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mauromance · 2 months ago

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A case for Kastle | A way forward (my fan theory)

In the comics, Karen Page’s brutal death at the hands of Bullseye shattered Matt Murdock. But the MCU has a rare opportunity to subvert that fate: what if Karen doesn’t die… but fakes her death?

Instead of a corpse, she leaves behind a carefully orchestrated lie. A final, irreversible act to protect herself and the people she loves. A way to take control of a life that has been defined, over and over again, by other people’s violence.

Karen has been teetering on the edge of darkness since Daredevil Season 1, when she shot James Wesley. As more of her past is revealed—marked by guilt, grief, and survival—we see a woman constantly forced into life-or-death decisions. That history, and her relentless pursuit of truth and justice also makes her a permanent target for Wilson Fisk. To remain Karen Page is to remain vulnerable. And after Born Again opened with the devastating loss of Foggy Nelson, to kill off Karen too would feel like another lazy gut-punch. Just more pain to fuel Matt’s torment.

But a faked death? That’s not trauma for shock value. That’s character evolution. A conscious choice that preserves Karen’s autonomy, lets her reclaim the narrative and grants her a rare gift in genre storytelling: the chance to walk away from trauma on her own terms.

Karen’s reinvention

After losing Foggy and distancing herself from Matt, Karen relocates to San Francisco, trying to rebuild a life out of the wreckage. But we know, she can’t stay away.

We’ve watched her grow: from a small-town girl with a tragic past, to a murder suspect, to Nelson & Murdock’s moral anchor, to a fearless investigative journalist at the Bulletin. Karen has reinvented herself before. But this would be her boldest reinvention yet. A total reclamation. Killing “Karen Page” allows the woman underneath to finally live.

MCU continuity

The MCU has already built the scaffolding for a story like this. Faked deaths. S.H.I.E.L.D. coverups. Clean slates. If Frank Castle can be given a second life, why not Karen? This opens the door for powerful storytelling while honouring the existing gritty, grounded, and emotionally complex tone of Daredevil and The Punisher.

It also offers other character threads to be woven: Dinah Madani, David Leiberman, and more. A storyline where Karen fakes her death could organically pull some of those characters back in for final, meaningful resolutions without stretching plausibility.

Matt’s path forward

Karen’s "death" would devastate Matt, but it would also liberate him. It carries the emotional weight of her comic death, but with a quieter, more tragic finality. She’s not taken from him. She chooses to go. And in many ways, that choice might be even harder to bear.

But narratively, Daredevil is designed to endure. In the comics, he has loved and lost many times, and within the current state of the MCU has several romantic avenues to explore (Elektra, Kirsten McDuffie, She-Hulk, the list goes on). His romantic arc can evolve without being forced to erase or overwrite what he had with Karen.

And let’s be honest—the MCU rarely lets its heroes keep their great loves. From Star-Lord to Doctor Strange to Peter Parker, romance is often sacrificed on the altar of serialized storytelling. If Daredevil is here to stay (which it appears he is), a respectful, mature close to Matt and Karen’s chapter, one where she gets to decide when it ends, feels like the right choice.

How this ties into the Kastle ship

Frank Castle is nearing the end of his war. His body is breaking down—Born Again hints at his dependence on painkillers. His mission is losing meaning—everyone involved in the murder of his family is already dead. His grief has calcified into something quieter, heavier, more remorseful. “Look what it got me,” he tells Matt. One thread remains unresolved: his feelings for Karen.

Bullseye’s return forces a reckoning. And this time, Frank isn’t choosing between revenge and survival. He’s choosing between vengeance… and love.

In Born Again, Frank only springs into action when Karen calls on him—an unmistakable sign of his feelings for her. After their subtextually loaded moment together, their connection is further confirmed in a quiet conversation between Matt and Karen. Later, Frank is shown listening to radio chatter, monitoring the Punisher copycats. But he’s not tracking them for sport or ego. He’s listening for mentions of her. And when he hears them mention “the blonde”, and “hunting”, he moves. Because this isn't about his legacy. He couldn’t care less about that. What he cares about is protecting Karen.

If Karen were to fake her death, it would become a natural out for Frank as well. He could finally walk away from the Punisher—not in defeat, but in purpose. He becomes her shadow. Her shield. Because let’s be honest: Karen Page, even under a new name in a new place, will still be chasing truth. Still investigating. Still lighting fires. And when things get too close, she’ll need someone who can keep her safe. Frank can give her that. And she’ll give him what he needs, too. Connection. Stability. Family.

