4.06 / 4.10

"and we will be your partners, in the fight to free [the new world]?"

A Lost Tomb Meta Argument for the Bond Between Liu Sang and Wu Xie

Listen. Liu Sang may get all clever and snarky at Wu Xie with passive aggressive one-liners at first (Lucille Bluth voice: good for him), but here I want to talk about how the progress of LTR and their own personalities point to them developing a really sweet friendship over the series.

Note: I haven’t read the books, just seen snippets, so I know there are things here that won’t hold up to the source text; I’m doing this meta based on the show alone, apologies for any confusion or big anachronisms to the book.

1.) They are both defensive, snarky, and wary people whose life experiences have made them this way. Wu Xie hides it far better behind his charm and smiles, plus he does usually have his iron triangle and family support to fall back on. But I like that when Liu Sang confronts Wu Xie over the whole “you’re dying and in a dangertomb dude wtf” thing, you get to see the look on his face right after Wu Xie responds being all “bitch try me I will deny everything”— Liu Sang actually looks pleasantly surprised by it, and keeps his mouth shut until the situation becomes too obvious. That face in that moment isn’t confusion or fear, that’s some straight-up recognition. Like, oh shit, he’s still annoying but it’s weird now because I totally get him and appreciate that he has a spine after all. Liu Sang is a stranger here, he just met Wu Xie like 12 hours ago, but somehow he understands him perfectly in that moment and I appreciate that acknowledgment of kinship.

2.) Beneath all the prickliness, they are both soft at heart. Wu Xie had ten years of hell to transform into a excellent liar and actor, Liu Sang’s backstory is trauma after betrayal after trauma. But we see how they are both capable of extraordinary goodness—the first time we meet Liu Sang, he awkwardly tries to help a small child he believes is in danger, and later becomes a member of the squad despite his half-hearted efforts not to like them. Liu Sang’s loyalty, once earned, is powerful and unconditional. Wu Xie’s best (and most double edged) qualities are, as I’ve discussed before, his compassion, love and loyalty, and these qualities overwhelm his guardedness over and over again in the series. Despite that coldly pragmatic Wu mindset he sometimes develops, what ultimately drives Wu Xie and what makes the show is his passion for adventure and love for his people.

3.) Xiao Ge. The Venn diagram betwixt our two foxes. There’s a reason the Wu Xie/Xiao Ge/Liu Sang tag is alive and well. Honestly though, they both gravitate towards Xiao Ge at first due to their fascination with him, but Wu Xie has had the benefit of getting to know Xiao Ge much sooner and in a different capacity and is already his boyfriend one of the very few people who’s truly close to Xiao Ge. He is himself possessive over Xiao Ge to a degree—I’ve seen some hilarious jealous-Wu Xie posts—but I think a lot of it stems from a place of long familiarity that has been hard-won. Liu Sang starts from a place of what he admits is idolization, but I think a turning point happens early on in the tombs, when he admits to Xiao Ge that he played a trick on Pangzi and Wu Xie that indirectly got them into trouble. Liu Sang’s expression shows that he knows how foolish this joke makes him look now that something bad has happened, even though they both know he didn’t mean any real harm. BUT. He owns up anyway to do the right thing. Like Wu Xie, Liu Sang is a person whose pride can get the best of him, but who is capable of casting it aside once he realizes it’s a problem. He then shifts gears and uses his ability not to impress Xiao Ge but to help save Wu Xie and Pangzi. He then chooses to follow the group at a distance from then on rather than trying to still stick to Xiao Ge’s side. I don’t think it’s really just fear of Pangzi, as is claimed by that character in the show—I think it’s more awkwardness and even some guilt. Once things change and the friendship grows, Liu Sang is no longer trailing behind. I appreciate that they so clearly come to occupy different places in Xiao Ge’s life—his soulmate and his protege—but they also come to be friends.

4. The realness of their interactions. Liu Sang is the only person in this series who meets Wu Xie for the first time as his present dying heir self, not sweet bebe Wu Xie, not sheltered Tianzhen, and he sees him as he truly is and treats him like a regular person (no disrespect to the marvelous Xiao Bai, but she does put Wu Xie on a pedestal for so much of the series until she knows better). It’s clear that Wu Xie also sees Liu Sang as he is, not just a clever tomb raiding tool or pretty-boy but instead this lonely kid who is human and vulnerable. (I have to wonder to what degree his regret over everything that happened with Li Cu influences how easy he goes on Liu Sang in the show?) He doesn’t react to Liu Sang’s initial sass on the beach, doesn’t really get mad for the trick Liu Sang played in the tomb, and (hilariously) won’t ever let Liu Sang thank him for the instinctive rescue as they are escaping the tombs—they’ve already silently jumped to “it’s cool, I gotcha” status in like three episodes.

Most importantly: I truly believe that once they meet, Li Cu and Liu Sang will form a “how did my life get turned upside down and admittedly way better in the long run due to this insane cardigan-rocking disaster and his equally insane friends” club and that they will have commiseration meetings during parties whenever Li Cu’s Adopted Dad and Liu Sang’s Idol are getting…cozy.

I also have a headcanon that during a random visit to deliver something, Liu Sang learns he now has a room that’s entirely his at Wushanju, fully soundproofed to protect his ears and located by a private door out to the courtyard so he can come and go as he wishes.

What I Thought About "Hunting Palismans" From The Owl House

Salutations, random people on the internet who certainly won’t read this! I am an Ordinary Schmuck. I write stories and reviews and draw comics and cartoons.

Today, I present to you reason #4,693 for why The Owl House is the best thing at the moment: It's the perfect balance of serialized storytelling with an episodic format. The story always moves forward with an exact order for how episodes should be watched, but each episode still functions as its own standalone tale. Having prior knowledge of what happened before adds more to the experience, but you can still watch whatever you want and still have an enjoyable time. Take "Hunting Palismans," for example. It adds so much more to the overarching narrative while slightly continuing other threads. But it's still something you can watch as is without remembering the past or wondering about the future.

However, to properly explain how requires spoilers. I wasn't kidding when I say that this episode adds so much, so you're going to want to be wary of that when you continue reading.

With that said, let's review, shall we?

WHAT I LIKED

Coven Heads Meeting: We already saw these fellow schmucks in the trailer, but that doesn't take away how cool they are! It's not explicitly stated which head belongs to which coven, but you can already tell who goes where just from their designs alone. And I love that. I love that just by showing us some excellent character designs, anybody with half a brain can already figure out the particular type of magic each Coven Head specializes in. It's a perfect example of the show-don't-tell level of storytelling that is always at its best through animation, and I'm all for it because of it.

What the Day of Unity is: Several fans, myself included, have already speculated that the Day of Unity was that Emperor Belos planned to combine the human world with the Boiling Isles and rule it all with an iron fist. That being said, figuring it out is one thing, but being told that it's true is a whole different level pants-s**ting horror that I AM NOT READY FOR! Even when it's going to happen, I can assure you that I will not be prepared to witness it ...and I am scared of when it does.

Belos Body Horror: ...Disney, I was already scared s**tless of this guy. I DO NOT NEED THIS!

That being said, seeing Belos do...whatever the f**k that was, helps explain further why he needs the magic in palismans. I always assumed because it's like fuel for a car, giving him the power he needs. Now, even though the answer is more apparent, there are still some questions to be had. Is he cursed, and the magic keeps it at bay like Eda's potions? Or did he experiment with the wrong type of magic, and the palismans keep him stable? Only the future can say for sure...and I'm also not prepared for the answers from that either.

Golden Guard is Belos’ Nephew: Gosh dangit, THE INTRO HASN'T EVEN STARTED YET, AND THIS EPISODE IS ALREADY GIVING SO MUCH!

But, yeah, the most powerful witch on the Isles is apparently Golden Boy's Grunkle Belos. That very knowledge is incredibly interesting to discuss while presenting possibilities for future narratives. I don't know about you, but I see the Golden Guard going down the path of Zuko, learning that the magic of friendship is worth much more than whatever power he gains from being Belos' nephew. And possibly earning his uncle's love seeing how he's the only family he has. It's a situation that's vastly different from Amity's because even when she defies her parents, she'll still have Edric and Emira at the end of the day. For Golden Guard, knowing that he lost a great family to wild magic, the inclination to go against Belos is a lot weaker due to him being all he has left.

Oh, and also, Belos' family getting wiped out because of wild magic. Yeah, not only does that give the best type of motivation for Belos' distaste for it, but it also explains the Golden Guard's hesitance to use it. He's inclined to so he can save his uncle, sure. It's only the fact that he knows what happens with wild magic that causes some resistance...Also, we're less than a minute in, and I'm already getting all of this from one discussion between two characters.

HOW IS THIS SHOW SO GOOD?!

Intro Changes: It's about time too. It seems weird that the crew waited to change Eda and King's designs in the intro this late in the game, but it also tells me that Amity dying her hair lavender is the last huge change this season will present. Otherwise, why change the intro at all if you were going to alter Luz, Willow, and Gus' designs anyway? It just doesn't make sense to me.

Luz Keeping the Echo Mouse as a Pet: The fact that she keeps the most important creature in the world to her as a pet...it's...it's adorable, alright? And as we established several times, I cannot hate adorable things.

Don't judge me!

Amity Staying Home: There are two plausible ways why Amity didn't go to school that day. Either she's getting punished for dying her hair or because she's trying to avoid Luz so they won't talk about the you-know-what. Either could work and seem understandable to Luz, thus explaining why she admits how "that makes sense." Although, there is something to discuss in how Luz is curious as to where Amity is. Judging from the tone of her voice, it's pretty clear that she wants to talk about the little peck on the cheek and maybe get some confirmation as to what it means. Because there is no going back from that. You can explain away saying or doing something stupid, but you cannot un-kiss a cheek. That is a point of no return, and if Amity really is avoiding Luz because of it, that means it's up to our favorite weirdo to make the first move. As for what that may entail...we'll just have to wait and see.

Frewin: We get two bits of information here for the price of one reveal here. Knowing that Frewin is a palisman is shocking enough, but the knowledge that Bump is partially blind and needs Frewin to see? That is an intriguing piece of intel that I would have never expected to get revealed. This is reason #5,279 for what makes The Owl House so good. Even when the show presents information you wouldn't guess, it's all so interesting anyways that you can't help but go along with it.

Adopting Palismans: First of all, love the fact that the Bat Queen makes a return to provide a solution to the palisman trees being rare and solving her own problem regarding the discarded palismans. It's a situation where everyone wins in a way that is so clever that I can't help but admire it.

Second, the idea of students choosing to adopt palismans instead is cute. I'd say it gives further insight into who these characters are in how they say what they want to be, but there's nothing really new added that fans couldn't figure out from the get go. But I will say that it's pretty cool to know that these characters have official staffs now. Speaking of which, if you're upset that their palismans don't match up with your headcanons...grow up.

This was a cute and smartly written scene that should not be bogged down by whiney fans who can't accept a series doing something different from what they expect.

Little Rascal: I’d take a bullet for this bird. That is all.

Luz Being Uncertain of her Future: A lot of fans offer several ideas of what the future could look like for Luz. Will she stay in the Boiling Isles? In Connecticut? Or will she go back and forth? We don't know, but one question we rarely brought up is what does Luz want? More specifically, what does she want to do? After everything Luz went through, the adventures she's gone on, and the lessons learned, what is something that Luz wants her future to be? That's an answer she doesn't really figure out, and I'm genuinely ok with that being a question that's tabled for another day. Most kids who ask that question themselves aren't always going to find an answer after a short amount of time and sometimes even need to spend their lives trying to figure it out. So having it be something Luz has to consider and probably find out in a future episode is the smarter option, as it allows time for it to simmer in her own mind and provides more insight into her character. As stated several times in this episode, she doesn't think things through, so it's nice that the writers finally allowed her some time to wonder what's next when the adventure is over.

Luz Having to Improvise Without Paper Glyphs: You want to know what my favorite Spider-Man moments are (this is relevant. Trust me). My favorite moments are when Spidey's web-shooters run out of fluid, and he's forced to improvise with that big brain of his to find a solution. That's sort of what happens with Luz in "Hunting Palismans." She didn't bring her glyphs with her (why would she), so she's forced to use the environment around her to make new ones. Plus, Luz also flexes her knowledge of the Boiling Isles by mixing her glyphs with a magical plant (which Willow certainly told her about) so that she and the Golden Guard could knock out Kikimora's dragon. It's yet another showcase of her intelligence that a lot of fans are too keen to overlook. Unfortunate to see, too, because looking at how well Luz can craft the perfect solutions by fighting smarter, not harder, is a fantastic add-on to her personality. I love characters who win through their wits rather than their raw powers, and I once again hope more people will catch onto that aspect of her too.

Golden Guard Whistling the Theme: Look, I love it when a show acknowledges its own theme song, ok? Leave me alone.

Luz and the Golden Guard: This is one of those dynamics you didn't know you wanted until you have it. And now that I have it, I DEMAND MORE!

Seriously, seeing these two interact off of each other was a ton of fun to watch. When Luz and GG are initially at each other's throats, their threats and mockery towards one another aren't out of spiteful anger between two mortal enemies. It's more like...two siblings who get on each other's nerves yet are supposed to deal with one another. It's equally adorable and hilarious, and yes, I absolutely loved that they're forced to work together in this episode because of it.

Although, while the entertainment value is fantastic, it also adds more proof of why Luz is the best character in the series. She spends one night with this guy, and that's more than what she needed to make a difference with him. I wouldn't go so far as to say that they're buddies now, but Luz definitely sowed the seeds into his redemption. He's far from willing to join her side, but he still does something he rarely does with anyone else: He told her that his name is Hunter. And this is what Luz does. Through nearly every person she meets on the Boiling Isles, she always manages to change them for the better. It'll be a while before Hunter deflects from Belos, but if Amity proves anything, Luz has a way of sneaking into people's hearts. They just need to spend more time with one another, and I can't wait to see what happens next because of it.

Kikimora Wanting to Kill Hunter: This shows a lot about who Kikimora is, but it potentially proves just how dysfunctional the Emperor's Coven can be. If Kiki proves anything, the coven must be filled with people willing to backstab and cheat their way to get on Emperor Belos' good side. Just look at Lilith. She literally cursed her own sister just to get in and received all the rewards because of it. The Emperor's Coven may be the best choice for witches to do magic, but if you're surrounded by people you can't trust, then is it really worth it?

The Guards Not Knowing Who Hunter is: This helps add to how much of a big deal it is for Hunter to reveal his name to Luz. If people can't even recognize his face, there's a chance it means that he keeps his true identity a secret except for those in his inner circle.

And the coven guards brushing off his brand is more than believable to me. They may be aware that Belos' right hand is young, but teens will be teens. Anybody with enough artistic talent can fake a brand. So it isn't too far off for those two to think Hunter was just a kid pulling a prank.

Hunter is Powerless Without his Staff: Not much to say here. It's just some more neat insight into Hunter's character that makes me wonder if even Belos' magic is real magic.

But I will say this: The fact that Hunter comes from a lineage of powerless witches, well, who's to say that isn't because of a...certain ancestor?

(*Cough* Hunter is related to Philip *Cough*)

Hunter vs Kiki: A pretty well-animated fight scene that adds potential drama to the story for the future. Now that Kikimora knows that Hunter helped Luz escape with the palismans (albeit unwillingly), she may or may not hold that over his head when the time comes. Or, at the very least, decides to keep a closer eye on him whenever he makes a slip-up.

Eda and King Getting Luz her own Palisman Wood: These last two weeks have been severely lacking in the Eda and King department, but scenes like this more than make up for it. Those two have formed such a bond with Luz to the point where they would do the impossible if it meant she would feel better. It proves just how much of a family they all are and the lengths they would go for each other. After all, weirdos have to stick together.

Little Rascal going to Hunter: Hunter is right. That was surprising.

Given how much Little Rascal stuck by Luz, I was more than positive that she would be the one he chose. So seeing Little Rascal pick Hunter instead is a much nicer twist. There could be multiple reasons why, and I'm just going to leave that to the analyzers in this fandom to decide. Especially since the answer isn't really all that important.

So, instead, I'm going to go ahead and sit in the corner as I wOrRy AbOuT tHe DaY tHaT bElOs FiNdS lItTlE rAsCal!

IT'S GONNA HAPPEN! AND I SWEAR TO ALL THAT IS HOLY, IF THE WRITERS KILL HIM, I WILL NOT BE HAPPY!

WHAT I DISLIKED

First, there's...um...

Well, there was this...

Ok, as much as I liked--No, that turned out well anyways...

…

...

...I've got nothing.

I, honest to goodness, have no complaints about "Hunting Palismans" Not even the tiniest of nitpicks I would usually ignore due to how well-executed everything else was.

It's all written fantastically to the point where it's...perfect.

IN CONCLUSION

"Hunting Palismans" is an easy A+. It introduces even more plot threads, gives insight into characters, and despite being essential to the story, it still manages to be a fun episode all on its own. And, I'd go so far as to say that it's one of the best, if not the best, episodes in the series. There's nothing bad about it, and that surprises me. I rarely find nothing bad to say about any story, even the ones I enjoy greatly. I'm sure there are some flaws that others would be more than happy to point out, but why bother hunting for the imperfections when I could accept that, for once, an episode is simply perfect.

(And that’s six hits in a row...THAT STINKER IS GOING TO HAPPEN! It hasn’t happened yet, BUT IT’S GOING TO HAPPEN! I CAN FEEL IT!)

