she your lover?" she asks. Dante stares at her, his lips parted with surprise, and her cheeks heat. "I'm sorry, I only . . . I thought that might explain why you . . . why you didn't want to go through with this."

"Lady would put a bullet in my head before she'd do anything like that," he replies, his voice oddly flat. "She's a devil hunter, but she's the only one I know who might be able to do something for you."

"Do something . . .?"

He nods once. "Yeah. Get you set up in an apartment or somethin', if that's what you want to do, make sure that you don't have to go back to wherever it is you came from."

Lir shakes her head, following him as he walks through the shop. "I don't want to go to an apartment. I want to—"

He stops suddenly and she nearly crashes into him as she pulls up short. Dante turns around and glares down at her, the top of her head barely coming to his collarbone. She bites back the rest of her sentence as she looks up in almost awe, the sheer size of him intimidating this close. Far below the surface she can sense the demon powers that lurk in his blood, and, inside that, the thread that connects them through the oath that was made, like a thin gold chain, beautiful and brittle.

"You what?" he growls.

"I take it that Sparda never spoke about us," she murmurs.

"I'm not interested in hearing about Sparda from some girl crying in my shop," he says. But the taunt is not unkind, just sharp, and Lir lifts her chin. "Save it for Lady. She'll help you out."

"Fine." Lir spins on her heel, her lips twisting at the "hey!" Dante yelps as her hair smacks him, and stomps over to the chairs that serve as the waiting area near the door. She sits properly, as she was taught, ankles crossed and tucked back, her hands folded on her lap as she stares straight ahead.

He watches her for a few seconds before shaking his head with a shrug. Then he returns to the position she'd found him in, though she can feel his eyes on her from beneath the magazine spread once more over his face. Lir tries to meditate, something she had been taught to do whenever feeling upset—a lady should never show her anger, in case she makes her husband uncomfortable—but her mind refuses to clear. For every lesson she had sat through, none of them had covered what to do if Sparda had failed to mention his promise to his sons, if she was rejected.

Nearly an hour has passed in stony silence before the sound of an engine cuts through the air, idling outside the shop before going silent. She squares her shoulders and turns her attention to the door just as a woman with short-cropped hair steps through it, lifting her sunglasses to peer around with cool eyes. It doesn't take her long to spot Lir, yet it's Dante she addresses first. "What the hell did you do this time?"

"Me?" Dante drawls, unmoving. "I didn't do a thing. She wandered in here spouting off about getting married and started crying when I said it wasn't gonna happen."

"Married?" The woman barks out a laugh. "You sure you didn't imagine it?"

Lir frowns, wondering if this is the one Dante spoke to on the phone. "Excuse me," she interjects, as politely as she can, "but he's exaggerating the truth. I was sent to fulfill a promise made between his father and mine, and he has no interest in it, so we've come to a bit of a stalemate."

The woman turns and looks her over curiously. "What's your name?"

"Lir," she answers. "I'm the direct descendent of the god Ler, 60th in his line."

"Sixty?" Dante mutters, but she ignores him.

"The savior of humanity, the knight Sparda, asked Ler for his help in sealing the demon realm," she continues. "In exchange, Ler made him take an oath that his son would marry his daughter. Sparda agreed, although he did not have any progeny until . . ." Her eyes trail over to where Dante is sprawled and her brows draw down. "And here we are."

The woman laughs, shaking her head. "That is some story." She smirks and jerks her chin at Dante. "Did Trish do this?"

"I wish." Dante sighs and gestures towards Lir. "Would you do something with her?"

"And what am I supposed to do?" the woman demands, her hands on her hips.

"I don't know. Take her somewhere."

Lir opens her mouth to protest, but the woman shakes her head. "Bad idea, Dante. If what she says is true, then Sparda made an oath to a god. That much magic power binds you, and you want to just break it? Any idea what would happen if you decide to defy an oath between gods?"

Dante makes a face. "Is it bad?"

"Bad is an understatement. From what I understand, you'd wish you simply died instead of enduring the punishment you could suffer." The woman glances at Lir. "Which leaves the question of what to do with her. Why haven't you sent her home?"

He yawns. "Said she can't go back without losing her voice. Or something like that."

"That true?" The woman turns to her.

"Yes," Lir replies. "As I told him, if I return having failed to fulfill the promise, I will be punished for it, my voice taken, my name and history stricken from the annals and sent to spend the rest of my life in the archives."

Both of them study her, the woman with a frown and Dante with narrowed eyes. "Well," the woman says, "in that case, you're going to stay right here."

"What!"

She holds up a hand to quiet Dante, and Lir's brows raise. Are all the women around here so forceful, or is this one different? "I'll go see if her story checks out. Should be easy enough. I'll also see if I can get the details on this oath."

Lir fidgets as Dante leans over the desk and growls, "And how much is this going to cost me?"

The woman smiles sweetly. "We can negotiate the price once I see if there is anything worth finding."

He grumbles and waves his hand as she turns to Lir. "Will you write down where your home is? And any other contact information?"