It’s the most fitting conclusion to the slowest burn in MCU history. Not explosive. Not dramatic. Just a quiet, earned escape.

Why Kastle works

The Kastle dynamic fits perfectly because it’s not about saving each other. It’s about understanding each other. Reflecting each other. Becoming something whole, together.

Frank facing mortality: Karen represents his last chance at something more than violence.

Karen choosing agency: Faking her death isn’t surrender, it’s a declaration of autonomy.

A poetic reversal: Frank lost his family to violence. Karen refuses to be lost in the same way.

And unlike Matt, whose romantic arc resets and reboots, Frank’s emotional world is singular. Monastic. If Karen is the only person who ever made him believe peace might be possible after the tragedy of his family’s murder, then her survival becomes the final thread anchoring him to life.

A fitting farewell

This twist respects the comics’ emotional beats but refuses to fridge Karen Page. Her “death” marks the end of a chapter, not a life. It allows Matt to grieve, Frank to grow, and Karen to finally, fully reclaim herself.

And most importantly, it understands a hard truth: in the MCU, happy endings are rarely loud. Sometimes, they’re quiet. Fragile. Earned. For Karen and Frank, that ending doesn’t lie in a grave. It’s somewhere else. Somewhere far, far away from Hell’s Kitchen.

A sunrise. A new name. A chance to be born again.

Want to dive deeper?

Coffee in the MCU

Why Karen and Frank are end game

Kastle scene breakdowns: The subtext you missed [WIP]

Published: April 23, 2025

Last edited: April 23, 2025

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nyverieee · 7 months ago

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unmasking draco.

DRACO MALFOY X READER oneshot angst

TW: suicide.

summary: late one night, you find draco malfoy standing on the edge of the astronomy tower, broken and vulnerable. he reveals the dark mark burned into his skin, confessing the weight of his family's expectations. despite his guilt and fear, you refuse to see him as a monster. as he breaks down in your arms, he finally lets go of the mask he's worn for so long.

a/n: english isint my first language so sorry for any spelling mistakes/ things that donot make sense!

word count: 1037

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ

it was late, the night sky stretched out in front of us like an endless sea of stars. But draco wasn't looking at the stars. he was standing on the edge, his body poised as if he were ready to fall. his hands were shaking, barely noticeable, but i saw them.

i took a careful step forward, my heart pounding in my chest. "draco?" I called softly, my voice barely more than a whisper. "what are you doing?"

his head snapped up, his eyes wild, filled with something i couldn't place. the usual sneer, the mask of the proud malfoy was gone. in its place was something broken. something desperate.

"go away, Y/N" he said, his voice sharp. there was no venom behind it—just exhaustion, as if he had given up. "you don't understand."

"i don't think you do" i whispered, my voice barely steady as i took another step closer, my heart pounding. "draco, please... get down." i said, my voice softening

he didn't say anything for a moment, just stared down at the ground, his jaw clenched. but i saw the tension in his shoulders, the way he was holding himself together by sheer willpower.

"im a monster, Y/N," he said, his voice raw, cracking like glass. "ive always been one. the things I've done... the things my family expects me to do..."

I shook my head, stepping closer still. "youre not a monster, draco."

dracos eyes flashed at my words, and he turned to face me fully. "you don't get it!" he spat, his voice breaking. "this mark... its not just a symbol. its who i am. who ill always be. im trapped, Y/N. i can't escape it."

i felt my chest tighten as he pulled his sleeve up, exposing the dark ink that burned into his skin like a permanent scar. the dark mark.

i froze, my breath catching in my throat. the symbol of voldemorts power. the mark of a death eater. but seeing it on draco, someone i had known since birth, was like a punch to the gut.

draco didn't look at me. his eyes were on the mark, his fingers brushed over the dark ink as if he could erase it. "i never asked for this. i never wanted this life," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. "but its mine now. its all i am."

he laughed bitterly, but it wasnt the cold, mocking laugh i was used to.

it was hollow, empty. "you cant see it, can you?" his voice cracked. "this mark is who I am now. its not just something thatll go away. no matter how much I want to change, no matter how hard I try... ill always be marked. and you... youre the only one who doesn't see me as a monster. the only one who doesn't look at me with disgust."

i stepped closer, my voice soft, desperate. "because.. i don't see a monster, draco."

he chuckled, a sound that was more like a painful exhale than genuine laughter. "you just dont get it, do you?" he whispered, his eyes still fixed on the mark, as if he couldnt bear to look at me.

he chuckled, a sound that was more like a painful exhale than genuine laughter. "you just dont get it, do you?" he whispered, his eyes still fixed on the mark, as if he couldn't bear to look at me.

i shook my head, taking another step forward, my voice trembling. "i dont care about that mark. i care about you."