Fluctuations

Pairing: Bucky x Reader!Powers

Warnings: Language

A/N: I blame @angrythingstarlight for inspiring me to start this...thing. I don’t know what it is but I have done it. Lurker turned whatever.

Please, do not copy, translate, rewrite or post my work even if you credit me.

----------

“Fuck,” you hissed as you scrambled up the 6th flight of stairs in a desperate bid to outrun your pursuers. As soon as your eyes had landed on that tell-tale skull and tentacle laden logo, you just knew that things would go sideways.

Even as your calves burned and begged for a rest, you hauled yourself up the last set of stairs and spilled out onto the roof with a gasp of exhaustion and you made a wobbly dash over to the fire escape. Making one last adjustment to the straps of your backpack, you felt reassured that the weight of the stolen goods were still nestled between your shoulders and reached for the ladder.

“You should probably just hand it over, you know,” a voice stated simply from above and, in all of his winged-glory, Captain America landed softly on the rooftop a few feet behind you. Another half-second later, the person you had been hauling ass from silently appeared to the left of Sam Wilson and you felt frozen to the spot as his sharp blue eyes trained in on your face.

A bead of sweat trickled down your neck and you just knew that the wig you had worked so hard to affix on top of your hair was now very obvious and askew. You let out a breath you did not know you had been holding and let the reality of your situation settle over your shoulders.

Grasping the straps a little tighter to summon up your courage, you took a few unsteady steps to the side to be clear of the fire escape and then turned to dive off the roof. You heard a rush of raised voices behind you and a shuffle of movement before the world turned into a dark blur rushing up to meet you.

“Fuck!” you yelp as you dropped.

----------

Life has never been easy for you and, after coming back from the blip, it had gotten insurmountably worse.

Before the blip, you had managed to find security in your work and in your own personal life. The design firm you worked at was lobbing more work for high priority clients your way and there were signs that your boyfriend was close to proposing. You wished that you could share your accomplishments with your parents, but the fates had decided to remove them from the equation 3 years earlier in a sudden clash of metal and rubber that had permanently left a part of your heart hollow and numb.

The moment your life shattered for a second time was right after you had completed your usual circuit run around the neighborhood to help burn off some of the extra energy that had built up with the excitement of your sister finally visiting you in the city. Your sister was an hour out from touchdown and as you chatted over the phone with your boyfriend about dinner plans for the evening a sudden shock of cold settled low in your belly. Whatever words were on your tongue faded and drifted into nothingness.

The next thing you knew was you were standing in the same spot on the sidewalk with a gasp and were immediately bowled over by a jogger who seemed just as shocked as you were. From there, the disorientation only grew as the ripples of the repercussions of having the returned trying to find normalcy in a world that had moved on grew into tidal waves.

It was bad enough that your apartment and belongings were lost, your boyfriend had married someone else and the company you were working for had since dissolved. The true horror came when you realized that your sister had been flying 30,000 feet above the ground the moment of the blip. You had screamed until your throat was raw and the tears had gone dry as you realized your world had ended.

Thanks to government assistance, you had a roof over your head, but you were adrift in your loss and felt directionless for the first couple of months after your return. It wasn’t until you had saddled up at a bar that was one of your father’s favorite drinking spots did a sliver of hope crept back into your life. 

As you took another long pull from your glass, a gentle weight landed on your shoulder and the barstool next to you was quickly occupied by a sharp-dressed man with a disarmingly soft smile.

“Hey, [Y/N]. Did not expect to see you here,” the stranger said with a chuckle as he raised his hand to flag down the bartender. 

“Oh, didn’t really expect me to be here, either. But, sorry, do I know you…?”, you questioned with a thread of wariness stitched in your words. It also didn’t help matters that single touch on the shoulder was the first human contact you’d had in weeks. Deep down, you felt another layer of despair settle in the back of your mind.

“Ah, sorry about that. You see, I knew your old man and he was never shy about showing off how proud he was of his daughters. But, [Y/N], he really did go on about how special you were.”

You couldn’t keep the watery smile from your lips as you extended out your hand to his for a shake. “Well, glad to make your acquaintance…,” you left the word hanging as his hand grasped your hand firmly in his.

“Michael,” he said with a chuckle as he gave the bartender a quick nod as a glass of whiskey slid his way, “Nice to be finally meeting you.” He dropped your hand and snatched up the glass to raise it up into the air in front of him. “Here’s to your father,” he spoke as he took a gulp of the amber liquid.

“Yeah, to my dad...and all those we’ve lost,” you toast and raised your own glass to your lips.

“So, since you’re here drinking at 2 o’clock on a Tuesday, I am guessing that things aren’t going that well for you,” Michael pointed out with a sympathetic smile. Looking around the bar, it was clear that the majority of the current patrons were either in the middle of drinking their sorrows away or well-past an attempt at redeeming themselves. You had to wonder where you landed on that depressing spectrum.

“That obvious, huh?”, you sighed as you took another sip of your drink. “Everything that I worked for is gone and I don’t know how to even remotely get back on track. Just trying to get out of bed with a plan makes my head spin most days.”

“Well maybe I can help you start on a new path, [Y/N]. You see, your father sure could put away his drink and he had a hard time keeping his mouth shut when he got too two sheets to the wind. Now, he sometimes did a few odd jobs here and there for me and my associates over the years and it was bound to happen that he would start talking about you…” his eyes slid over to lock onto yours as he gulped down the content of his glass and, without breaking eye contact, threw the bartender another sign for a refill.

You had been in the middle of taking a sip of your beer when he dropped his insinuating remark and you suddenly found yourself wide-eyed and choking on your beverage. You heard him give a chuckle as you desperately tried to recover from the surprise and you shot a glare in his direction.

“Oh, don’t give me that. I’m offering you a job opportunity that will land you enough money to build whatever future you want. I just wanted to let you know that your special skills make you a very appealing candidate.”, he said as he leaned over and gave you a few encouraging pats on the back.

Of course, the one person in her life that had ever discovered her abilities and swore to secrecy would have spilled the beans. She had fought so hard to hide that she was different and it wasn’t until her father had burst back in exclaiming he’d left the keys on the kitchen counter and found her lifting the couch easily with one had to pick up the remote at 16 did the secret get out. Once he had stopped gaping like a fish at her, the onslaught of questions and a never-ending stream of curiosity continuously poured down for years.

“How much did he say?,” you murmured bitterly.

“Enough to know that you can get the job done. Now, you weren’t the only one to take a few losses after coming back. Turns out a few of our properties fell out of our control while most of the family was gone. Word is that one of our old buildings downtown was hiding a bit of a secret in the basement that had managed to stay undiscovered until someone else started renovating our property.” Michael’s voice took on a bit of a hard edge as he wrapped up the last sentence.

“Seems like they are having a hard time getting inside, but we want to know what’s inside and for you to get anything valuable out for us. And that, my dear, is where you would come in.”

“Wait, why exactly do you need me? What is it that is stopping you from just walking in and taking it?”, you ask with words laced with suspicion.

“Your father always said you were clever.”, he smirked as he gave you a small toast in acknowledgement. “For whatever reason, we think the government might be interested in what is rightfully ours. Just in case they send in a more specialized cavalry, we figure it would be safest to send in one of our own.”

“Less collateral damage, yeah?”, you scoff as you finished off your pint.

“Exactly, [Y/N]. I knew you’d be smart enough to catch on. So, want to know how much you stand to make?”, he said with a knowing grin.

You took in a deep breath, set your empty glass on the bar and swiped a hand across your face in resignation. “Sure. What do I have to lose?”

“Nothing at all, kid. Nothing at all.”

----------

You let yourself free fall for a split second before you let your body’s density shift. You suddenly dropped down to the ground and, right before you would leave a crater in the pavement below, you made yourself as light as a feather. You almost landed daintily on one toe before you bolted towards an alley to your right. You were well aware that Captain America would almost immediately be airborne, but you were so close to a very noisy, pedestrian choked city thoroughfare two blocks over. 

Making sure you were light enough on your feet to gain a substantial amount of speed, you didn’t bother looking up or back as you booked it into the busy city street. Once in the throngs of people, you jerked off the wig you were wearing and shook out your hair with a grateful sigh. You unzipped your jacket to wrap it around your waist and then shifted the backpack to sit on the front of your chest. You hoped that it would be enough as you did your damnedest to nonchalantly make your way to the drop-off spot.

You kept waiting for the hammer (well, more like shield) to drop as you walked, but as time wore on nothing happened. By the time that you stepped in though the heavy double doors of a rather upscale restaurant and were led off to a separate dining room, you were almost in shock at how you had managed to get away with it. 

“Ah, [Y/N], our hero returns!” Michael proclaimed proudly as he stood up when you entered the room. He offered to take the backpack from you and wrapped his arm around you as he corralled you over to a table near the back window. Two more men were seated at the table and their auras were far-less boisterous than the man who gave your shoulders a warm squeeze before setting you down at the head of the table.

As he opened up your backpack and spread out the haul across the table, Michael gave a sharp whistle and the dour mood shared between the other men quickly dissipated. “Now these look rather impressive. Who would have known we were sitting on top of a secret stash of Hydra weapons all these years? I know this can’t be all of it. How much did you leave behind?”

You shrugged and you gave a gentle shake of your head at the question. “There wasn’t too much left, but there were at least two boxes I didn’t get a chance to go through before I heard someone coming. I was able to start running before they had a chance to realize I had broken the door down in the first place…” 

“Well, job well done. My associates and I are pleased with your work.” He flashed you a smile before reaching down into a briefcase to grab a couple of stacks of hundred dollar bills that he stuffed into your backpack. He walked over and dropped the backpack into your lap before placing his hands on your shoulders. “Let’s have a drink to [Y/N]’s success tonight and to our continued relationship.”

He gave your shoulders a tighter squeeze that was borderline painful as he spoke. You knew that you might be way in over your head, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. This was something different and it felt better than drowning in failure.

----------

The next day you found yourself actually happy to get out of bed. You damn near whistled as you brewed up a cup of coffee for yourself and you bothered to even clean yourself up for a change. When your eyes fell upon the backpack that sat upon your plywood table and you couldn’t help the wide grin that spread across your lips. Things were finally looking up.

Taking stock at your lack of food in your apartment, you decided to grab a few of the bills out of the backpack and to head down to the local corner store that always had some amazing fresh produce out on display. With your stomach growling at the thought of food, you tucked the money into your back jean pocket and sauntered out the door.

You gave a quick wave to the owner as you grabbed a basket and started to peruse over in the direction of the fresh fruit. Spotting some jazz apples that were catching the morning light and your attention, you slid over to reach out and grab a few when your hand ended up grabbing at leather instead of an apple.

You blinked owlishly before jerking your head up to see who had blocked you from your potential breakfast. Any words you had died in your throat as your heart felt like it was seizing in your chest. A pair of steely blue eyes met yours and the expression in those orbs went from surprise then quickly morphed into something far more accusatory.

With your brain suddenly working overdrive and any rational thought flying out the window, you let out the breath you had been holding shakingly and brilliantly said the first thing that came to you.

“So, uh, come here often?”

Those eyes narrowed just a fraction more and you knew you were doomed.

----------

So, should I continue this or nah? This is my first...so please be gentle.

Bruce Week Fic #6

Sunday (July 25): Grief, Magic

(Warnings for mentions of domestic and child abuse.)

It was funny, being friends with someone who knew magic. Loki had somehow, after everything they had been through, become one of Bruce’s closest confidant on board the spaceship taking them to Earth. First they would merely nod at one-another in quiet respect, then Loki stopped Bruce in the corridor one day to explain how something seemingly innocuous he had done was actually offensive in Asgardian culture and Bruce, though wary he was tricking him, thanked him. 

Then Bruce would make a habit of finding Loki in the makeshift dining hall and sitting with him, not exactly striking up conversation but letting him know they could talk, if he wanted to. 

A few months into the journey and Loki was spotted laughing loudly at something Bruce had said, and whilst it made Thor a little nervous to see them getting along so well, it was also a relief. They were both part of his Royal Council, after all, so they needed to get along for the sake of his people. 

Then, when Bruce moaned to himself about being unable to find what he needed in the cramped medical bay, Loki produced the vial out of thin air and handed it to him. 

“That still freaks me out,” Bruce told him before taking the vial tentatively. 

“I wouldn’t do it if it didn’t,” he said with a smirk.

“How does it work? Are you pulling items from somewhere else? Are you taught how to use magic or is it instinctual? Could I learn magic or is it an Asgardian thing?”

“No, I was taught by my mother and yes… to an extent. You wouldn’t be able to conjure items or control objects but you can learn basic spells.”

Bruce was excited for barely a second before he frowned. “Are you messing with me again?”

“Bruce, I have come to find you… relatively welcome company. I enjoy our conversations, even if you are a Midgardian.”

“Bit prejudiced, but thank you.”

“So I’m not messing with you,” Loki concluded. “I can give you some basic spells to try that will give you more insight into your being.”

“I, uh, think I’ve had enough insight lately," he said warily. 

And Loki smiled, this time without a mischievous glint in his eye. 

"What if I were to teach you a spell that helped you in ways you never knew you needed?"

Bruce snuck into the medical bay late into the evening whilst the rest of the ship went to sleep. It was the one place he knew he wouldn't be disturbed, especially as Asgardians were so resilient to injury, they barely came to him with less than a severed limb. 

He read through the instructions Loki had written in elaborate cursive, mostly in English but certain words wouldn't translate so he had to work through how to pronounce them before starting. It was oddly pleasant following the instructions step by step, like he was trying out a new recipe, only this was more writing specific phrases in runes than measuring out ingredients. 

He had to write the words as naturally as possible, like he had been writing in the language his entire life, recite them outloud and then… go to sleep. Which was easier said than done when he was expecting something miraculous to happen. He crept back into his shared dorm with seven other passengers and lay down, hoping that whatever was supposed to happen would actually help him.

He finally drifted off and there he found himself travelling, not sure what he was facing was a dream or effects of the spell, but welcoming it nonetheless. 

He was standing in an old-fashioned kitchen, meticulously clean down to the top of the cabinets where nobody would ever bother to look. Whoever's domain this was, it was so well looked after it could very well be a showroom. 

There were a few signs of life, however. There was a small stack of plates ready to be cleaned, a few novelty magnets on the refrigerator, a Captain America action figure on the table…

Bruce stopped, looking at the toy and realising where he was. He had spent so long trying to forget his childhood home he didn't even recognise the kitchen anymore. But he knew that toy like it was imprinted on his mind, having spent many hours clutching it, talking to it, wishing the real Cap was there to save him.

"I'm so sorry I kept you waiting, would you like some water?" 

And he spun on his heel to see her. It was so odd to view her now that he was a little taller than her, instead of being small enough to wrap his arms around her legs. She was still as beautiful as the pictures but she wasn't memorialised in his mind like some sort of perfect being. Her sweater was threadbare at the elbows, her hair was a little frizzy (thick curls like his, almost identical in colour) and she had dark circles under her eyes. She also wore glasses, which Bruce had completely forgotten because she took them off for photos. 

"Uh…" he didn't know what to say to her. 

"You must be parched, here," and Rebecca poured him a glass of water from a pitcher she kept in the fridge. "Piping in new houses is never deep enough to keep water cool, not like the old days." 

He was still trying to find words when he realised a vision shouldn't be able to hand him things, and he shouldn't be able to feel the cool water tumbling down his throat. 

"So, you wanted to talk about Robbie?" 

He nearly choked on the last mouthful and hid it with a loud cough. 

"Um, yes," he said, not sure who he was supposed to be in this scenario but going along with it all the same. 

His mother nodded and indicated for him to sit down with her at the kitchen table. Again, it felt so strange to be big enough for a chair he used to sit at every day as a kid, his legs swinging and needing a cushion so he could reach the table properly. 

"His teacher said he's been excelling," she said proudly but then immediately frowned. "You didn't speak to my husband, did you?" 

"No, of course not," and he now knew his role like he had read the script. "Yes, young Br… Robbie has been working really hard and it's clear to see he is clever." 

She smiled, but it was juxtaposed by her sad eyes. "You're going to say he should be in a gifted school, aren't you?" 

"Uh…" 

"Well I'm sorry but he can't. He just… can't." And she sighed tiredly before collecting herself. "I'm sorry, it's just--" 

"I know," Bruce said quietly. "You don't have to explain your reasons. I know you would want the best education for him, but sometimes that can't happen." 

And he couldn't help himself, she was right there in front of him. He put his hand over hers and squeezed it in comfort. 

"Thank you," she said quietly. 

"And it's not like kids won't excel as adults just because they missed out on extra tutoring," he continued. "They'll catch up in no time and go on to do great things." 

She smiled warmly and Bruce recognised his own features in hers. He never thought he looked like her, always hating how he was the spitting image of his father, but he saw himself in her smile. 

"I hope so. Do you know he can name every bird he sees? Even the scientific names. He read about bird watching and within a day he was telling me facts about each one." 

Bruce couldn't help but grin, having forgotten about that particular hyperfixation. "Is that so?" 

"If he could… that is, if we agreed he could go to a gifted school, I suspect he would get a scholarship for college, maybe even go early." 

She looked furious, if just for a moment, letting her guard down enough to show how she really felt. Bruce had never seen her angry; she had hid it well when he was small and already so scared of someone else's anger. She had shown him nothing but smiles and positivity, desperate to make his life as normal as possible. 