Lir hesitates as the woman extracts a pen and pad of paper from the bag slung on her hip. "If they find out he has rejected me—"

"I'll be discreet, I promise," she says.

Lir studies her for a moment, her heart pounding. Her face seems kind beneath the sternness, and then she notices her eyes are two different colors, making her blush a bit. "It is said that heterochromia is a sign of truth-telling," Lir murmurs, accepting the pad and pen.

"Hetero-what?" Dante shouts.

Lir shoots him a look but the woman just laughs. "That's new to me. But I'll take it." Lir goes to work writing down information, and when she is finished, her smile is genuine. "Don't let him push you around," she says, nodding towards Dante. "He might look scary but he's a big softie underneath."

A loud snort comes from the devil hunter, and Lir masks her own laugh. "What is your name?" she asks.

"Lady is fine. I'll call you in three days," she hollers over her shoulder, and with a final wave she exits the shop, leaving Lir alone with Dante.

Another silence, no less awkward than the first, descends in her wake. Lir does not need to look to feel Dante's displeasure; it makes the air between them thick and unpleasantly heavy, and she nearly bites her lip before she catches herself. Her family, her tutors, all of them had assured her that this was an honor, that she would be greeted with warmth, and yet . . . She glances at him from the corner of her eye, suppressing a wince at the thunder on his brow.

Uncertain of what else to do, she stands, intending to go and see if there is anything in the kitchen she can use to make a meal for him. His voice stops her. "Sit down."

"What?"

"Sit. Down." Dante points to the chair she's just left. "Lady might buy the wounded damsel bit, but not me, so you're not going anywhere until I hear what she's found."

"You still think this is a joke?" Disbelief colors her voice heavily. "Why would anyone pull such a prank?"

His eyes are cold, assessing. "Might not be a prank. Might be someone wants a shot at me or something I've got hidden away here."

"Hidden away?" The laugh leaves her before she can stop it, tumbling from her throat before she even realizes. "Is there anything inside this place besides trash? Your antique collection of socks, perhaps?"

Dante stands, glowering at her, and Lir snaps her mouth closed. He grits his teeth, more than likely struggling to keep his temper, and her heart tightens as she waits to hear whatever rebuke he is preparing. But Dante simply points again, his voice like shards of glass. "Sit down and don't speak."

Lir obeys immediately, her training overtaking her defiance in her fear. She watches as Dante tries to make another phone call, then another, and on the third try when he gets no answer he lets go a string of curses. "Why is no one home when I need them?" he shouts, slamming the receiver down.

He walks around his desk, grabbing his leather coat from the coat rack and heads towards the door. "Where are you going?" she calls.

"Out." He pauses as he walks by, and they exchange a look, his furious and hers cautious. "Just stay right there."

"Lady said she'd call in three days," Lir protests as he turns. "You can't expect me to sit in this chair the whole time."

He mutters under his breath before jerking his chin to the steps. "There's a spare bedroom upstairs. Last door on the right. I'll be back in a few hours." Then he steps closer, pointing his finger at her with an edge to his voice. "Don't get comfortable, sweetheart. You can stay here tonight but tomorrow you're out of here. And don't touch any of my stuff, got it?"

"I . . ." His lips press together, and she deflates, teetering on the edge of true despondency. So much, she thinks, for a warm welcome. "Yes. I understand."

Dante turns, his boots thudding on the floor, and the slam of the door makes her flinch. With no one around, there is no reason to keep up the pretense of decorum, and Lir folds in on herself, covering her face with her hand as she struggles not to cry. All she had wanted in coming here was to make her mother proud, to prove to everyone who said she was too willful, too curious, too everything to succeed wrong. Yet it seems like it was all for nothing; she failed, and horribly at that.

Once she is certain that she has swallowed her tears, she stands and heads towards the stairs. Yet she pauses, staring blankly at the piles of trash on every available surface, twisting the hem of her shirt in her fingers. Dante had told her not to touch anything, but maybe if she proves to him that she's capable, despite her youth, of taking care of him . . .

With a nod, she goes to the kitchen. The state of it makes her groan, pizza boxes and beer bottles everywhere, dishes stacked high in the sink, the counters stained, but she rolls up her sleeves and pulls her hair into a braid. Under the sink, to her surprise, is a spray bottle of bleach, a thing of furniture polish, a full box of trash bags, four unopened bottles of dish soap, and even some purple liquid labelled as a floor disinfectant. If he has all of this, Lir wonders, why doesn't he take care of his home?

"A man is incomplete without a wife," she murmurs out loud; one of the sayings repeated since her youth that feels even more ridiculous now. She pulls the supplies out and opens the first trash bag, going through the junk in the kitchen as she starts to clean. It will be hours before she is tired anyway, and Lir figures this is a good use of her energy. And who knows? Maybe Dante will see that she can be useful after all.

#dmc #devil may cry #dante sparda #lirael thorne #lir #dante/lir #dante/oc #dmc oc #fanfiction #writing #story #myfic #collab #promise me forever #pmr #i hope you enjoy!!

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