"you don't understand," he repeated, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "im not good, ill alwats be the villain in every story."

i shook my head, my heart aching for him. "youre more than that. youve always been more."

his jaw clenched again, but this time, there was a vulnerability there. "you dont know what its like... to be a part of this."

"youre right" i cleared my throat. "but you dont have to carry this alone. im not going anywhere."

for a moment, he stood still, his breathing shallow, and then.. as if the weight of everything had finally worn him down, he let out a long breath and slowly lowered his arm.

"youre not afraid of me?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

i shook my head, stepping closer. "no, draco. I'm not afraid of you."

his eyes flickered with disbelief, as if searching for some trace of fear, but i didn't look away. "youre not a monster," i whispered. "i care about you, not that damn mark."

he didnt speak for a long moment, his fingers still brushing over the dark ink. the weight of everything seemed to collapse on him, and he took a shaky breath. his eyes softened, and for a moment..

i saw him—the real him—just beyond the mask. he took a deep breath and nodded, a silent acceptance.

dracos breath hitched as he looked at me, his walls finally cracking. "i don't know how to be anything else," he whispered, his voice breaking. "i dont know how to escape this."

befote i could respond, his shoulders gave way, and in an instant, he collapsed into me. his body shook with silent sobs, his face pressed against my shoulder as he broke down. the weight of everything he'd been holding in for so long seemed to pour out in that moment.

i wrapped my arms around him, holding him tightly, my heart aching for the boy who had always tried to be untouchable, strong, and invincible. but now, in my arms, he was just draco. vulnerable and lost.

i held him close, feeling his body tremble against mine. his sobs came in ragged gasps, as if every breath hurt.

he clung to me tighter, as if afraid id disappear if he let go. his breathing was slow, uneven, but the weight of the world seemed to lift a little with each passing second.

#harry potter #draco malfoy #harry potter fanfic #draco x reader #draco malfoy angst #angst #harry potter fluff

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thewolvesof1998 · 2 years ago

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Hiiii Wolf 💕💕💕

Buck and Christopher are baking Christmas cookies!

-how many are they making?

-what kinds are they making?

-what do they end up doing with them all?

And anything you can think of to describe the scene!

Have fun with it!! ☺️

Hi Saturn 🪐 !!!

I'm going to use this as my Tease Tidbit Tuesday!

Oh okay, so this sent me down a rabbit hole of sugar cookies and the types of frosting and now I'm going to have to bake some. So I had my first and only ever sugar cookie when I was in Ohio in March. It was sooooo fucking good and I'm pretty sure it was buttercream icing because it was so light and fluffy. I also love making white chocolate butter cream icing so I'm excited to make sugar cookies with it.

Anyways, your questions!

Buck and Chris are making Christmas cookies for Chris's class, maybe they're having a bake sale or maybe it's just to spread some holiday cheer, either way, they are making so many cookies, that the trays are spread out all over Eddie's kitchen. Here are Buck's inspiration photos (because of course he made a Pinterest board for it):

And just image him and Chris making all of these cookies:

And here's a snippet from Someone to be Gentle (which already had a cookie baking scene and I might have already posted most of this so if you've read this before no you haven't):