But he remembered hearing her crying behind the bedroom door, trying to suppress her sobs so she could go read her child a bedtime story like nothing was wrong. The illusion was shattered that day.

"You are doing everything you possibly can for your son. More than everything. You--"

He stopped himself. Was this really a dream or had he really travelled back? What would it mean if he told her?

"I will lay down my life for him," she finished, eyes defiant and full of fury. 

He felt his facade fading, no longer able to pretend he wasn't who he really was. 

"You're going to save my life. Over and over. Until that bastard kills you for it." 

He cried, clutching her hand and unable to look at her. She shouldn't have sacrificed herself for him. She wasn't supposed to be known as just a wife and mother. She was exceptionally bright in her own right, never one to boast but able to keep up with her husband and nudge her son towards harder sums and thicker books. It wasn't her fault the man who told her he loved her had used that love to control her, to make her feel weak and stupid.

Had she escaped that night, she would have done great things. 

"I know," she said quietly, tears in her own eyes. "I figured I had a shot that night. He usually stays late at the bar and left the car at home, so I thought I had three hours. But I didn't know he had a meeting the next morning and drank a whole bottle of whiskey walking home instead. I miscalculated." 

"It's my fault. You told me to pack but I couldn't find my stupid Captain America toy and…" he wiped his eyes angrily. "I held us up." 

Rebecca reached across the table to wipe the trails of tears from his cheeks.

"You were a child," she said. "It can never be your fault. Hey," and she cradled his face in her hands. "It was never your fault." 

"It wasn't yours either. None of it," he said defiantly. 

She nodded. "Thank you." 

The vision was starting to waver, like an old projection flickering as the film ran out. He clutched her hand desperately, wanting to tell her so much more, to tell her he hadn't wasted the gift she gave him that night. That he had excelled despite everything that happened. That he did everything to make her proud. 

He felt her hand slowly fading, getting lighter in his hand as it faded away. He managed to tell her he loved her before he awoke back on the ship, his face wet with tears. 

The next morning, much to everyone's confusion, Bruce marched straight up to Loki, grabbed him by the shoulder, and hugged him tightly. 

An AU where everyone has wings but they're hidden unless willingly shown. Most people leave them out with pride, but some hide them away. Because each feather is a thought someone has had about you where they were thinking of nothing but you, and to some, this is a beautiful experience.

For Kisuke, his wings have screamed of Aizen's obsession for a century, and he had learned how to consciously turn his own thoughts away from adding feathers to others. Because the idea of Aizen wearing his thoughts was nauseating.

And then he met Erich.

((Okay, so there's definitely going to be more of this, but it'll come Later (TM) bc right now I just want to get something written for things and posted XD Hope this suits!))

(Warnings for Kisuke's anxiety and the whole apology-after-SS-arc thing)

\\\

Kisuke hid a smile behind his fan as he watched the teens tumble from the gate into midair, their panicked and confused shouts both hilarious and reassuring—

(They’d survived.)

(They’d survived, they’d survived, they’d survived…!)

—especially as they were caught in a rug and batted towards Tessai who spilled them out atop Kisuke’s flying carpet. He needed to apologize to them all — especially to Kurosaki — but in this brief, wonderful moment he could simply watch and enjoy.

Movement from the gate made Kisuke jerk back around, staring up at the stranger who strode from the closing gate and then stood there, his sharp eyes scanning the scene and one corner of his mouth quirking up into an amused smile. His gaze caught on Kisuke and his head tilted slightly, amusement fading and stance shifting into something watchful-wary-thoughtful as his wings flared slightly to make him look bigger.

Kisuke swallowed at the sight, at the sheer array of colors on the man’s wings, a patchwork quilt of bright-beautiful-loving thoughts laid bare for the world to see. His primary feathers were alternating sky and midnight blue, marbled with threads of copper and gold, and the rest of his feathers were equally bright, equally distinct, proof of how many people thought of him — thought well of him — in his life.

(Unlike his own wings.)

(No, don’t think about it.)

The man abruptly twitched, right wing spreading slightly more as the man cast a glance at it, and Kisuke froze at the sight of a feather turning sunshine yellow right in front of his eyes.

(No, oh no, he hadn’t meant to—)

(Damn!)

Kisuke yanked his thoughts back in line. Buried his admiration of the man’s wings deep-deep-deep into the midst of a jumble of thoughts-calculations-plans where it couldn’t stain the man’s beautiful wings.

(No one needed his thoughts directed only at them!)

“Ah, Rerugen-san!” Inoue said cheerfully as soon as she got to her feet and waved at the man overhead. “Come down and meet Urahara-san and the others! They’re the ones that helped us get into Soul Society so we could save Rukia-chan.”

The man nodded slowly and folded his wings, then appeared next to Ishida in a burst in hirenkyaku that Kisuke had to strain to follow.

(A Quincy soul?)

(Fascinating.)

“Maa, find a new friend in Soul Society?” Kisuke asked, trying to figure out how and why the Quincy soul had followed the teens home. The man wasn’t wearing Shinigami garb so he probably wasn’t part of the Gotei Thirteen, but how, then, had he convinced the Shinigami to let him follow the teens back to the Living World?

Ishida shrugged and looked away, his shoulders hunching a bit as he tucked himself closer to Rerugen’s side. “Something like that,” he muttered as Rerugen’s wing partially spread to wrap around him in a protective gesture.

“Rerugen-san is going to teach Ishida-kun!” Inoue announced with a bright-sharp-pointed smile, and Kisuke couldn’t help but admire the technique. She was a bit rough at it, but… well, she was still young and didn’t have quite the… incentive… to do well at it that Kisuke’d had at her age.

(Perhaps he should keep an eye on her, give the occasional bit of advice on how to get her way without seeming to do so.)

(She seemed like she’d be good at it.)

“Is that so?” Kisuke tapped the edge of his fan against his chin as he examined Rerugen again: a warrior for sure, and clearly protective over Ishida—

Kisuke suppressed a frown as he turned his attention to Ishida, trying to figure out exactly why something felt off about the teen. Ishida had always been clever-controlled-certain, but… his lack of presence didn’t feel like control. Especially not next to Rerugen’s own control, so strong that Kisuke could only sense the barest edge of presence from him.

(What had happened in Soul Society?)

(He had hoped…)

(Well, one more thing for him to apologize for, it appeared.)

“It is,” Rerugen answered firmly, his attention fixed on Kisuke, and—

Kisuke tried not to shiver as he felt the tell-tale brush of someone’s thoughts running down his spine and into his right wing, already bracing for the dirty-oily-clinging sensation that Aizen’s obsession always left behind, but… it didn’t come. Instead, it felt like cool water across his back, sluicing away the memory and making his hidden wings feel slightly lighter.

He resisted the urge to reveal his wings, no matter how much he wanted to see what had changed; he refused to let the teens see his wings, refused to show a complete stranger that someone was obsessed with him.

(He’d just have to wait until he was safe in his lab to see.)

(He could wait that long.)

Kisuke took a careful breath, shunted his thoughts aside, and turned his attention to the teens in front of him. They deserved an apology for all he’d forced them through, especially Kurosaki, and he wasn’t going to let a stranger’s presence deter him from doing so.

He went to his knees and leaned forward, head bowed and hat pressed to his chest, and announced, “I’m really… really sorry for… everything.”

Shocked silence met his words, but he forced himself to remain in place, not wanting to face the looks the teens were likely giving him. Sensation rippled down his spine and spread to his hidden wings, proof that he had everyone’s attention, and he swallowed. Squeezed his eyes shut. Knew he’d be spending the night in his lab, obsessing over whatever he could sense from his new feathers.

(He deserved this.)

(He deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved it.)

(He did.)

Kisuke braced himself as Kurosaki’s reiatsu roared to life and the teen stalked forward, uncertain what was to come but knowing he wouldn’t protest whatever the teen chose to do.

“Don’t do that,” Kurosaki growled as he stood over Kisuke. “Don’t bow to me,” he insisted when Kisuke didn’t move. “You did what you could to help us, and we all knew something was up beyond the obvious.”

“You could have died,” Kisuke tried, still not looking up. “I sent you into dangerous territory with little explanation or preparation. I lied to you, led you right into a trap—”

Pain exploded across his cheek, the shock making him jerk to the side and drop his hat. He reached up to touch his stinging cheek with one trembling hand, mind trying to piece together what had happened.

(Kurosaki had… slapped him?)

(That was… less than he’d expected to happen.)

“Done trying to make everything about you?” Kurosaki asked sharply. “We knew what we were getting into,” he said, then huffed when Kisuke made a noise of protest and added, “Okay, we didn’t know exactly what we were getting into, but we knew it was worse than you were making it sound. We’re not ignorant kids, Hat’n’Clogs, we know when things smell rotten.” He clicked his tongue and took a step closer, nudging Kisuke’s side lightly with his leg. “I can’t control how you feel about what you did,” he said more softly than before, “but I can say that none of us blame you. And if you’re apologizing about it, then you probably feel shitty enough to not do it again, right?”

Kisuke swallowed at the forgiveness in Kurosaki’s tone and words. “I can’t promise to always tell you everything—”

“Tch, I wasn’t asking for you to do that,” Kurosaki grumbled as he knelt in front of Kisuke and poked his shoulder. “I don’t want everything,” he said firmly. “I want you to promise that next time something like this happens, you’ll lay out the dangers and your suspicions. And if there’s something you can’t tell us, just say that. We won’t be offended.”

“Maa, if you say so,” Kisuke said as he lifted his head enough to eye Kurosaki warily, wondering exactly how long that permissiveness would remain. Eventually the teen would get tired of Kisuke’s everything, just like everyone else did: Tessai and Yoruichi were the exception, not the rule, after all.

“I do,” Kurosaki said, a stubborn cast to his features that surprised Kisuke not at all. The teen truly was Masaki’s child.

Kisuke gave him a shallow nod and said, “Then I will do my best to do so.”

“Good.” Kurosaki settled back on his heels, a pleased air about him. “Thank you, Hat’n’Clogs.”

Kisuke huffs a laugh and straightens up a bit, fidgeting with his hat and doing his best not to rub at his still stinging cheek. “Well, I suppose if no one else wishes to add anything—” he paused and cast a wary glance over the rest of the teens, waiting for someone, anyone, to speak up. But no one did, not even Rerugen, despite the man watching him intently.

The moment their eyes met, another brush of clear water sensation slid down his spine and settled into his wings, making Kisuke twitch at the unexpectedness of it all.

(Oh, that wasn’t good, that wasn’t good at all.)

(No one thought kind things about him after watching him apologize.)

“Ah, well, as I was saying!” Kisuke continued with as much cheer as he could, flashing a smile at all the teens to mask his growing discomfort. “If no one has anything else to add, then I suppose it’s time to head home!”

(The sooner he could tuck himself away in his lab, the better.)

(He needed to see, needed to know—)

(Just a little longer.)

(He could wait.)

(He could.)

GIVE ME A REASON: PART THREE - A Rogue One Fanfic

This part/scene went in a little bit different direction than I had thought it was going to go, but I regret nothing!

Read Part One

Read Part Two

Title: Give Me A Reason: Part Three

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Characters: Jyn Erso POV, Cassian Andor

Pairing: Cassian/Jyn (mostly pre-ship?)

Spoilers: Rogue One; Episode IV A New Hope

Setting: Post-Rogue One AU (Cassian & Jyn live); Also during/post A New Hope

Warnings: Looking, Ogling, Leering, Letching, Yearning… Okay, Lusting. (Only Jyn doesn’t realize she's there yet...) Let me know if this needs a 'nsfw' tag... I'm not sure. There's nothing explicit.

Words: 1217

Story Summary: Jyn’s entire universe has been turned on its head, so maybe she’s clinging a little too hard to the one thing she feels certain of (strangely enough) as she tries to figure out her place in the galaxy. And maybe she’s being a little overprotective of a wounded captain.

3 hours until the ceremony…

Jyn was loathe to do it, but there really was no other alternative. She could at least try to be gentle, even though being gentle honestly never had been in her nature. Before.

She’d also been fiercely independent. Before.

With a sigh, she sat down on the edge of the bed, indulged in a moment to study the unconscious man, who deserved the few hours of peace he’d had over the past week, after the decades of suffering she often found reflected in his eyes, in his voice, the tense way he held his body.

His body…

She’d be a liar if she tried to claim that she didn’t find his body appealing, and not just because it felt so good when she pressed her own against the warm, sinewy flesh of his, feeling his heart beating in his chest and the rhythm of his breathing. With Cassian, she felt safe and content in a way she hadn’t since childhood, which was ridiculous with the state he was in. If anyone would be protecting anyone, it would be her protecting him.

And gladly.

It was a possessiveness she had never experienced before, having precisely one item she valued, her mother’s kyber crystal necklace, and no one significant to her.

And maybe it was that unbidden possessive feeling twisting her up inside which rendered Cassian Andor the most beautiful being Jyn had ever encountered. She could just look at him for hours, study the contours of lean, wiry muscle on his slender frame, his tan skin with its abundance of scars that rivaled her own collection, the smattering of dark downy hair across his chest and trailing down from his navel to beneath the waistband of his shorts.

The angles of his face intrigued her to no end. And the broody downturned curve of his mouth, which if she just brushed her fingers across the sharp plane of his cheek…

Cassian’s mouth softened and his cheek rounded as his lips curved into a contented smile, which pulled a smile from Jyn’s lips as well.

He. Was. Pretty.

And part of her ferociously insisted that he was hers.

Whether she could keep him beyond this moment, these past few days of easy, quiet intimacy more or less apart from the rest of the universe, remained to be seen.

But reality could not be avoided any longer. She brushed the unruly hair that had fallen across his forehead out of his eyes.

He murmured her name in his sleep and heat blossomed in her chest. Jyn tamped it down the best she could. She was letting herself get carried away by this… whatever it was… Infatuation?

She’d never been infatuated with anyone or anything in her life. She was not a romantic person, but was she romanticising the rebel captain?

He was stubborn and single-minded with his goals. At first, she thought he could only follow orders, thought him cold and hard. But she’d learned he was soft and warm and wounded inside. And wounded outside now. And that damned blind loyalty she’d hated when they’d first met -what, 9 or 10 days ago- it was what made him hers. Well, maybe it made him hers. She’d never had anyone’s loyalty before. No one had ever come back for her until him. No one had ever stuck by her. To the end. He'd been with her through what should've been the end. But somehow hadn't been. And now… She would stick around for him.

Jyn took a deep breath and placed her hand on his shoulder. His skin was warm and inviting but she resisted skimming her palm down his arm, resisted exploring the shape of triceps and biceps with her fingers. Instead, she gave him a shake.

“Cassian. It’s time to wake up.”

He whimpered, a low throaty sound that was so filled with gravel, it was practically a growl. It did things to her she didn’t have the capacity to consider. And when he said her name, all sleepy, thickly accented and heavy on his tongue, she had to dig her fingers into her palm to prevent herself from grabbing him and doing things to him.

He pushed himself into a sitting position, the effort making his muscles twitch shift beneath his skin, making him wince, but then he was running a hand over his face and the back of his head, ruffling the messy overgrown hair. His dark eyes settled on her face, as clear and alert as ever. He was no longer on meds for pain and Jyn was happy to find all the clever sharpness had returned to those deep brown eyes of his.

“How long?” He asked the same question every time he woke, something a soldier, a survivor asked, always wary about what might have happened when they were asleep, as if they had no right to a moment’s peace.

“Thirteen hours.”

Cassian swore softly in his native language before addressing her in Basic.

“You promised me you wouldn’t let me sleep more than ten hours.”

She shrugged, but wouldn’t meet his eyes, not worried he was upset with her, but afraid that he could see straight through to her possessive thoughts about him.

“You need it.”

“I need to move around or I’ll get all stiff.”

Jyn bit her lip. No. She wasn’t going to-

Her eyes convulsively dropped to his lap and thenshot back up to his face, and just as quickly darted away.

He was stiff.

And not just his back and leg as he'd actually meant. But his partially aroused maleness wasn't intentional, she knew. And the times when she'd woken up tangled in him with the feeling of him half hard pressing against some part of her, despite the interest her own body returned, she knew it wasn't a conscious choice of his. He was asleep and his body was just doing its natural thing. It wasn't as if he actually wanted…

Cassian swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting so close, her body practically hummed in response, began gravitating toward him. Why? Why did she need him, so deeply she could feel it in the marrow of her bones? Sometimes she felt as if they had actually been hit by that energy weapon, while they were embracing on the beach waiting for death, and were fused together on the subatomic level.

And then felt like maybe she’d suffered a brain injury they hadn’t detected, which scrambled her survivor’s practicality into delusions of romantic grandeur.

Get your head on straight, Jyn Erso.

Cassian got to his feet. It was a bit of a production, difficult to watch and also heartening, but Jyn made no move to help him. Oh, she would assist him. And she had done so. But not when he could manage on his own, not when he needed to know he could.

“I’m going to wash up,” he said. “Then maybe we can go to the mess.”

Jyn raised an eyebrow. Did he really feel like he could walk that far? She hoped he was feeling that strong, because,

“You’re going to need to shower. Command wants us to go to this Award Ceremony thing.”

“What?!” Cassian’s look was pure confusion, as if she’d let him sleep for thirteen years and he’d woken up to a completely unfamiliar galaxy.

She sympathized. It made no sense to her either. And she’d much rather just curl back up in bed with him. Just Cassian and her, together.