When Eddie walks in the front door of his house it's to the smell of freshly baked cookies and the sound of his kid cackling like he’s done something cheeky and he knows he’s going to get away with it because, as Buck says, ‘Look at that face, how could you be mad at him?’. Eddie follows the sound, can hear the timber of Buck’s laugh join and harmonise until it’s a cacophony that feels like it’s rubbing aloe on his therapy raw soul. He rounds the corner into his living room and is standing in the door of his kitchen taking in the chaotic sense. There are trays, so many trays, of sugar cookies, half are iced in shades of green and white, the others laid bare. Chris still has his back to Eddie, head tilted back in laughter but Eddie can see Buck, can see the green icing smeared across his cheek and the fake look of outrage on his face that is betrayed by the laughter falling from his lips. A far too familiar ache rips through his chest, his breath catches and eyes start to burn with tears that have become so common lately that he’s surprised they haven’t left permanent marks on his cheeks. He ducks away, not wanting his darkness to mar their happiness any more than it already has. He slumps down onto the couch, head already in his hands trying to push the tears back into his eyes as if that would erase the fact that they were ever there. A hand lands on his shoulder, it stretches from scar to shoulder blade, “Eddie?” “I’m good, I’m fine,” He says without looking up, his voice all crackly with emotion. He senses more than sees Buck sit down opposite him, the coffee table creaking under his weight, Eddie always in tune with every movement Buck makes. His hand never breaks contact, the warmth and steadiness of his palm in sharp contrast to how Eddie’s shaking like a leaf. “You know it’s okay if you're not fine,” Buck pauses as if he’s gathering his thoughts or courage, “You don’t always have to be strong with me, I’m not going to judge you or-or run away, Eddie.” Eddie shakes his head, “You don’t want this, it’s messy, I’m a mess,” as if to emphasise the point he wipes away snot with the edge of his sleeve. “Of course I do, we’re partners,” Eddie’s eyes flicker up to Bucks, his edges are a blur because of the tears but his cheeks are flushed pink as they usually do when Buck’s on a passionate roll, “best friends, I-I want the bad as well as the good, I want to be there when you’re at your worst, let me have your back.” A sob tears out of his chest, it sounds an awful lot like Buck’s name. And he’s not sure if he’s folding forward or if Buck’s reeling him but his arms are around Eddie, holding him close to his chest and something snaps within him. His fingers twist into Buck’s shirt as he cries into his shoulder soaking the material with tears and snot in a way he hasn’t done since he was a little kid crying in his mother’s arms, before the ‘you have to be the man of the house’, before he learnt it was bad to show weakness. And he knows that's not true, been teaching his own son it’s not but it’s so much easier to be kind to others than it is yourself.

The poem it's based on

first snippet second snippet

tagging people for Tease Tidbit Tuesday: @wikiangela @wildlife4life @eddiebabygirldiaz @disasterbuckdiaz @spotsandsocks @try-set-me-on-fire @jesuisici33 @bekkachaos @buddierights @spagheddiediaz @911-on-abc @hippolotamus @shitouttabuck @911onabc @exhuastedpigeon @malewifediaz @your-catfish-friend @loserdiaz @ladydorian05 @watchyourbuck @king-buckley @chaoticgremlinwholikescheese @daffi-990 @fortheloveofbuddie @steadfastsaturnsrings @mangacat201 @theotherbuckley @hoodie-buck @eowon @rainbow-nerdss @nmcggg @pirrusstuff @evanbegins @giddyupbuck @sammysouffle @smilingbuckley @jamespearce9-1-1 @carrierofthepaperclips @jeeyuns @callmenewbie @thosetwofirefighters @monsterrae1 @princehattric @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove

#9-1-1 #buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #thewolvesof1998 writes #buddie fic #fic: someone to be gentle #911 #tease tidbit tuesday

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pinkthick · 2 years ago

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That was it

Pairing:Doctor Strange x Fem!Reader

Summary: Exactly 28 days after Thanos snapped, you still find it difficult to comprehend that Stephen won't be coming back.

Warnings: implication of sexual activities

Hurt/No comfort

Without much motivation to move, you were resting in bed. Periodically, Wong would stop by to see how you were doing, and you would always be grateful that he had allowed you to stay in the Sanctum rather than simply throw you out. Although you were certain that he wouldn't even consider doing so, there wasn't really a compelling reason for you to stay here. But you still did. You detested yourself, you just spent the entire day sobbing and crying, and couldn't even recall the last time you had a shower. But you had to realize that crying won't make him come back. In fact, just because the other half of the universe is crying doesn't mean they'll come back. You felt so powerless because they were gone and there was nothing you could do to bring them back.

You prayed Stephen wasn't one of them a month ago when half the population vanished. Even praying was something you had not done in a such a long time. But you would have assumed that he would have been with Tony Stark when he returned two weeks earlier. You expected Stephen to walk right through this fucking door, give you a hug, take away all your concerns and problems, and murmur tender things into your ear. But he was gone… just like that. Exactly like Spiderman was or half of the population for fuck’s sake. And nobody could do a fucking thing about it.