Nothing had ever felt more right. But since when had the galaxy ever given Jyn what she wanted?

france x reader: le frondeur

He was labelled as a villain, a traitor, a demagogue. People spoke of him with disgust and fear, with disdain and wariness. He was the bogeyman of everything wrong in society, the scapegoat for any and all minor inconveniences. For years, you had believed much the same way. Never questioned the papers, never questioned the wisdom of your leaders nor challenged the opinions of your peers. That was until you beheld true tyranny with your own eyes, were caught in a crossfire in which the Enemy was the true Hero, where those you had been told to believe in, to trust, were- You no longer accepted things at face value. You let yourself spend time with him, got to know him, tried to understand. You learnt of his stance, his past, everything that had led to his standing against all you had been raised to see as The Truth. He had abandoned his post, dared to speak out against the King, dared to question and demand change, dared to defy. While you still could not fully trust him, aware that he was doing plenty of Wrong even in his pursuit of Right, you knew him to be a good man, and began to question just how much had truly been hidden from you. You were cautious in your quest, knew that every moment even spent thinking of him could be regarded as lèse majesté. But when one's very Nation defied the words of their King, chose insurrection over the comforts of Court- Perhaps then there was more to consider than the hearsay of drunken nobles and the angled histories of jaded, departed rulers. Upon recognizing his brilliant blue eyes through a simple black mask, spotting that familiar smile that somehow always seemed to outshine the sun itself- You took his hand without question, easily joining with the other couples already moving across the floor. "You shouldn't be here," you murmured, trying to keep your voice low even as the music swelled louder. "And miss the chance to annoy you," came a light tease from your companion, his eyes sparkling in amusement. You offered a small glare before casting your eyes around the room, now frantically trying to count how many obstacles he would have to overcome should he wish to slip back out again. "You wouldn't be here unless it was for a good reason." "Is seeing you not reason enough?" The sincerity in his tone caught you mildly off guard, but you soon offered him a small look for his words. "No, not like this." Narrowing your eyes, you tried to read his. "What are you planning?" He studied you for a moment, before looking away with a small huff, words fondly exasperated. "I don't know why I can never lie to you." Flattered by the compliment- truly, high praise coming from him- you smiled slightly. "I'm just too clever for you." "Hm." Came the considering hum, before his attention was once again snagged by something in the background. You would have ignored it- there was plenty of distraction after all- were it not for the firm nod he offered to that presumable someone over your shoulder. When he once more met your gaze, you offered as unimpressed an expression as one could hope to muster from beneath several layers of plaster. "Just talk to me. What is going on?" He studied you once more, the now-familiar eyes heavy with an emotion you couldn't hope to guess. "We strike tonight." You had known it was coming, knew from the ripples among the townsfolk, the layman, the servants who never quite could stop their tongue wagging fast enough. There had been an ache for change, the tension only growing in recent months. And- "I need to know if you're truly with u... With me." His words brought you immediately back to the present, those damnable eyes holding you prisoner as assuredly as social obligation itself. It should be a simple enough decision- In theory anyway. You take a moment to weigh it all, study the vibrant costumes of the people around you, watch the smoke play from the chandeliers, take in every detail of this fantasy. A fantasy, yes you finally concede, as you've tasted firsthand the true reality just beyond these gilded halls. You recalled that first night, so long ago now, when he confessed why he had left, when he admitted to the pitfalls that had come in the wake of his crusade. But he tread such a precarious line, and- And he knew. He knew this world. He knew this life. He knew you. Perhaps that was what made it so easy to make your decision, why it had been so easy for him to help you learn the truth, to find the answers you hadn't known you needed, to break free of the lie you had lived your entire life. These people- They would call you corrupted, would label you a traitor. You would lose your lands, your title, your everything. But when authority was birthed from betrayal and epitaphs were forged in blood, when your good fortunes directly translated to the perils of the innocent- No. You wanted nothing more to do with this life, nor these people. Their crimes were abhorrent, beyond words. Some of the things you had witnessed- You were no longer ignorant of your own role in this, the knowledge of your responsibility now an ever-present weight on your soul. Coming back to the present, you found yourself meeting his eyes once more, aware not even a moment must have passed since he had asked you, once again, to join him. It almost seemed as if he expected you to say no once more, as he startled at your nod. "Are you certain?" Surprise was clear in his voice, tempered with just a note of caution, perhaps a warning that once you stepped foot upon this path, there was no going back. If you didn't know him better you would swear he was testing you. Of course you weren't certain. How could you be, when you couldn't be certain what the future would hold, couldn't be certain of the success of his mission, couldn't be certain that you would live to see the next sunrise? Yet, you were certain- certain of your role now, certain of your choice. You had a duty, a duty which could never be met by serving in the intricate fictions and backhanded passions that ruled over the realm you had painstakingly raised in; you had been laboriously taught to ignore the hypocrisies and betrayals, habitually trained to never raise questions to seek higher understanding. But he had opened your eyes, and you knew your true duty now, saw the path the Fates had laid at your feet; your only regret was waiting so long to take the first step upon it. "You were always right my love; I just wish I would have accepted it sooner."

21 and 57 please? And Deceit / anyone

21. Dystopian AU || 57. Forgotten first meeting

I've picked the ship to be loceit!

~

okay so im thinking their first meeting is before the dystopia sets in. like. Right Before

they having a nice outing together, maybe lunch or smth, put together by a mutual friend who thought they'd hit it off as friends of their own. and they are! things are nice, logan finds janus charming and clever, janus finds logan intelligent and intriguing

and it's all rather nice right up until the ceiling crashes in and a barely conscious janus is helpless to do much more than watch as logan is dragged away through the rubble by god knows who

even in the aftermath of everything, when the first smoke has cleared, no one's exactly sure what happened- but what the citizens do know is that their country has been viciously attacked, invaded, and their government is no where to be found

janus comes out of that first day with a scarred body and little recollection of the attack or the immediate aftermath. he remembers being afraid, hoarse screaming, feeling helpless... but not why

it doesn't take long for his home country to fall into organized chaos, with invasions still happening for who knows what reason. nothing can be truly rebuilt, so people have to make do

janus makes do alone, keeping to wandering through forests, the lot of his possessions contained in a bag that rarely leaves his back. staying in place for too long is dangerous. if he's not sleeping, he's moving, simple as that

he tends to avoid the main roads, too easy to be spotted there, but occasionally he wanders just along the side of them, half in the woods, looking for any supplies that may have been dropped and lost in a hurry

and that's how he's caught, not managing to vanish fast enough when a group- a gang- comes up on him, the seven of them on horseback, the leader in front wearing a hood that rests low over their head and hides their features

they surround janus, and he refuses to beg, or plea, or even express fear, instead forcing faux annoyance as he asks them to step aside so he can once again vanish into the woods

for some reason, this gets the attention of the leader. their head tilts, curiously, still obscured by the hood, still not speaking. janus refuses to say anything back, waiting for them to break the silence

and after a long moment, they do, throwing their hood back first- revealing short and dark hair; steel blue eyes that feel like they see through janus's (expertly hidden) soul; a long and old scar that trails from the top of their hairline, over the edge of their jaw, partially wrapped around their throat. janus can see it so clearly bc it's lined in silver, a recent trend within the chaotic lands to indicate who had power

they look familiar, but janus can't remember why

'janus.' they say, which really confirms that they Know him, at least, 'oh, janus, what's happened to you?'

'...i don't believe we've met?' janus says, slowly, hesitantly, wary of the other horse-riders

the familiar stranger's expression only grows more concerned. 'it's logan. and i think we need to talk'

His Saving Grace Part VII

Title: His Saving Grace - Maxwell Lord x F!Reader Words: 3600 Warnings: conversation about feelings, reader talks about her dark thoughts in the past, kissing, detailed description of a panic attack Synopsis: You meet with Diana to discuss Maxwell’s options.

His Saving Grace Masterpost

The Smithsonian looked a lot different in the day, the imposing building loomed over you as you walked up the front steps. You knew it wasn’t the museum that was making you nervous, but the job you had to do and the woman you had to meet. 

Maybe you should have ran the idea by Maxwell first, but a part of you knew he would be hesitant. After what you had seen on the night of the gala, Maxwell had been uncomfortable in Diana’s presence, and Diana was confrontational when she walked over to him. They obviously weren’t friends. 

But it was literally your job to get Maxwell back into the workplace, and if this didn’t work, and you didn’t manage to convince him that it was the ideal solution, then you didn’t know what you were going to do. 

You asked for Diana Prince at the information desk and was told by the man at the desk where she worked, pointing in the general direction of a staircase (you think) before answering a ringing telephone and dismissing you.

Trying to find your way to the Anthropology Department without a helpful staff member, or a map, was confusing and you ended up walking back on yourself more than a few times but you got to Diana’s office eventually. 

You were about to knock when the door flung open, Diana pausing just before bumping into you, a look of confusion on her face as she tried to remember where she’d seen you before.

“Diana isn’t it? I’m Maxwell’s friend, we met at the gala,” you said casually and stuck out your hand towards her, reminding her of your name. She took it after a moment, shaking your hand and politely laughing. If she was wary of you being at her place of work she didn’t let on, instead she ushered you into her office and offered you a cold coffee which you gladly took.

“Look, I don’t know what Maxwell has told you but as long as he stays out of trouble, he will never hear from me again.” 

Diana sat on one end of a velvety soft, maroon loveseat and you took a seat on the other end. 

“Actually, I’m hoping that won’t be true,” you began, cradling your cold coffee on your lap, “you must have some idea that Maxwell is struggling. Black Gold is bust and it will never recover. No one will hire Maxwell Lord, for obvious reasons.”

“I don’t see how I can help him. I sympathise, but Maxwell is reaping the repercussions of what he sowed. You can understand why no one wants to help him,” Diana spoke to you gently, offering you a sympathetic smile. 

You sighed as you looked around her office, a poster of human evolution, an old wind instrument that reminded you of the recorder you were taught to play at school, a long piece of parchment paper with what you could only guess were hieroglyphics or something similar. And on the wall next to where you sat was a diagram of a stone of some sort. 

“Maxwell got his stone from here, right?”

Diana nodded but said no more.

“A Dreamstone?”

“Whatever Maxwell has told you, it needs to stay a secret.”

“Diana, the whole world saw him use it.”

“The world saw a madman,” at your look of offence Diana shook her head, “I’m telling you what everybody saw, not who he actually is. And that is my point.”

You weren’t going to get into an argument with Diana about the Maxwell you knew, not right now anyway, so you bit your tongue.

“But he has ties to this place.”

Diana thought for a moment, starting to understand that you weren’t going to give up easily. She slowly nodded, eyeing you curiously and weighed up how much she should say about what had gone down with Maxwell and the Dreamstone.

“Maxwell only has ties to the Smithsonian because he wanted the stone. He befriended a gemologist, Barbara Minerva, to get to it. He succeeded and then he became the stone. And I presume you know the rest.”

It took you a second to realise that Diana had said “he became the stone” but you filed it to the back of your mind for another time. Or maybe you would never bring it up. If you wanted Maxwell to get passed this part of his life, you would have to stop asking questions eventually. 

“So let me get this straight, because he was the Maxwell Lord he could just walk into this place and take what he wanted?”

“Well, he was very persuasive. Plus he gave a lot of money to the department as a bribe.”

“So he’s given money to the museum before?” The cogs were starting to turn in your head as you realised it could work in Maxwell’s favor if he’s already shown support for the Smithsonian.

Diana tilted her head as she watched you, trying to work out what you were planning. She was clever enough to realise almost instantly.

“You can’t seriously be suggesting that Maxwell work here?”

“I am! He’s already proven his loyalty to the museum through a donation I assume was considerable. I’m sure it helped the museum a lot.”

Diana hesitantly nodded, knowing the money was much larger than any benefactor had given to the museum in years. She sighed in frustration and stood, walking over to her desk to rifle through a pile of papers. You placed your forgotten coffee on the table and followed. 

“I know he can’t work in any of these departments. But he has a business degree, he’s got the experience. He’s someone the museum would jump at the chance to have work here.”

Diana laughed cynically.

“You said yourself, nobody will hire him, what makes you think we will?”

“I said no one will hire Maxwell Lord. But what about Maxwell Lorenzano?”

Diana looked up from her papers and gave you a quizzical look.

“He wants a fresh start and I think I can persuade him to leave the Lord name behind.” You swallowed the lump in your throat, wondering if you were overstepping. Maxwell had said to you at the diner that he wanted to be more like his old self, maybe this was the way forward? 

It wasn’t unlike you, as a lawyer, to be persuasive to get the results you wanted, the results you thought were best for your clients. But Maxwell wasn’t a client, not in your heart. He was your friend, and hopefully more in the future. Were you being too pushy, putting out the idea of him changing back to his birth name? Even though he’d suggested that very thing to you at the diner? 

You were starting to realise why it was frowned upon to begin relationships with clients, it made everything so complicated, it had you second guessing everything you were saying and doing whilst working for them. Because it wasn’t about getting results for the pay check at the end of the job, it was about getting results for the man you loved. It was about wanting the best for him, wanting him to be pleased with you and everything you were doing for him. 

“Are you okay?” Diana’s voice jolted you out of your spiralling thoughts and had you laughing awkwardly.

“I’m fine,” your smile didn’t quite meet your eyes, but you cleared your throat as you pointed to the papers she was looking through, silently asking her to explain.

“There was a list of job vacancies the boss sent around to everybody on Friday, it was here somewhere… a-ha!” Diana produced the single piece of paper with titles and one-sentence job descriptions on it.

“Is there anything appropriate for Maxwell?” You asked hopefully, going on tip toes to try and peep over the paper. Diana shook her head as she read down the page, coming to a stop right at the bottom.

“Although…”

“What is it?” You asked, a little too forcefully. Too impatient to wait a moment longer you snatched the piece of paper from Diana’s fingers and skimmed through the titles until you saw the very last one.

“Do you think-“

“It’s perfect,” you shot Diana a beaming smile, “will you-“

“I’ll let the boss know I have the perfect guy for the job.”

-

Maxwell nervously shuffled from foot to foot outside your apartment door, holding a bouquet of wildflowers in his hands, similar to the ones you wore on your dress the night of the gala. His polo shirt felt too tight on him all of a sudden, and he wasn’t sure if he should button all four buttons or leave it at two. 

The issue wasn’t that he had never been to your apartment before, or even that he was visiting unannounced, but entering into a new relationship. With you.

He loved you. He realised that at the gala when he watched you charming potential clients, giving away business cards until you had ran out of them, it had filled him with such a sense of pride that you had walked in on his arm. It wasn’t a slow realisation either. It was when he was seeing people notice you, laugh with you, agree with your advice, and then he thought yes, see this brilliant woman who can make your dreams come true? I love her. 

It didn’t scare Maxwell, quite the opposite. He was excited. Because you both worked so well together already. It was all so natural, the way you joked with him over lunch, or grabbed his hand in the middle of conversation. And the kissing.

Maxwell hadn’t kissed anyone the way he’d kissed you in… forever. It was a kiss that lit a burning flame in his heart, warm in every way but persistent and wouldn’t burn out until you reignited it with another. He felt the ghost of your lips on his, even in his dreams and he would wake up with a smile on his face, ready to start the new day in the hopes that he would see you soon. 

He felt young again, in a wide eyed, fresh faced kind of way. Like the world was his for the taking because he had you by his side to keep him grounded but also an encouraging voice in his ear telling him he could do anything if he just believed in himself. 

Maxwell wished he’d met you so much sooner. Before the seed of the Dreamstone had been planted in his mind and he’d gone on his reign of self destruction. He thinks you would have been able to stop him, to persuade him that he had everything he needed already. You could have helped him through the financial difficulties of Black Gold. You would have saved him. 

Maxwell shook his head of that thought and readjusted his collar. He couldn’t change the past. He could only look to the future.

He knocked on the door, realising he probably should have called before coming over. You might be working, or have friends over, or not be in at all-

The door flew open and you appeared, holding a wooden spoon in your hand and wearing an apron tied at the front covered in what looked and smelled like cocoa powder.

“Maxwell? What’re you doing here?” You asked, surprised to see him at your door.

“I should have called ahead, I apologise-“

“Don’t be silly. How many times have I come over to yours without warning? Come in,” you pointed towards the living room with your spoon and closed the door behind you. 

Maxwell let you lead him into the open plan area. It was smaller than Maxwell’s apartment but the layout was almost the same. The furnishings however were trying to be less impressive, more rustic with dark, wooden furniture instead of brightly colored plastic. It was comfortable and had a homely feel to it that Maxwell didn’t realise he liked until now. There were papers strewn across the coffee table, bookshelves actually filled with books unlike his own, dozens of blankets laid across the top of the couch, coffee stains on side tables. It was a perfect mix of your head and your heart. Smart and kind. Hard working but also relaxed. 

You went into the kitchen area, pulling open the oven and the smell of freshly baked chocolate cookies filled the air. Maxwell’s stomach rumbled but luckily you were too busy to hear. It was then that Maxwell remembered the flowers in his hand.

“I brought you flowers,” Maxwell placed them on top of the island, perching on a stool.

“Thank you, that’s very sweet,” you picked them up and went searching for a vase in the cupboards. You found a decanter with a thick neck and decided that would be sufficient, filling it with water from the tap and placing the flowers inside to display on the countertop.

“I wanted to talk to you about some things,” Maxwell cleared his throat and interlocked his hands together on top of the island, “about my future.”

“Yes,” you nodded, taking a seat on a stool opposite Maxwell, “I think I have a plan, the next step, maybe even permanently if you agree to it.”

“Can we talk about us first?”

You froze in your spot, ready with your speech that would sell your plan to him, but you could see he had come over for a reason and decided to let him talk first. 

“I said I wanted to take things slow, and I still do. But I need things to be clear, out in the open so you know where I stand,” as much as Maxwell was nervous he kept eye contact with you, “I love you. I’m falling in love with you. These last couple of months have opened my eyes to how lonely and alone I am. And I’m not using that as an excuse for what I did but if I am going to succeed in being a good father, a good man, then I need you by my side. I think the world of you and everything you’ve done for me and I promise to try and make it up to you in any way I can.”

Your smile grew the more Maxwell talked, hearing everything you’d hoped he would say. You were on the same page, wanted the same things. Maxwell patiently waited for you to respond, even though the butterflies in his stomach were threatening to painfully burst out of him.

“Maxwell Lorenzano, I love you too.” You laughed, tears welling in your eyes, your chest full of happiness that things were looking up for the both of you. 

You wiped at your eyes with the bottom of the apron you were still wearing, then placed both your hands over the top of his.

“You say I’ve helped you but you have no idea how much you’ve helped me too. I was at the bottom of a very dark pit of self hatred before I met you. And although I was getting better, I don’t know what would have happened in my life if you hadn’t called me that day. I’m not sure if I believe in fate or destiny or anything like that but I believe we met each other at the perfect moment so we could help each other through the worst time of our lives. And if we can pull each other out of that then we can do anything together.”

Maxwell’s watery smile grew as he stood from his stool and walked around the island to stand next to you. He leaned down and placed a chaste kiss to the top of your head, before placing another on the tip of your nose that had you giggling. You stood and used the sudden closeness to press a bold kiss to his lips, hands running through his hair as his hands came to naturally place themselves in the dip of your waist.

Maxwell pulled away to place small kisses to the corner of your mouth, tasting the remnants of the chocolate mixture you must have tasted whilst baking your cookies. When he got to your jaw he felt your hands on his shoulders gently pushing him away, an apologetic look in your eyes.

“I still need to talk to you about the plan I’ve put together.”

Maxwell groaned, keeping a hold of your waist as he playfully tickled the soft skin of your neck with his nose.

“Maxwell…” you chuckled, enjoying this playful side of Maxwell.

“You’re ruining the fun,” Maxwell removed his head from your neck and pouted. You tried to take him seriously but he looked like a grumpy child who had been told ‘no more sweets’. You kissed him sweetly on the cheek and motioned towards the couch in the living room. 

His sigh was overly exaggerated as he took a seat on the couch. You had taken off your apron in the kitchen and sat next to Maxwell with a yellow sweater on, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. In amongst the rustic aesthetic of the living room, you looked like actual sunshine to Maxwell. 

“I tried to find you a job that I thought you’d like, that wouldn’t necessarily be easy but would use your previous skills and still challenge you.”

You took a piece of paper from the side table and handed it to Maxwell. It detailed a job description, the kinds of jobs he’d be taking on and with what departments, and the key skills he would be using. Maxwell nodded the whole way through until he spotted where he would be working.

“The Smithsonian?” He asked, unsure and a little take aback that this would be the place you’d choose considering his connections to the place. 

“Yes, it was much easier to find you a job at a place you’d already given a sizeable donation to,” you explained gently, you ran your fingernails along the lines in the palm of your hand, a nervous habit as you tried to gauge Maxwell’s reaction. 

“I don’t know,” Maxwell re-read over the job description, which he was comfortable with, the annual salary that was more than enough to look after himself and Alistair, the job title ‘Financial Manager’ was more than suitable for his qualifications, everything was perfect, except the place of work. He would run into Diana probably, and was Barbara still working there? That would be awkward. That place held bad memories, Maxwell was trying to move away from his past not shoot head first towards it. 

“Look, you would mostly be working in the offices away from other departments, Diana said-“

“You spoke to Diana?” Of course you had, how would this job be practically given to him without so much as an interview without Diana’s help? Maxwell eyed you suspiciously, wondering how much she’d told you about the incident, how much you’d told her about Maxwell’s situation. He trusted you, he loved you, there was no love without trust but he suddenly felt like the walls of your apartment were closing in on him and the piece of paper in his hand was shaking as though an earthquake was ripping through the building.

“Maxwell?” He heard your voice but it was so far away, where had you gone? It was like listening to someone shouting from the other end of a tunnel, had you left him? Maxwell’s eyes were closed tightly shut so he couldn’t see where you’d gone but he felt something soft and warm on either side of his face, and then his face was being pressed into something fluffy, it felt like how your sweater looked, was it you? 

Your voice was getting clearer and his breathing was slowing down though he didn’t remember breathing so fast, why was he struggling to breathe? 

Your hands, he could feel them now, moving over his shoulders, along his back, up and down his upper arms and the fog was slowly lifting from his mind, from his lungs, and there were tears falling from his eyes. And all he could hear were your apologies and his name leaving your lips. Your sweet lips that felt so good against his own, they were touching his ear as you spoke soothing words, he concentrated on that and then everything was clear. 

He cautiously pulled away from you, just enough to see you looking at him full of concern. Maxwell placed his large hand against your cheek and guided you to press your foreheads together as he continued to breathe through the panic attack. 

“I’m so sorry Maxwell,” you whispered but Maxwell shushed you softly, stroking your cheek, your hair, your neck until he wrapped his arms around your shoulders and brought you into a hug.

“You are perfect and have nothing to be sorry for,” he said, holding you close until he believed you were truly there and not a hallucination created out of his panic stricken mind, “it just all suddenly felt very real. I think I’m scared.”

He felt you nod against his chest, your hand was running up and down his side, soothing him, comforting him in any way that you could. You were nearly lying on top of him; Maxwell had leaned you both backwards, his head resting on the corner of the couch as he tried to relax and prevent another panic attack.

“I’m here. You don’t have to do any of this on your own. Or at all, I’ll call Diana and tell her the job isn’t suited to you. We’ll find something else.”

“No,” that made you look up from his chest, searching his eyes for what he meant, “it’s the kind of job I’d be good at. I just have to remember that I’m not alone.”

You didn’t know how long you stayed like that, holding each other close, but by the time you tried the cookies they were cold. 

Permanent tag list: @autumnleaves1991-blog @kaelyn-lobrutto24 @galactic-rhi @phoenixhalliwell @thewayofthemandalorian @computeringturtle @lesbianlena @shikin83 

Chapter 7 of As Lightning to the Children eased or as I like to call it: Dooku gets his shit together.

Dooku didn't know how, but Shmi Skywalker had known that something had happened to her child before the call of the Council had even reached them. She had looked up in the middle of her katas, paling rapidly. Dooku had heard of Masters sensing their Padawans' distress before, had experienced such with his own reckless students, but never with such intensity and days' travel in hyperspace away from his children. Still, Shmi continued with her tasks with the same dedication as before her foreboding and did not panic when they got the actual notification two weeks later, telling them that Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Qui-Gon Jinn were already back on Coruscant, apparently all in a miserable condition.

Padawan Skywalker the elder's stance on the whole situation caused Dooku to reconsider his rude behavior during their first meeting. She had known that something was terribly wrong, had felt it deep in her bones when no one else had, and yet she had endured, done her Master proud, and fulfilled their mission first. When they arrived back at the temple, a place Dooku had been away from for too long as he had forgotten the warmth of its embrace, she dutifully made her report to the Council, under the many concerned eyes of the assembled Masters. And only when she had finished her statement, answered all questions, she excused herself and left to visit her son.

If anyone still doubted her place in their order after these actions, Dooku wouldn't hesitate to challenge them himself for her honor, though given her quick wit and skill with the blade, she'd hardly need anyone to fight her battles.

Shmi didn't ask him if he wanted to come with her, but she also didn't stop him when he fell into step with her. She smiled at him, kindly as if she were his Crèchemaster, ready to console him, and not a Padawan as they silently walked to the halls of healing.

Dooku hadn't been there when the Skywalkers had joined the temple, but he had heard of the impossible terror that was Shmi's child.

Yet, somehow, all those rumors couldn't compare to meeting him in person. He looked innocent and human enough, sleeping in his Master's arms, a small togruta child stretched across the both of them. Then, suddenly, he woke and within the blink of an eye, Dooku found himself pinned against a wall, electric blue eyes focused on him with previously unknown intensity.

"Anakin!" Obi-Wan was awake a second later, holding down his student's arm as if that could lessen the pressure on Dooku's chest. "Anakin, stop it, we're home, it's alright."

Disorientated, the child blinked at Dooku, curiosity and confusion entering his gaze as if he were seeing Dooku for the first time. Then whatever might have kept him in a chokehold, stopped and the boy fell back into his Master's arms.

"Obi-Wan?" Anakin sounded puzzled when he spoke up. His voice was rough as if he hadn't spoken in days.

"Hello, Anakin." Though Dooku knew that his grandpadawan was hardly older than twenty-five, the exhaustion wearing him down made him look decades older. "Are you awake now?"

Anakin tilted his head. "Yeah, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

A shadow passed over Obi-Wan's face. "No reason. Do you know who is visiting us?"

More hastily than before, Anakin's head whipped around and turned into the direction Shmi was standing in. "Mom!" he exclaimed and, after carefully pushing the third child off his lap, he jumped out of bed to rush to his mother. He hugged her tightly, burying his face in her robes. "Mom, I missed you."

Shmi Skywalker, showing no sign of fear, worry, confusion or anything such as that about her son's earlier actions, only embraced him just as tightly.

"I missed you too, Anakin," Shmi said and kissed the top of his head.

Anakin didn't let go of her, but his eyes drifted to the lightsaber clipped to her belt. Without another word, Shmi took it from the belt and handed Anakin the blade. Anakin examined it closely, ran his fingers across the metal hilt before handing it back to his mother. "Your crystals sound nice. I like them."

"I'm glad."

As mother and son continued talking, Dooku managed to get to his feet, still shaken by the assault the others pointedly ignored. He crossed the distance to the bed Obi-Wan and the now yawning youngling were lying on and sat down on it. He disliked showing such weakness, but he couldn't exclude the possibility that his legs might not hold him upright should he continue to stand.

"What was that?" he asked.

Obi-Wan sighed and the youngling whose presence Dooku could not quite explain sat up and gently patted his cheeks, making the young man smile.

"It's a reflex, mostly," Obi-Wan explained. "Anakin isn't quite over what happened yet and lashes out when he thinks we are threatened by something or someone he doesn't recognize."

Obi-Wan's elaboration failed to clear anything up and if the boy didn't look like he hadn't slept in a week, Dooku would claim he was purposefully misdirecting. "We are in the Jedi temple. What is there here that he fears?"

What had Dooku done that Anakin assumed his own lineage would attack him?

The look Obi-Wan was giving him was downright chilling, damning, before it slowly turned into incredulity. "I thought that was why Shmi— You don't sense it, do you?"

He sounded flabbergasted.

"No," Dooku said. "What is there to sense?"

Discomfort and wariness settled in the air, so heavy that Dooku was reminded of the invisible hands around his neck.

"The taint, the poison, the rot clinging to your light," Obi-Wan said slowly. "The darkness."

It sounded like judgement.

X

The first thing Qui-Gon recognized was noise.

It was loud around him, familiar voices speaking out. When he tried to open his eyes, he found the task impossibly challenging. He fought against the voice telling him to rest a little longer, that he didn't have to wake quite yet, but Qui-Gon had always been a stubborn one, unwilling to follow orders he deemed unnecessary.

"Master!"

When light began to fill his vision, Qui-Gon looked into the face of his worried Padawan, missing his braid and looking as distraught as Qui-Gon had seldom seen him before.

"Obi-Wan?" he tried to say, but his voice wasn't cooperating, so whatever left his mouth, it couldn't have been his apprentice's name.

"It's me, Master, yes." Obi-Wan understood him anyway, clever and wise as he was. Qui-Gon had given his Padawan a much too difficult time when he had still been his student and not a Knight of his own regard. He could hardly imagine being any prouder of Obi-Wan than he already was

"Master Qui-Gon!"

His vision became clearer and allowed for him to see Anakin and Ahsoka sitting just beside him on the bed, Shmi behind them and there, right next to her—

"Master."

"Save your strength, Qui-Gon," his Master urged him. If Obi-Wan had looked distressed, Dooku appeared downright hysterical. Qui-Gon was quite ready to believe this was all a hallucination now. As far as he knew, his Master had sworn off returning to the temple for at least another decade and even if he were here, he certainly wouldn't seek out Qui-Gon, no matter how injured.

"Rest some more," the imitation of his Master said. For just the shortest of moments, Qui-Gon was reminded of the time he had been a youngling just a few months older than Anakin and Dooku, not even quite Obi-Wan's age then, had panicked over his sickness. It had only been a mild cold, not the blinding hot pain chaining him to the bed now, but Dooku had told him to rest then with just the same cadence and care.

"Everything will be better after you've slept."

The illusion said the same words as his Master had then and just for that alone, Qui-Gon was inclined to believe him, even if he couldn't sense him, sense any of them properly.

Qui-Gon didn't know how much time passed between the intervals he was actually closer to consciousness and those he was inaccessible to the world. It felt like centuries passed within the blink of an eye. Regardless, whenever he woke, Dooku was there, dutifully sitting at his side as if Qui-Gon were still a child. It was reassuring anyhow.

The morning Qui-Gon woke and didn't feel like he needed to drop right back to sleep, he was greeted by the image of Dooku reading while the children were playing some board games on the bed next to his.

Qui-Gon decided to observe them just a minute longer before he spoke up.

"Am I dreaming, Master?"

Dooku immediately dropped the datapad and the others stopped their game, Qui-Gon's voice breaking this strange atmosphere.

"Qui-Gon!" it came from all sides. "Are you alright?"

He felt half-blind as if he had lost a sense he had always taken for granted, but, staring into the guilt-ridden expression of Anakin, he realized that lying had never been easier. "Yes, of course. What did I miss?"

From the look his lineage was giving him, quite a lot.

X

Ahsoka was young, but she wasn't stupid.

"What happened?" she asked Obi-Wan. The real adults wouldn't tell her anything for sure, but Obi-Wan just might because he was Anakin's the same way she was Anakin's, and he was theirs, and that was all that mattered. "Anakin is different."

He was hurting, though he tried to hide it. His pain and his fear scared him, which in turn only upset Ahsoka. She wanted everyone to be happy and healthy, but the world had shifted when she hadn't been there and it hurt.

"I—" Obi-Wan hesitated, so Ahsoka crossed her arms in front of her chest like she had seen Shmi do when she wanted to know something and nobody was willing to tell her. It made Ahsoka feel taller and more grown-up. Obi-Wan would have to tell her the truth.

"I want to know," she repeated. "Now."

Obi-Wan studied her for a few moments longer, then he sighed. "Anakin did something very foolish and difficult and Qui-Gon did something just as stupid and now everything is a mess."

Ahsoka could tell that he was trying not to use big words with her, but it only felt like he was attempting to get away with saying less.

"What did they do?" Ahsoka asked. "I want to know."

The need was pulsating under her skin, edging her on, licking at her arms like hot flames, urging to demand and not stop until she had forced the truth from his mouth, the ugly thing that was closing his throat.

"Anakin saw something really, really bad and dark," Obi-Wan said. "So Qui-Gon helped him forget that."

"But isn't that good?"

Ahsoka thought it was. It should be. If Qui-Gon took away what had hurt Anakin, then Anakin was going to be better now. That was how helping others worked. The others always said so; Shmi did too. The more you helped, the more did the galaxy heal.

"Yes, technically speaking, but… You know how the Force gives us warnings?"

Yes, of course, she did. Everyone always said to listen to the Force for their knowledge, but the Force had never warned her before she had stubbed her toe, so she wasn't entirely sold on that yet.

"The memories Qui-Gon hid from Anakin were such a warning, so now we don't know what the Force was warning us from and since they are so well hidden to protect him, Anakin won't be able to recognize the danger again when he sees it."

Oh. That really did sound bad. "Did he anything do something stupid then to get back the memories?"

Obi-Wan shook his head. "No, Anakin decided to break the Force a little to keep Qui-Gon here longer."

Ahsoka wondered whether that was the reason Qui-Gon's wound was healing so slowly and no pain medication truly helped. He tried to hide it, but Ahsoka's nose and eyes were better than humans'. She saw him tense, could smell the sickness. Ahsoka bit her lip. "Is that why Qui-Gon's Force is all messed up?"

She didn't know how to describe it in a better way. It felt a little as if Qui-Gon was made up out of strings and someone had cut them and then tied the ropes back together clumsily in haste, leaving a net that could catch his soul, but was incredibly messy.

"A little. There's no telling what messing around with the Force like Anakin did."

(And they wouldn't know for a long while what it meant to force something to live. No matter how good the intentions at that moment, the residue of his actions left Maul awake, alive, alight in the dark side, and screaming.)

"Is he going to be okay again?" Ahsoka asked.

When Obi-Wan didn't reply immediately, she climbed back into his lap and let him wrap his arms around her. Jedi were the happiest when they weren't cold, and her family felt as if they needed a lot of warmth.

"I hope so," Obi-Wan replied. "I really do hope so."