Your husband was gone and you couldn’t be more furious with yourself.

You grumbled and shifted positions, literally forcing your face into Stephen's pillow as you stretched your rigid body. For a brief moment, you only felt his calgone on it and briefly thought it was him. God—You missed him so terribly that all you wanted was to feel his touch again. Why wasn't it possible for you to be erased from existence along with him? It would have been simpler for you.

After some time passed, you lifted your head and groped for his shirt, which was still on the ground. Up until this point, you couldn't bring yourself to take it up. To think that he was genuinely gone was something you didn't want to even admit. He is.. no—was your everything. How could you live without him? Even the thought of moving on hurt so much.

You still clearly recall Wong yelling at you both that morning to get out of bed and go get some kind of tuna sandwich for him. It would be permanently seared into your memory wether you wanted to accept it or not. Why wasn't it possible for the two of you to be happy together?

Stephen turned back to you when you barely stirred in your sleep. The man smiled as your eyes locked with his beautiful blue ones, and your eyelids finally fluttered open.

"Good morning, my love," you said with a smile as you reached up to kiss his morning stubble and caress his jawline.

“Good morning” Stephen brought you up to meet his lips. Your kiss filled with slow, morning passion. As both of you fell apart, you turned to look at the clock “God, is it bad that I don’t want to go to work today?”

He quietly chuckled, "Nope," as you sat up and reached for your phone on the nightstand. Stephen's eyes traced the remnants of the markings he had left on you from last night as the blanket slipped down from your body, exposing your skin to the gentle morning light. Even if it was for a little period of time, he wanted you all to himself. He dragged you by your waist and giggled, making you wriggle as he sank into your lap, which was wrapped in a blanket.

“Can’t we just stay in bed?” Stephen inquired as he curled up even more in your lap and somehow he was still covered by his own blanket. It was unusual to see the all-powerful sorcerer in a position like this, so you laughed at his actions. As you started to read some texts and emails some of your coworkers had sent you—knowing that you would be having surgery later this evening—you pulled back the blankets and began to play with his hair, trying to give him as much attention as you could right now.

“Even if I would like to, I'm still needed today.” You say as you take his hand and kiss his knuckles. You adored everything about him, including his hands, and occasionally you think he has to be reminded that you don't find them repulsive. He always treated you with the same tenderness and care as if you were a priceless gem, though he wasn't always like that. You always enjoyed the fact that even though he may be a little rough at times, he would always stop himself before going too far.

Time also gave him confidence, he didn’t need help anymore, he knew every inch of your body.

Stephen grinned as he glanced up at you, but when he realized that your focus isn’t on him, his smile immediately turned into a pout. Before ripping your cover from you, he snatched your phone from your hand and set it down on the nightstand once more. “Stephen..” Your admonition was completely meaningless to him.

"Only a few minutes.." You clamped your mouth shut as a result of him pressing you into the bed. He kissed the inside of your right ankle and lifted both of your legs over his shoulders. You attempted to stand up, but he stopped you instead. He simply pulled you into a passionate kiss, squeezing your waist with his hands that you liked so much.

Oh, you adored him regardless of his character, whatever new abilities he would develop, new quirks, new needs. You didn’t care. You would love him fully till the end of time.

When the two of you parted away, Wong's ranting throughout the Sanctum about heading to the Dali for food kept you from forgetting that you actually had to go to work. But Stephen didn't give you a chance to consider before he began to give you soft kisses all over your neck.

“Strange.” You tried again, sounding once more like a warning, but the former doctor was unaffected. You inhaled deeply as you made an effort to collect your thoughts, but it was ineffective. Your heart rate just suddenly increased once more.

He definitely knew your body like the back of his hand; when you felt him scrape his teeth on your collarbone, right below a mark he had left on you last night, you clutched his shoulder. He suddenly licked that spot, and you held your breath.

“Stephen Strange, I’m going to be late…” Your tone wasn't serious enough to compel the sorcerer to obey.

When you started crying once more, you weren't even aware of it. It was unfair. What good did that mad man think he would do the world? To make a better one? For you, at least, he simply destroyed it.