X

For the first time since he had gotten his first gray hair, Qui-Gon actually felt old. He was tired all the time and his control over the Force was atrocious and depended on the time of day, what he had eaten for breakfast, the weather, and whether somewhere halfway across Coruscant somebody had totaled their Speeder, or so it felt to him at least. There was no rhyme or rhythm to whether he could use the Force at all and what his control over it was, not even as his body recovered.

His gut wound hadn't healed entirely yet, and he continued to be haunted by its phantom pains. He knew that it hurt Anakin, that he felt guilty, so Qui-Gon tried to avoid showing any of these weaknesses around the boy, but Anakin was an intelligent child and he noticed it anyway. Qui-Gon wondered if Anakin's sudden clinginess and paranoia resulted from his actions, actions he now had to justify himself for.

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to sit?" Plo asked.

Qui-Gon wanted to reply with words as sharp as the edge of a knife, but he shouldn't. Plo was asking him out of worry and because they were friends, not to belittle him or point out his discomfort to him.

"I'm quite sick of sitting and lying down," Qui-Gon confessed. It hurt to admit this weakness, was he fully his Master's Padawan in this aspect, and against what his heart was telling him, he forced himself to say it out loud. "But a chair would be appreciated."

They got a chair for him and so Qui-Gon sat in front of the assembled Council, laying his mind bare for them to see and judge.

"Obi-Wan's report states that Padawan Skywalker had a breakdown as you boarded the ship to Naboo again. Is this correct?"

"Yes."

"And following this breakdown, you put a heavy mind block on him. Is this true as well?"

"Yes," Qui-Go replied, or maybe it would be more correct to claim he apologized.

He didn't regret saving Anakin then. It had come at a high price, his own mind still bleeding where he had cut himself on the kyber crystals of Anakin's soul, but he regretted that it had come to this at all. Trifling with a mind like this was nothing that could be taken lightly, and had the Council not asked to see him, Qui-Gon would have accused them of negligence. "I saw no other choice."

"What did you saw in his mind that forced you to act like this?" Mace asked.

"I saw a reflection of his own state of being, I suppose." His words sounded stuporous, too carelessly chosen, but he didn't know how else to describe this feeling. The more he attempted to elaborate on what he had seen, the more he realized that their language lacked the terms he needed

"I don't think the Force was meant to be anything more than something that binds the world together," Qui-Gon declared. "But Anakin… His existence defies that. He is the Force incarnate and it hurts him, subconsciously. The Force is endless and in Anakin, they have to constrain themself to a body with mortal limits, a fact which unsettles him down to his core when he becomes aware of it. From my observations, which I fail to describe accurately here and I fear to share with the state of my own mind and control, merely having consciousness is unsuitable for a being such as Anakin. We have all heard the voice of the Force, its call and its will, but it doesn't want as we do, as mortals might."

"But Anakin does," Plo continued his thought. "So you have the Force turned sentient, which goes against everything they ever were before, and suddenly they have to deal with the fact that Anakin has wants and needs that go beyond that of his parent."

"Yes," Qui-Gon agreed. "I think – or at least the way Anakin perceived it – the Force is shackling themself with his existence, in his existence. He became aware of it through a factor I have not yet determined, and that resulted in his breakdown."

"And so you decided to cover up these shackles."

"I did."

It was the only way he could have stopped Anakin from self-destructing.

X

The Force had shifted for the third time in less than a decade after so many years of slowly eroding away.

It was strange. Where once it was clouded, twisted, and shadowed as his Master and his Master's Master had crafted it, there was a rift now, a clearing.

It was shedding light on objects that should not be seen.

Darth Sidious pulled the shadows closer around himself and, throwing one last glance at his Master's dead body, decided to investigate.

He had need for an apprentice.

chap 2 of the modern xisangyao, also on AO3

Against his better judgement, Meng Yao finds himself quite charmed by the too handsome researcher who wants to meet his employer

Mister Shanzi will be unhappy when he discovers that Meng Yao has agreed to meet with a researcher without first consulting him, but he is simply too curious. It is so odd for anyone to be so interested in that obscure painter, and so desperate to see more of his work. Of course, Mister Shanzi himself holds a clear interest in Nie Huaisang, one that he has unwillingly transmitted to Meng Yao… But mister Shanzi is an odd man, and ordinary people cannot be compared to him. 

For this reason, Meng Yao's first instinct upon being contacted by Lan Xichen had been suspicion. Mister Shanzi has his enemies, as Meng Yao knows well, and they try to act clever sometimes. 

His second instinct, after a quick internet search, had been amusement. Surely nobody expected him to believe that this man, handsome enough to play the lead in a drama, was a mere university teacher. 

A more thorough search had confirmed it though. Meng Yao knew enough about running a con to spot modified photos and fake credentials, and he had found none of that. Digging further, Lan Xichen appeared in the background of photos and was referenced here and there on relatives' social media, with no incoherence to the presentation he'd given in his email. 

So Meng Yao had found himself intrigued, and offered to meet and chat. 

A decision he half regrets now, because somehow, Lan Xichen is even more handsome in person. He is, in fact, the single most beautiful person that Meng Yao has seen in his life, easily outranking mister Shanzi who had reigned there supreme since the day Meng Yao met him during a con gone wrong. 

"I am so glad you offered to meet me," Lan Xichen says with a warm smile. "I am really sorry that I was so insistent, but it is so rare for several of Nie Huaisang’s works to be in a single place."

“I understand,” Meng Yao replies, trying to match the warmth of that smile when he can’t help being a little dazzled by that handsome stranger. “Though at the moment, my employer is a little wary of showing any of those paintings in his possession until he has inspected them all again. It is very embarrassing that several fakes fooled him, and mister Shanzi wants to restore his reputation. He is still getting used to modern technology, and how much it has changed the art market in recent decades.”

Mostly, mister Shanzi complains a lot on the matter, and keeps saying he’s going to have to change career soon. Apparently, back in the days, it was much easier to sell a decent fake as long as you also sold enough real things. But now with age testing of the paper and analysis of the ink, it’s nearly impossible to do a good enough job.

Of course mister Shanzi could quite easily make as much money only selling legitimate art, he has the connections, the collection, and impeccable taste. So Meng Yao suspects it’s not just about money, and more about the twisted joy of deceiving others. He can't fault him for that.

“Yes, that makes sense,” Lan Xichen sighs. “I was fooled as well, so I understand the feeling. It’s so disappointing, but not unexpected. Nie Huaisang attracts forgers like no other artists.”

Meng Yao nods sympathetically. He’s heard mister Shanzi boast that well over half of Nie Huaisang’s paintings in circulation are copies he made himself, and perfectly undetectable unless one runs those ‘damn new tests’ on them.

“If I may be so bold, why the interest in that particular painter?” Meng Yao asks. “Surely you could have found someone less complicated to study.”

Rather than to answer immediately, Lan Xichen considers the question. He takes a sip of tea with more elegance than this café deserves, and Meng Yao is struck once more with the idea that this man should be acting in drama, not writing essays nobody will ever read. It’s easy to imagine Lan Xichen playing the role of a noble prince, or even a god. 

“He’s just a fascinating character I suppose,” Lan Xichen says at last. “Outside of his art, we know so little about him. We don’t even know his real name.”

“What?”

Lan Xichen smiles, clearly very pleased to have gotten that reaction.

“He wasn’t born Nie Huaisang,” he explains. “That’s only his courtesy name. You see, he belonged to that… well, they called themselves a sect, though at the end of the day they were closer to nobility, with the same inheritance problems and power struggles. Still, Qinghe Nie held a number of beliefs, and one of them was that the birth name of its members had to be kept a complete secret… and Nie Huaisang is among those who succeeded at obeying that rule. So we don’t know his name, we don’t know his date of birth, and we don’t know how he died or when.”

“Is there anything that is known about him?” Meng Yao teases, more endeared and intrigued than he would care to admit.

Lan Xichen must notice, because he smiles again, as if delighted to have found someone willing to listen to his impromptu lecture.

“We know he was raised by his brother because their father died when they were young,” Lan Xichen says. “Well, half-brother. Nie Huaisang was the child of a concubine, or even of a servant. His father recognised him, but his legitimacy was called in question a few times. We know he survived a local insurrection nicknamed the Sunshot Campaign, though it’s unclear if he was old enough to have taken part in any fighting. His brother did though, with great success, but died without heirs a few years later and Nie Huaisang found himself in charge of a fief.”

He pauses there, his expression turning sadder, as if he were talking of a personal friend rather than a long dead man. Meng Yao finds it ridiculous and a little endearing.

“A few anecdotes from the lives of contemporaries tell us that he must have had a rough time at first,” Lan Xichen continues, “and he was suspected for a while of being implicated in the murder of the head of the Jin clan, but nothing ever came out of that. He’s just thirty at that point, still fairly young, and he lives on for another fifty, maybe sixty years… and we don’t know anything about what he does during that time. Nobody really talks about Qinghe Nie again until his successor rises to power and brings the clan back into the political sphere. Nie Huaisang’s life is a mystery. What little we think we know comes from the few poems he left, and whatever clues we can gather from his numerous paintings. Isn’t that fascinating?”

What’s fascinating, Meng Yao thinks, is the way Lan Xichen’s eyes light up when talking about something he’s passionate about. If it’s an act, then it’s an excellent one… but Meng Yao finds himself hoping that it’s sincere, that Lan Xichen really is just an odd man who is apparently half in love with a painter who died a millennium and a half ago.

There is no way that mister Shanzi would ever let anyone see his private collection. Even Meng Yao is barely allowed to go to his employer’s house, to avoid attracting attention to the place. Lan Xichen’s request is never going to be granted.

But it has been a long while since Meng Yao has been so intrigued by someone, not since first meeting mister Shanzi in fact. And mister Shanzi, in spite of the mutual attraction that Meng Yao knows to be there, has made it quite clear that he isn’t interested in anything but a professional relationship. Meng Yao has satisfied himself with that so far, because his life really is pretty good as it currently is, but Lan Xichen changes that. Surely there’s no harm in pretending that there’s a chance he might get to see the painting, at least until Meng Yao can decide if that too handsome man is trustworthy or not, dateworthy or not…

“It does sound interesting,” Meng Yao admits. “I’m sure mister Shanzi would…”

His phone starts vibrating, interrupting him. Meng Yao can’t help a slight frown, which turns to a deeper one when he sees the message he’s just received.

“Well, I have to go,” he sighs. “I’m really sorry. But… mister Lan, if I may be so bold, would you agree to exchanging numbers? That way we can continue talking about this more easily.”

“Yes, of course,” Lan Xichen replies. There is a trace of pink on his cheeks as he takes out his own phone, which Meng Yao finds both very fetching and rather encouraging.

He’ll have to be careful, this could be a trap, Lan Xichen might be an excellent actor, part of a team skilled enough to have fooled Meng Yao, but… but he might not be, too, and it would be a shame to miss this chance.

After having exchanged numbers and promised to be in touch soon, Meng Yao quickly heads home. He lives on the edges of the city, in a building that already looked ancient when he was a kid. Today’s a good day, because the lift is, in fact, actually working for once.

Upon getting to his floor, Meng Yao goes to knock on the door next to his. It opens nearly immediately.

“Meng Yao, you’re saving my life,” the young woman who lives there greets him. “I’m really sorry, I’ve tried everyone else, but I’ve been called in for an extra shift and I need the money so bad, I’ve had to buy her new shoes this month, and…”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind at all.”

His neighbour thanks him again, and rushes inside. She’s back quickly, her daughter in her arms. The child nearly throws herself at Meng Yao, and her mother runs off to work, leaving them alone.

“Well, Beastie, it’s just you and me,” Meng Yao says, walking to his door. “What are we going to do tonight?”

“Watch fighting movies! Eat candies!”

“And what will we tell mama we did?”

“Watch documentaries and eat greens and I went to bed and I was good!” The little girl roars.

Meng Yao laughs, and puts her down while he unlocks his door. Beastie runs inside to check the tv, while Meng Yao makes sure they actually have something to eat. He tries to keep his fridge full and his cabinet fuller, especially since Beastie has become a regular at his place. Her mother is a hard working girl who, like Meng Yao’s mother, got pregnant too young from a man who didn’t stick around. He used to babysit Beastie for extra cash before meeting mister Shanzi, and for some reason he never really stopped, even if he refuses to take money for it now. He just likes Beastie and her mom, and he remembers how much his own mother used to rely on neighbours too, whenever things became rough.

As Beastie and him settle down for the night, ready to watch one of those cheesy, over the top old kung-fu movies that they both love, Meng Yao gets a text from Lan Xichen, thanking him again for meeting him. After only the briefest of hesitations, Meng Yao quickly answers that he’s sorry he had to leave so fast, because he loved chatting with Lan Xichen. This prompts another text from the handsome teacher, to which Meng Yao replies as well.

His phone doesn’t stop buzzing all nigh, and Meng Yao doesn't stop smiling. 

-

In the days and weeks that follow, Meng Yao and Lan Xichen manage to meet in person a few more times, and text nearly constantly. At their second meeting they’re still pretending that this is only about Lan Xichen’s research, but by the third one they start openly chatting about other things.

Lan Xichen is very open about his life, and everything he says fits with what Meng Yao had found during his initial investigation. He has a little brother nearly fifteen years younger than him who lives with him, he enjoys teaching and researching equally, he has a pet rabbit called Liebing he dotes on, he can’t handle spice at all, he has, in fact, been asked more than once if he was interested in a modelling or acting career but always refused because academia is his calling.

Meng Yao is more careful with the information he shares. He admits to having worked for mister Shanzi for nearly five years, but doesn’t elaborate on how they meet because that's not a story for honest people. He confesses he didn’t have any particular interest in art until taking the job, though he has tried to educate himself on the subject since then (Lan Xichen offers to go to a museum together someday, and to his own surprise, Meng Yao agrees). He doesn’t have pets, but he does have Beastie and he’s pretty sure that counts.

The way Lan Xichen’s eyes go soft over that… it does things to Meng Yao’s poor heart.

As does almost everything Lan Xichen does or says, in fact.

Meng Yao is half appalled at himself for how fast he’s falling for Lan Xichen. He tries to resist it, tries to be reasonable, but Lan Xichen just has to smile the right way, and Meng Yao’s heart flutters in his chest. He feels like a teenager with a crush.

He starts thinking like one, too.

Ever since meeting mister Shanzi, Meng Yao has been loyal to his employer. There is something about the man that demands it, and though he has never made threats of any sorts, Meng Yao can feel that mister Shanzi is not a man who takes kindly to betrayal.

And yet, it would be so easy to arrange for Lan Xichen to come to mister Shanzi’s home without his knowledge. Meng Yao is in charge of his employer’s schedule, so he knows where he is at any given time. He also has the keys to that isolated house in the middle of nowhere. It would be so easy, and Meng Yao has never been too good at resisting temptation.

At this point, he knows that if he tells Lan Xichen he won't see the paintings, the other man will be disappointed but will ask if they can keep seeing each other anyway. This isn't about finding a way to keep his attention: Meng Yao knows he has it already. 

It's about Meng Yao guessing how happy Lan Xichen will be to see those paintings, and deciding surely that's worth the risk. 

That’s how Meng Yao and Lan Xichen find themselves in a car one day, heading out of the city together. Meng Yao feels his skin buzzing with nerves, though every time he takes his eyes from the road to glance at Lan Xichen and finds him glowing and as excited as a child, he knows it was the right choice. It takes them a few hours to get to the house, which they spend chatting about a number of things. About midway through the trip, when they take a break, Meng Yao announces that due to a last minute problem, mister Shanzi won’t be able to meet them at the house, but welcomes them to check the paintings without him. Lan Xichen is of course disappointed and offers to try again another time, but Meng Yao convinces him it’s more convenient to go that day.

The house, hidden in a bamboo forest, takes Lan Xichen’s breath away when he discovers it, just as it did for Meng Yao the first time. It’s not particularly big or extravagant, but there’s something about it that makes Meng Yao’s heart ache every time he sees it, as if he’s known it before. It’s ridiculous, of course. He’d never really left the city before starting to work for mister Shanzi.

“It looks like home,” Lan Xichen whispers as he exits the car.

“Does your family have a place like that?”

Lan Xichen frowns, and shakes his head. “No, not at all. But it still feels like home. I can’t explain why… Ah, don’t mind me. Let’s just go inside.”

Meng Yao hides a smile and goes to open the door. In truth, he’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible. Mister Shanzi has no reason to be back from his trip until tomorrow, but Meng Yao won’t feel safe until they’ve left. It really is stupid to have come here at all, and even Lan Xichen’s happiness is starting to not feel worth the risk.

The house is quiet when they go in, and a little cold, making them shiver. It’s always fresh in there, which Meng Yao assumes is why mister Shanzi has taken to calling his home the Hanshi. 

“It’s not a very welcoming name for a home,” Lan Xichen says as he looks around, sounding a little distracted.

“It’s not much of a home anyway. He doesn’t live here most of the time,” Meng Yao explains as they head for the kitchen. “It has his private collection, a few personal belongings, and that’s it. He prefers to stay with friends or at hotels if he can. Check the fridge and you’ll see how bad it is.”

While Meng Yao pours himself a glass of water, Lan Xichen does check the fridge, and finds it predictably empty except for some forgotten leftovers. Sometimes, Meng Yao suspects that mister Shanzi doesn’t eat at all unless he has company.

After taking a moment to rest from the long trip, Meng Yao takes Lan Xichen toward the workshop in the basement, where he knows his employer usually keeps the best parts of his collection, fake and authentic paintings carefully divided according to a system he taught to Meng Yao.

It really feels more and more like a betrayal to be doing this, but Lan Xichen is glowing, and mister Shanzi will never know.

Meng Yao starts opening the door.

His blood turns to ice when he realises that there’s light inside the room.

He thinks, for a second, to stop and run away while he can, but it’s too late already. Lan Xichen would ask questions, and he wouldn’t like the answers. It could save him from also dealing with mister Shanzi’s fury at least, but even that won’t be afforded to him. When Meng Yao peaks inside, mister Shanzi’s swivel chair is turning toward the door, with mister Shanzi sitting crossed leg in it and looking curiously at the intruders.

It is painfully obvious that mister Shanzi isn’t expecting visitors. Instead of the polished outfits he favours in public, he’s wearing a pair of novelty boxers with emoji on them, and a hoodie two sizes too big with ink stains on the sleeves. His long hair isn’t in a neat braid, but in a messy bun held in place by some cheap chopsticks. In short, mister Shanzi doesn’t look like the refined young man he endeavours to be when he has to show his face somewhere, and more like a college student who has forgotten the taste of any food except instant noodle and energy drinks.

That impression is only made worse by the headphones he’s now lowering, and the game console on his lap. They must have caught him taking a break.

“Meng Yao, why are you…” mister Shanzi starts asking, unfolding his legs so he can stand up, only to interrupt himself when his gaze falls on Lan Xichen.

His hands start shaking, badly enough that his console falls from his grip and onto the floor, its screen cracking upon impact.

“You!” mister Shanzi gasps, eyes wide with terror.

Hiring

Featuring Rebecca Lord and Giddeon Caldwell @cursed-ice-spirits

A figure in a hooded cloak swept out of darkness and down the overgrown path. It had been some time since he'd been there. But troubling matters pushed him to desperate measures. 

Troubling. Yes, this was troubling. Considering what had happened over the last four years concerning his granddaughter, he had decided to become more… involved. It was to keep her safe. She was all he had left and he'd go to whatever extremes necessary to preserve his family.

He drew to a halt at the entranceway to the large manor. Yet he did not raise the elaborate cane in his hand to the door. Knocking was beneath him.

It took only a moment for it to swing open for him and he was escorted across the threshold of Caldwell Manor, hood still firmly up despite now being inside.

A black-haired man, one he knew all too well, began to speak to him. "I'll say," as he led the way to the parlor, glancing briefly at the other man. "I'm surprised, Rodolfo, it's been a while since you asked for an assignment."

"Hmph. I have had more important things to handle these past years, Giddeon. And I've been enjoying the relative quiet."

One of the others in the Caldwell clan quickly set some tea on the table before rushing off to who knew where. Not that he cared in the slightest. 

"Understandable." Taking a seat, the host reached for a cup and took a sip, his eyes never leaving the hooded man. "Now what is it that you need?"

The first man eased into the other seat and rested his emerald-capped cane across his legs. Reaching his hands up, he pulled down his hood. Now that his face was no longer obscure, his features were quite clear. Stern dark green eyes with wrinkles around them, a long nose, and a head topped with white hair. He also took a teacup, not yet raising it to his lips. Instead, he held it and critically ran his gaze over his host. "You have a niece, correct? Rana's daughter?"

 Giddeon took a long pause, stroking his beard, before answering. "Yes, I do. She's been training over the past few weeks." He raised his eyebrow before asking something he must have known already, but decided to ask anyway. Foolish decision really. No need to waste breath. "Is there a reason why you're asking this?"

"You know me, Giddeon. Everything I do is for a reason." 

Rodolfo did not feel he had to explain himself to this lesser. If Giddeon could not keep up and play the game, that was on him. This was good, to test how sharp the new Caldwell head was. How useful he was. He picked up a spoon and stirred his cup of tea methodically. "Tell me, how skilled is she outside of the main family business, in the other departments you still specialize in?"

"She knows how to keep attention away from her," he said slowly. It amused Rodolfo that he was clearly puzzled over the interest in his niece. "Knows how to blend into a crowd and cover her tracks. Knows how to gather information without being noticed. That's what I have found out over the past few weeks."

"Good. Because I require precisely her services. What I need right now is the finesse of an unnoticed teenager, not one of your highly trained assassins." He took a sip, watching the head assassin over the rim of the cup. "You are aware of my granddaughter?"

"Summer Charn?" Giddeon asked. He sounded almost offended—and apprehensive—at the question. "She is a Slytherin in my niece's year. Yes, I've heard of her." 

Good. He was able to answer, still in the know of some things. "That would be her. I need your niece to monitor her at Hogwarts. I'm increasingly concerned over her school activities and the trouble and danger she's in. I need my family line strong and alive."

"I assume her 'school activities' are the Cursed Vaults?" the black-haired man drawled. "I can understand. My niece has been, ah, adventurous. Very well, I accept. I shall inform her of her assignment—"

"Uncle!" A voice suddenly interrupted. "I've finished!" A young girl came walking into the room, smoothing out her hair as she tied it back. She looked composed but dark circles were etched under her eyes. "What should I—"

She stopped in her tracks when she saw their guest, a spark of recognition lighting briefly, before vanishing. Ah, yes. If she was indeed part of Summer's circle, she would have seen him at the end of this past school year. Clever girl. She straightened. Rodolfo would guess he witnessed a mask sliding into place. How intriguing.

"I-I'm sorry. I wasn't aware you were meeting with someone. I'll speak to you later..."

"Or," Giddeon said, sending her a sharp glare that froze her in place. "We can inform her now."

"Pardon?" The girl's lips turned into a frown, confusion clear in her features.

Rodolfo set his cup down and stroked his chin, looking her over. She seemed able and strong. And Giddeon was a fool to think he hadn't noticed the power struggle between them. He decided to test that. 

"So, you're Rana's daughter. Her spitting image. You should consider yourself lucky to be able to follow in her footsteps." He pressed on from simply making comments, bypassing Giddeon completely on business and addressing her directly. "I've just hired your services, young one. Which is your Hogwarts House?" He sincerely hoped this girl was up to the task. Unnoticed but able to get close to his granddaughter.

It did not escape his attention that she flinched at the mention of her mother, but she didn't say anything, wariness etched in her eyes. Very interesting. "I am in Hufflepuff, sir."

"A pity you aren't in Slytherin. It'd make your assignment easier." He folded his hands together and leaned back in his chair. "You're required to monitor my granddaughter at school. Report on her dangerous activities and any threats to her physical wellbeing."

Her eyes widened briefly. "I b—" She glanced at her uncle and grimaced at the glare he was giving her, before hurriedly changing her answer. "I-I see. Very well, I shall see what I can do."

Ah, some rebellion beneath the composed mask. And lack of preparation. Of course she would not expect to be put on assignment so soon. She was not yet of age, after all. And Giddeon was clearly losing control of the situation, trying in vain to control his niece, especially with the surprising change in direction of address. Dear, oh dear, were there some family balance issues here. Which could prove profitable for him.

"I will assume you already have some sort of relationship with her as she has mentioned you before. I trust you can get closer to her and be discreet about it."

 "I do. We're classmates in Charms and she has helped me out in the past. Being discreet is what I do, sir."

He nodded his approval and glanced over at Giddeon, catching the glare he was giving the girl. "A report by owl at the end of every month should suffice. I will leave it to you to puzzle out the details." Abruptly, he stood up, leaning against his cane, and pulled out a bag jingling with coins, casually tossing it to the Caldwell clan head. "I should be going. I have matters elsewhere to attend to."

Her eyes were on her uncle as he skillfully snatched the bag and slipped it away. "Very well. It's nice doing business with you, Rodolfo, and good day."

"Don't forget my noble house, Caldwell. It wouldn't kill you to use it every once in a while." For the first time in this interaction, Rodolfo's tone sounded genuinely dangerous. 

It was insulting to not once hear "Selwyn" coupled with his first name in this meeting. Rodolfo Selwyn wasn't just any aristocrat. He was a member of the coveted Sacred Twenty-Eight. He tolerated the equal level Giddeon attempted to be at, but sometimes people needed reminding of who was higher up the chain. Even if someone only cared for the gold, they needed to remember where that money came from. 

He threw his hood on, face once again cloaked in shadow, and raised an eyebrow at the girl. "Let us hope you can be more discreet than your uncle, hmm? Good day to the both of you." 

And he swept off, satisfied that after a long absence, he had successfully unbalanced Giddeon's perception of him and stirred up the Caldwell power struggle by hiring for this assignment. In the end, he achieved what was most important: a way to keep his family safe.~

All I'll Ever Need - Count Orlo x Reader.

Hey everyone! Hope you're all doing well. This is a part 2 to The Virgin and the Violinist. A huge thank you to @wonders-of-the-multiverse for inspiring me with angst. 😁 I hope you enjoy it.

Warnings - angst, mentions of injuries.

You didn't know how it happened. The violin was in your hands then in the Emperor's the next. Your heart was in your throat as you watched him manhandle your precious instrument and winced every time he dragged the bow across the strings. It sounded as if it were crying out for you. 

"Sire! Please, you are holding it wrong." 

The whole court fell in silence as they eagerly watched what would unfold. 

"Oh, really? Shit. No wonder it sounds fucking awful. You will teach me." 

The whole court seemed to mirror how you felt as they gasped at the Emperor's demand. It was not something you ever thought you would hear. 

"Of course, sire. It would be my honour." You tried to keep your voice as you bowed to him. Your hands were clammy as you dug them into your dress to try and stop them for shaking. 

"Right. That's settled then. You lot," he gestured to the court, "fuck off." 

The men and women filed out the room with grumbles and jibes sent your way in hushed tones. It was only when the serfs slammed the door shut, you realised you were alone with him. 

"So, how the fuck am I supposed the play this thing? I must sound excellent to impress the empress. Ha! 'Impress the empress!' That rhymes! I'm so fucking clever!" 

"Haha! You are so smart, sire!" 

"I know!" 

You took a cautious step closer to him. 

"If I may help you correct how you have positioned the violin - it will help you play better." 

After receiving permission you placed your hand over his and moved it to where it should be. 

"You must hold your wrist like so in order to reach the strings better." You were surprised to see the look of concentration on his as he listened to your instruments without jibes. "Now, for the bow - which is the stick you are holding in your right hand - must be held as if you are holding a quill." 

The Emperor followed your instruction. 

"Can we hurry it up a bit? My arms fucking killing me!" 

You flinched and steeled your nerves as you taught him to play a simple tune. 

Your hand fell gently on his that was holding the bow and showed him how to properly bring it across the strings. 

A loud bang caused you to jump away from him as you looked to where the noise had come from. Your heart dropped when you saw it had originated from Orlo dropping a rather large book on the floor. 

"My apologies, sir, I didn't know you had company." He bent down to pick up the book. His eyes did not meet yours when he stood back up. 

"Orlo, what the fuck do you want? Can't you see I'm busy?" 

"Yes - yes I can see that, but there is something I must discuss with you." 

"Well, spit it out!" 

"It is quite a delicate matter. Something I must discuss with you in private." 

"Well, I'm sure whatever it is you can say it in front of what's her name." 

"(Y/n), her name is (Y/n)." 

The Emperor let out a bark of laughter. 

"No fucking way!" He turned to look at you and shoved the bow in your face. "You're the (Y/n) that's been fucking Orlo?" 

You wished the ground would swallow you up at that moment. When he finally looked at you - you saw the vulnerability reflected in his eyes. The fear of what the Emperor might do to you now he knew you meant something to him. The violin was now forgotten in his grip and you wished he would release it so it could return to your hold. You needed it's comfort more than anything. 

 The Emperor circled you like a predator before he walked over to Orlo and clapped him on the back. The force nearly brought him to his knees. There was no time for him to recover as the Emperor threw an arm over his shoulders and brought him close in a chokehold embrace. 

"So, (Y/n). How good does he fuck? Does his cock make you cum?" 

Your breathing became uneven as you thought about what you could say. Anything that you said in that moment would be on the lips of every member by the court by the day's end. You were damned if you told him of the intimate moments you had shared with Orlo in the library on more than one occasion. 

The door was yet again flung open and in stepped the Empress. 

"What is going on here?" 

"Oh, Catherine! You are just in time! (Y/n) was about to tell us about how good at fucking Orlo is!" 

Catherine winced at his words, but placed a pleasant smile on her face. "How interesting, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to steal (Y/n) away. She promised me a private performance." 

"Ha! I bet Orlo witnesses plenty of those. I am sorry wife but - Vanessa is needed with me. Now, leave us." 

"Her name is (Y/n)." Orlo bit in before the Empress could say anything. 

"Orlo! Fucking hell! It seems that fucking has lit some fire within you. Oh, this is brilliant! I suppose I can't call you lobcock anymore. A pity, I was quite fond of it. Nevertheless, I shall find you a new nickname and it shall be genius." 

"Words cannot express how enthused I am to hear what you will come with, sir." Orlo grumbled as his gaze flickered to the Empress. He silently pleaded with her to try harder. 

"Husband, do you not care for my happiness?" 

The Emperor scoffed as he twirled your bow in his hand. 

"Of course I do, wife."

"Then you shall release (Y/n) to me as nothing would make me happier." 

You waited with bated breath as he thought over what she had said. 

"But what I am doing here is to make you happy. I am learning how to play this instrument for you." 

"And you do not know how that fills me with joy." 

Finding your voice, "Sire." 

You felt yourself shrink as three pairs of eyes settled on your shaking form. 

"If I may, Sire. There will be plenty of opportunities to practice another time." 

The Emperor stared at you before his eyes darkened. "Are you trying to flee from me?" 

You winced as he prodded you in the chest with your bow. 

"Well, are you?" 

"No, sire I-I it just that I promised the Empress a performance." 

His grin chilled you to the bone. 

"And a performance she shall get." 

The Emperor ordered them away and it was the two of you once again. 

It seemed as if he had orchestrated this torture all for you - your own personal hell. It was even worse now that he knew that you had been with Orlo. His interrogations didn't seem to end until a serf informed him that  it was time for the banquet. There was not much time for you to feel relief as the Emperor's face broke out into a grin. 

"The banquet! Of course! What perfect fucking timing. I shall play for Catherine in front of the entire court!" 

Your heart experienced palpitations at the idea. 

"Sire, you have learned so quickly, but, if I may, perhaps it is a bit too soon to showcase your new found skills." 

"Are you telling me what to do?" 

"No, sire." 

"Good. Time to put on a show!" 

---

You stood awkwardly on the side of the banquet Hall with the serfs as the court gorged themselves on the feast that had been prepared for them. The Emperor proclaimed that he refused to perform on an empty stomach and therefore would wait until after the feast to show the court what he had learned. Your chest tightened with every passing second as your gaze remained locked on your violin as it lay beside the Emperor at the head table. Whispers then found their way to your ears which caused you to lock eyes with Orlo who was already looking at you. His eyes were silently asking you if you were okay. Your own started to tear up as the feeling of suffocation grew. You wanted to get out but you could not bring yourself to leave your precious instrument behind. It was the last thing you had of your family; your father. He motioned for you to come to him, but something held you to the spot. He went to rise to come to your side, but a clanging of glass caused him to freeze in his seat. 

"Lords and Ladies of the Court! My darling Catherine! I have a brilliant surprise for you all!" He picked up your violin and leaped onto the table so everyone could see him. He swayed slightly as he readied the instrument. Your heart became lodged in your throat as he played the first few notes of the melody. The Empress tried to keep a smile on her face as she winced at the violin's cries, but the Emperor carried on playing, oblivious to the awful sounds he was producing. The court seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief when he finished his piece. His gaze immediately fell on the Empress as she waited for her verdict.

"That was simply marvellous, dear husband." The court followed in their praises which seemed to lift the Emperor off the table as his already massive ego inflated further. You allowed yourself to relax but it was short-lived as Grigor stood to his feet. His wife tried to pull him back down, but he shook her off. He stared at the Emperor and gave him a mocking clap. 

"Grigor, what are you doing?" His wife asked as she grew wary of the court's eyes on her husband. 

"I just wanted to congratulate the Emperor on destroying our memories of a cherished lullaby and ruining our eardrums in the process." It was clear that he had too much to drink, but that didn't mean that he could get away with talking to the Emperor in such a manner. You prayed that he would brush it off as a joke as often has, but this time it was different. You caught the look of hurt as it flashed across his face before it was replaced by anger. 

"I don't like this fucking attitude you seem to be having a lot lately, Grigor." 

"And I don't like how you keep fucking my wife." 

What happened next was a blur as Grigor lunged across the table and tackled the Emperor. In an attempt to get Grigor off him, the Emperor used the only thing to hand, your violin. A sickening crack sounded through the air as he smacked the aged wood into Grigor's head. It splintered on impact. You started forward as you watched him throw it to the ground with disregard. Everything seemed to still around you as you fell to your knees where your instrument had fallen. A sob burst free as your shaking hands caressed the shattered body. You felt so numb you barely felt warm arms encircle your waist and lift you off the floor. You took the violin in your arms and cradled it as if it were a child. 

"(Y/n)? (Y/n) can you hear me?" A voice pulled you back from the dark void and through blurred vision you could just make at Orlo's shape as he knelt before you. It was then you realised he had taken you to his apartments. 

"Can you let me look at your hand?" Your brows furrowed at the odd request. When you said nothing Orlo sighed and gently pulled your hand from where it still clutched tightly to your broken heart. You winced when he ran a finger over the small wound which was there. 