You raised your hand as you looked at the ring Stephen gave you seven years ago. You clearly recall that night because it followed one of his most difficult operations. It was successful, too. It was the one that launched his career and made him famous and you didn't think much of him taking you out on another date because he had a good reason to celebrate, but you weren’t sure why he was acting so strange. He seemed to be startled practically at every movement, which you thought was hilarious—that is, until he knelt in front of you. At first, you assumed it was a joke, but after witnessing how agitated he became just because you implied that, you realized that it wasn't.

Without any hesitation, you answered yes, and then you recalled that you had been holding back your tears until he started crying. And God, screw all the journalists who called you a gold digger. You knew him damn well, before he became famous. Even when you were students and were just roommates, the two of you carefully counted every penny to see whether you could both still afford to eat. With him, you experienced some fairly gloomy moments. However, you both managed to get through anything.

God, how you miss him.

You were still focused on the ring in front of you when your heart sank when you noticed the calendar.

November 15th. It had been 28 days since he vanished. You knew it was foolish because he was already dead, but you continued to keep track of the days.

Skin cells totally regenerate every 28 days, which made you understand that whatever part of you that he had touched in the past—whether it was when he held your hand, cradled you in his chest, hugged you, held your face, or wrapped his hands around your neck—had disappeared entirely from your skin.

The skin you have right now, has never felt his touch. You suddenly realized that he will never again hold you in that way. That was it. Your hands have forgotten what it feels like to be in his grasp entirely. While your flesh may have forgotten, your heart and mind are still burdened by those memories and are pleading with you to let them go so they may heal and move on just like your skin did.

But you already knew it wouldn't. You would be unable to undo the permanent scarring of your heart.

That was it.

He wasn’t coming back.

Tag list: @strangesgirl @paola-carter @hamandchickensandwhich @captainannamerica @ivyheliotrope @lilithskywalker @yumeillu @winter-cant-decide @andlizeth @withalittlehoney @mintssanctuary @strangesslut @rotindselain @rookiemarton @herseraphwings @robinschaoticlittle @kujosux @alahmorah @drstrangefangirl8988 @sa-filonzana @kety25jhosson @alchemxx @silver-shadow @wolfstarhufflepuff @lucimorningst4r @dragonqueen89 @rinacreateart @clockblobber @quillweavianstuff @k1mikoz @indoraptorgirlwind @mynamehasbeentakenbysomeperson @crazyhearttragedy @bobateadaydreams @darlingxgirl @crushingonfreddie @cloudedfairydust @robertdowneyhiddlesbatch @cemak @d0ct0rstrangewife @annabelloki @grumpytribble @allie131313 @paola-carter @annemarielovesbeenjuice @hamandchickensandwhich @rachelessfreedom-world @strangelockd

#stephen strange x reader #stephen strange #doctor stephen strange #doctor strange #doctor strange in the multiverse of madness #doctor strange x you #doctor strange fanfiction #doctor strange supreme #doctor strange x reader #stephen strange x you #marvel fanfiction #stephen strange x female reader #marvel mcu #wong marvel #doctor strange x female reader #doctor strange and the multiverse of madness #doctor strange angst #tony stark #spiderman

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mostly-marvel-musings · 4 years ago

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The Bachelorette - Part 1

A/N: Okay this may be too wild for me but I went for it. Feedback is much appreciated.

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Loki x Reader

Warnings: 18+ smut, threesome, some dirty talk? Nothing but filth. Cheating?

You have been warned.

Word count: 1600

Summary: On your bachelorette trip, you need a one-night stand just to get it out of your system, lucky for you there are two gentlemen willing to help you out.

Everything Taglist – @godofplumsandthunder @ladyacrasia @agustdowney @swaggysposts @littlegasps @little-baby-vixen @another-stark-sub @supraveng @kahlanmars @marvelgirl7 @disappointmentofthefam @pandaxnienke @tom-hlover @just-the-hiddles @fyreball66 @asmigurub @avantgardium-leviosa @imerdwarf @gladiosamicitias

…

Looking over your shoulder you could see your girlfriends in the distance busy giggling away with the bartender as he generously poured drinks for them, keeping them preoccupied. The alcohol in your system was enough to allow you to pursue this, not enough to make you regret it the next morning.

It would have to be one of the things you’d take with you to your grave.