"I need to clean this up before it gets infected." He went to get up but your hand clenched around his anchoring him to the spot. 

"Don't - I can't - I…" the words you wished to convey would not release themselves from your tongue as your chest constricted with the thought of him leaving your side. 

"It's okay, I'm not going anywhere, but I do need to venture over to the other side of the room to get the things I need to clean your wound." 

You relented your hold on him as he rushed to collect some clean bandages and a bottle of vodka. He knelt before you once again and began prepping the bandages. 

"What am I going to do, Orlo?" His hands paused the actions as he looked at you. Even after all this time you still got lost in those soft, expressive eyes. 

"What do you mean?" He took your injured hand gently in his own and began to clean it. 

"My violin is ruined. Without it, how will I perform?" 

He apologised when you winced as he applied the alcohol to your cut. He wrapped it in a bandage and placed a kiss there. "You don't not need to worry. I shall get you another." You pulled your hand from his as if you had been burned. 

"You don't understand. This was my father's and his father's before that. When I play it, I feel his presence near me, but no more. He has truly left me." Orlo's soft hands cupped your cheeks and wiped away your tears. 

"Then I shall not rest until I find the greatest restorer in all of Russia so that you can play again because a life without hearing your sweet music is not worth living." 

"Orlo…" 

"I mean it. Your happiness is my happiness, my love." 

The feeling in your chest lifted at his words as you let go of the instrument in your lap. You lent forward, cupping his jaw and captured his lips in a kiss that was different to those you had shared before. Your mind drifted back to how this had all began; an innocent kiss in the library that had led to so much more. You slowly pulled away to rest your forehead against his. 

"All I will ever need in this life to be happy is you." 

Scacchi

Rating: M (nothing particularly crazy, but it’s still related to BBP)

Characters: OC’s: Giuseppe Giovanna, Vittorio Pesca, plus a few extras. Mentioned: Don Giorno Giovanna/Reader, Fugo, Narancia, Mista.

Summary: Giuseppe learns how to play the game.

Alternatively: Pesca doesn’t approve of sheltering who he considers to be the “heir” to Giorno’s empire and takes matters into his own hands.

Word count: 1.8k 

A/N: One of several Giuseppe-related OCtober writings that I’ll be sharing in the next few weeks. This takes place about 15-16 years after BBP, so Giuseppe is a teenager and it would basically be taking place around his “part” (as some of you have come to call it :-D ). For context: Giorno and the Signora have discovered that against their wishes, their son has managed to secretly join Passione (more on that in another snippet, and know that Giuseppe’s “uncle’s” aren’t any more pleased). Unfortunately they all have to deal with some other mess happening in the city, and the only relative around to spend time with Giuseppe is Pesca, who I have yet to fully introduce in BBP. I hope you’ll enjoy this interaction between them! 

some translation notes;

trisoru (’tesoro’ in Siciliano), Matri/Patri and Matre/Patre (mother and father, in Siciliano and Napulitano, respectively), Se (yes, Siciliano), La Famigghia (the family, Siciliano), prozio (great-uncle in Italiano: referring to Don Arnaldo from BBP).

One of the soldati entered the room, Giuseppe in tow. “I hope your trip was pleasant, Signore Pesca. Things are a bit… disorderly here at the moment,” he added, casting a wary, sideways glance at his charge.

Giuseppe’s greeting was less effusive. Passione’s princeling was in a sullen mood, furious that he had been ordered to stay home while his father and trusted men sought out the current threat. “You need to stay home, where it’s safe, trisoru,” you had insisted. “These are unsettling times.”

None of this satisfied Giuseppe, Pesca noted. Perfect on many accounts, but still a child for all that, still inexperienced in the ways of this world. “Giuseppe,” he called. His nephew looked over sure enough. “Seeing that we’re stuck here together, perhaps you’ll be a dear nephew and entertain me to a thrilling game of scacchi? For old time’s sake.”

Giuseppe fixed him with a wary stare. “Chess? My homework sounds much more interesting.”

“Not interesting to you? I suppose it’s only natural when you’ve never beat me. Do continue with your studies.” Pesca raised his book, smirking in safety behind the pages. 

His comments pricked Giuseppe’s pride, just as he expected. “Very well then, Uncle. Fetch the board and pieces—this time I mean to actually beat you.”

They set the chessboard on a wooden table in the center of the room, a handsome piece of furniture that was undoubtedly carved and toiled over by some craftsman in the city. Pesca knew his cousin-in-law liked to patron the local artisans. Giuseppe had already moved his first piece on the board—’Grob’s Attack,’ Pesca thought with amusement. Most would consider it a mark of daring youth, a move that was as bold as it was foolish. Willing to risk it all for the quick kill. Giuseppe’s bodyguard Affogato sat in a chair beside his charge, watching as they played.

Pesca responded in kind, setting his Queen’s pawn two spaces forward. Later, when all the pieces had cleared the way and Giuseppe reached for the Queen’s Bishop, Pesca hummed and shook his head. His nephew paused and quirked a brow at him. “This is an interesting opening, dear nephew, but I wouldn’t do it in the future.” He offered Giuseppe his most disarming smile. “You’re just as bold as your Matri and Patri.”

“So I’ve been told,” Giuseppe returned warily. “...My mother says that you let her drive your car when she was twelve.”

“She’s a very good driver. She’s good at plenty of things, actually. A clever woman. Do you heed her advice?”

The boy pushed a tuft of dark blue hair away from his eyes. Pesca noticed that the dye had yet to fully wash out. “Of course I do. She’s my mother.”

“And yet we find you here, already a fully initiated member of your Patri’s gang.” Pesca blinked at the board before moving his knight. “If I remember correctly, your beloved parents had every intention of shutting you out from either organization. Were they heartbroken when they found out?”

Giuseppe flushed. “I’ve told you already, it was the right thing to do. I can help them.”

“Se,” Pesca returned in his rough Siciliano. “And in doing the right thing, you’ve also uncovered a new plot to dispose of them. It’ll make for an interesting family story in the future, and I’m sure your children will love to hear of how you managed to save us all… assuming your Matri and Patri ever let you set foot outside of this house any time soon.”

“They will. They have to.”

“Must they?” Pesca asked with a tsk and a scandalous tone. “I would be careful with that. Don’s and Signora’s do not like receiving orders, least of all from children. Your Matri is a Signora, a principessa of one of the oldest criminal organizations in this world; she knows a great deal more about these sorts of things than you do. Your Patri, on the other hand? Why, he’s the Boss of all Bosses, made himself a conqueror at the age of fifteen. They love you dearly and clearly gave the world to you, but I don’t think you’ll find them very willing.”

“They will be willing,” Giuseppe insisted, clearly shocked by this information. It was clear to Pesca that Giuseppe had never considered the possibility that his parents might lock him away for his safety and refuse him. “You don’t know them as I do.” Giuseppe took his knight and leapt over the pawns, letting the piece land on the board with a harsh thud.

Pesca shrugged at that. “Perhaps I’m still a stranger to the sacred love between parent and child, but I know what they are like. I know your Matri most of all. I know that she stole cars and sold them, that she impressed Don Vittorio Andolini with her thievery. She’s known danger from a young age, knows what it is like to run, to be hunted, to never be safe. I know that she is fierce. How else would Cosa Nostra bend so easily to her? The ‘Ndrangheta are half hers, considering her family ties to Don Arnaldo. She grieved for her father and schemed to protect you and your ridiculous Patri years ago—all when she was matched with a troublesome opponent. She’s not officially initiated in any gang, yet your Patri relies on her to no end. How do you suppose a woman like this will react when you come to her with a pleading child’s eyes and say, ‘Buongiorno Mamma, I have grown up now and would like to be recognized as a member of La Famigghia.’”

Giuseppe gave him a cold and hard stare. He looks so much like his father. “I am not going to plead to my Matre like a child. I am a young adult, with reasonable requests. I actually accomplished a decent amount of work before you discovered me and alerted them.”

“To be frank? You have too many requests, and as well as you did your job you can easily be replaced,” Pesca corrected. Good, that’s made him angry. It almost reminded Pesca of the times he teased you for having similar ambitions. This boy looks like Giorno but he acts more like his mother. “Don Giorno has plenty of soldati, and last I checked none of them add this much stress on those slender shoulders of his.”

“Think whatever you like, Zietto Vito,” said Giuseppe. “I can still prove myself to them. Signore Fugo said that if I wait, they will see that I’m not a child anymore and can listen like a respectful adult.”

“And you believe that? Goodness. Trust no one, dear boy. Not your strange padrino who wears that ridiculous suit, nor your false uncles or cousins or brothers. Above all, don’t hold to every word your parents say to you—they’re liars like the rest of us. And perhaps this wariness will dampen your gatherings or keep you awake for much longer than you’d like to be at night, but I’m sure it’s better than the never ending sleep that awaits us all.” He sighed and moved his Queen. “I am only your uncle though, only your mother’s lawyer. What could I possibly know that your padrino doesn’t? Still I’ll insist. If you really aren’t a child, you should know that one must make their own way in the world. I wouldn’t do as Signore Fugo says.” 

“... What would you do then?” his nephew asked, leaning forward with interest.

“If I were in your position, I would simply sneak away from this city. Go south. These threats come from the Sacra Corona Unita in Puglia, and neither of your father’s forces from Campagna have enough men to deal with an organization from the east. I’d go to Sicilia first, rally the other factions of Cosa Nostra, and meet with your prozio in Calabria. You can start making moves once you’ve got the forces—”

“I have none.”

“You have a famous name and enough resources to tempt the men associated with Cosa Nostra... And even if you don’t, you’re a smart boy, you’ll figure out some way to procure funding.” Pesca flew a Bishop two spaces over. “You’ll need plenty of them, if you want enough men to overwhelm and absorb this new organization.”

“I still would need Patre’s help,” Giuseppe said. “I can’t make any actual moves without his approval. He’s—”

“You don’t need to make any moves, not right away. All you need to do is gather enough support for your Patri. He’ll join you at once.”

Giuseppe frowned. “You said Patri doesn’t intend to let me work with him. I’m still a child to him. He doesn’t entirely respect me the way he does any of his trusted men...”

Pesca shook his head. “A poor choice of words on my part. Ask Don Giorno, your father, for permission, and he’ll treat you like a child. Do you want to act on your father’s whims for the rest of your life? Now… if you left and bolstered his cause down south, in Sicilia? The men of Cosa Nostra only follow the strong, and that is what you’ll be if you can soothe out the wrinkles that stayed after your first birthday. That would prove you are your own man. Bold, reckless, a perfect followup to the infamous Don Giorno. Another conqueror.

“Your Patri has suffered many losses in his youth. You might have noticed he’s grown an attachment to your Matri. If he finds that you’ve taken up his cause and put yourself in a vulnerable position, ordering around the men of Cosa Nostra—no doubt directing attention to yourself—and gone on the offensive, he’ll come and join you. When he meets with you, he will find a fierce and bold youth waiting for him. Not his son, but an equal. How can he help but name you his Underboss and heir then?” Smiling, Pesca took his Queen and ate Giuseppe’s King. “I hope you’ll still harbor some affection for me. And know that you impressed me by managing to last this long, even with an underdeveloped Bishop and godawful castling.”

Giuseppe stared at the board in disbelief. “My Queen–”

“You put her in a tight spot several moves ago. Do you not remember? My Knight took her.”

“What you said earlier... about my first move—”

“Ah! Remember what I said? Trust no one. Though I definitely recommend using a different opening next time. If you’re going to listen to anything I say, at least remember never to start with “g4” ever again.”

Giuseppe jerked back, gaping at the table and then at his uncle. Not ten seconds had passed before he frowned and shoved the board away, hard enough that a white knight and pawn flew across the room. One of the butlers grumbled as he shuffled around the carpet to return them.

“Giving up so soon?” Pesca asked, taking the pieces and setting them up once again.

He half expected the boy to saunter off, especially with the way he’d lectured and poked at him, but to Pesca’s surprise, Giuseppe leaned forward and shook his head.

“No.”

“I won’t be going easy on you,” he warned, “but I promise you’ll have much to learn if you decide to continue.”

Giuseppe nodded. “Teach me then.”

A/N: 

Ah ! That’s teenaged Giuseppe for you. Very different from his parents, I think, but I love him all the same. He has much to learn. This is generally untouched from when I first wrote it, so I hope you enjoyed it in all its rough, out-of-context, first-draft-ish glory!

Honestly surprised myself with how much I ended up writing, but I was mostly just following these two; the way they bounce off each other made it easy to let the words go onto the page.

If you wanted to see what the board looked like towards the end of the game, here’s a bit of a visual:

Lots of ways that this could go wrong for Giuseppe’s pieces... I stand by Pesca’s advice though. If you start on white, avoid opening with the infamous “g4.”

Lila Salt; Adrien’s Mom

For once, Adrien was hoping to have a normal, enjoyable day, the kind that any normal school going kid expects and takes for granted, but also the kind Adrien didn’t experience often. If Chloe wasn’t throwing a tantrum then it was Hawk Moth, douchiest of douchebags, sending out an Akuma in hopes of ruining Ladybug and Chat Noir’s day.

All in all, Adrien had little hope and for all the right reasons.

Naturally, his suspicions weren’t misplaced, because the universe seemed to enjoy making him miserable.

To be fair, the day had been going well so far. It was the last period and the teacher had given them time to work on their respective projects, which meant that students were taking the opportunity to chat with their friends, albeit in quiet voices as to not have the prevlidge revoked.

Adrien doesn’t remember how the conversation started, but right then half their class was seated in a loose circle and facing each other, in a light hearted discussion about their favourite movies and such, and Adrien was happy to be allowed a chance to participate.

Alya had mentioned a movie that she had recently watched and fallen in love with when Adrien took the flow of conversation and said, “Well, Solitude is a really solid movie.”

Some people groaned, others face palmed and some asked him to summarise the movie and to see if they remembered watching it. Adrien was happy to oblige, and made a point of heavily praising the lead actress. He fails to mention that the lead actress is was also his mother, but by the way Marinette’s gaze meets his and by the soft smile she gives him, he knows that at least one person besides him knows.

It makes his heart glow with warmth, something he’s always associated with Marinette and something he admires about her.

He should’ve known better than to think this would be a normal conversation, because everything he says or does has always been somehow forced against him, in one way or another, by one person or another.

He missed the sharp look in the predator’s eyes, or the smirk she wore on her lips as she stood behind him. A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, enough for him to look up and meet her olive green eyes.

“Adrien! I didn’t know you liked the ‘Solitude’ so much! If I had known, I could have introduced you to Emilie a long time ago!”

Chatter starts up in the group around them, people asking questions or giving Lila impressed looks, looks of grudging admiration. Lila is so busy placating and fawning to her followers that she misses the way Adrien’s expression closes off, or how Marinette starts looking angrier with the more time that passes. It’s clear she’s about to speak up but Adrien looks at Marinette and Marinette understands that this is a personal matter. It’s not her fight to pick, and to fight at all would be to fight a losing battle.

But Lila has gone too far this time. Adrien has given her many chances and she has taken none of them, and she had never truly messed up bad enough until she brought his mother into all of her drama.

There are some lines you don’t cross, and Lila seems to want to ignore that fact. Fine by Adrien.

Lila continues to gush about her ‘close relationship’ with the Emilie, about how they just had lunch last weak, about how they text each all the time and how the Emilie is like close family to her. Lila says her ‘aunt Emilie’ would do anything for her, because they love each other so much.

“So you could contact her now if you wanted?”

Lila can’t see Adrien’s face, but she can read his body language, and immediately knows something is up. Still, she’s committed to the lie, she can’t back down in front of half the class.

“We do have a lunch scheduled for next week! I’m sure I can ask her then.”

“Great. Let me know what my mom says.”

The people around them go completely silent. It’s such a sudden change that soon everyone is looking at the two, and even the teacher looks up from her work with wary eyes.

Adrien is now looking up again at olive green eyes that are wide with panic as Lila struggles to come up with a plausible excuse. She knows she’s run herself into a corner and knows that this might as well as be the end. Then again, Lila is crafty and clever, and if there’s one thing she’s good at, it’s getting herself out of such messes.

Adrien doesn’t bother to give her a chance to speak because he’s already up and out of the classroom as the air around him starts to clog up in his lungs. He doesn’t make it far and collapses outside beside the classroom door, panic in his chest and Lila’s voice ringing in his mind. He can still feel everyone’s gaze on him and misses the classroom door opening besides him and closing softly shut as someone steps out.

Someone squats in front of him and gently takes his hands in hers (he doesn’t remember having pressed his hands against his ears, trying to give back the moment that had already passed). He’s staring into bluebell eyes and her voice barely makes it though the chaos in his mind.

“Adrien, breath”

He tries to follow the sound of her voice and the warmth of her hands, until the panic starts slowly to subside and he can feel the oxygen reach his lungs again. He gasps and furiously rubs the tears out of his eyes as Marinette sits besides him.

“I’m sorry Adrien.”

“It’s not your fault.”

She smiles sadly at him and opens her arms in an invitation, and Adrien all but collapses into her embrace again. He can feel his emotions getting the best of him and while his father has always disapproved of appearing weak in front of other people, Marinette has a warmth in her that comforts him and tells him it’s okay to be weak sometimes.

-

I know, it feels a bit incomplete. To be fair, I have other places to be and things to do, but this was really fun!

Hope this satisfies you @countingdowndays

(PS: I have accidentally posted this on the wrong blog. If you are interested in my works, check out @the-writer-is-alive )