You had two choices, either going back to them continuing the party as if nothing had happened or, accepting the offer that the two fine gentlemen laid out before you. The latter included walking through a portal leading straight to a room that guaranteed all of your fantasies coming true, while the former seemed safe.

The internal battle went on for quite a while before you quieted your rational side & went with your adventurous one. You wouldn’t have another bachelorette party, this was it, your big send-off into the married universe. And with someone who could literally alter time, you had little to worry about being unfaithful to your partner. This timeline would be erased into oblivion.

Finally you placed your hand in Loki’s outstretched one and watched Strange give you a grin that seemed to hide many sinful secrets.

Leaving the balmy beach air behind was relieving as the portal became narrower before vanishing completely in golden specks, leaving you standing in a palatial room that seemed out of time.

The interiors were ornate, historic even, complete with a four poster bed made of carved dark wood with drapes hanging from the sides, floating invitingly in the breeze that blew through the open window behind it, making you wonder if this was the Sanctum they had been talking about.

Your eyes ran over every piece of furniture in the room until nothing was left to stare at but the two men who were regarding you with a look of lust and want enough to send shivers down your spine and made your cheeks display the effect they already had without touching you.

“Take a seat.” Strange offered, gesturing to the chaise that sat in front of the bed.

Nodding silently, you sat down looking between the two as they unbuttoned their respective shirts slowly before rolling up their sleeves up to their elbows, revealing strong muscular forearms, veins peeking through the surface adding to the appeal.

The two moved with such grace, almost like presenting a rehearsed dance before you while you stared. It made you wonder if they’d done this before but you pushed those thoughts aside immediately, of course they had. But you weren’t here to worry about that, this was your night to let the outside world slip, a break from reality, this was your night to have fun without having to worry about the consequences.

“You’re not gonna make me undress for myself are you?”

The sudden confidence in your voice took them by surprise as you stood up and stepped out of your shoes, toying with the strap of your sundress, waiting.

Loki stalked toward you, eyeing you like a predator would its prey, his lean figure towered over you as he stopped inches away. His scent filled your senses as your eyes closed instantly, body eager to be touched.

You heard Stephen’s footsteps coming to a halt behind you, his fingers ghosting over your neck before pulling your hair to one side.

“What do you say, Doctor?”

Loki’s voice made you jump, his lips dangerously close to your ear while you felt his fingers lightly graze over the skin of your shoulder before he pushed the straps of your dress downward.

The room wasn’t cold nonetheless, your nipples hardened as the dress passed your breasts and down your stomach before pooling at your feet, leaving you in nothing but black panties.

The proximity of the two was enough to leave your skin goose pimpled before a cold touch landed on your cheek making you gasp.

It was Loki. His breath intermingled with yours as you felt his lips descend over yours in a soft kiss meant to ease you in. You willed your hands to move, boldly linking them behind his neck and pulling him closer as you sighed into his mouth. Taking this advantage, Loki slipped his tongue in, meeting you halfway as they fought, your hands weaved through his raven black hair, pulling ever so slightly. Loki kissed languidly, like he had all the time in the world to explore your mouth, relishing the feeling.

Stephen’s warm fingers sliding down your sides before reaching around to knead your breasts felt like a welcome contrast to Loki’s cold touch. Loki swallowed the moan that escaped you as Stephen’s mouth latched onto your neck, sucking and biting the skin as his hands kneaded your breasts, pinching and rolling your buds in his expert fingers.

You began unbuttoning Loki’s shirt wanting to feel more of what was hiding beneath the fabric, his torso lean and hard under your touch, gliding over his smooth skin before moving further south. The sorcerer spun you around abruptly breaking contact with the Asgardian God before slanting his mouth over yours. Stephen’s kiss was consuming, dominating and urgent, the kind that made you forget everybody and everything.

You felt the slick gather between your legs as did Loki whose hands travelled down your torso to palm your core over the fabric, groaning into your ear as he felt your arousal through your panties. Helping you out of them, the two rid themselves of clothing minus the boxers before guiding you towards the bed, never once losing proximity.

As you laid back against the plush mountain of pillows, their hungry eyes feasted on your naked form, warming your cheeks, sending tingles straight to your core.

“You are glorious darling.”

Loki knelt between your parted legs, opening them further after hooking his hands under your knees all while Strange moved to lay beside you, placing soft kisses along your jawline, down to your pulse point.

The tip of Loki’s nose nudged your bundle of nerves diverting your attention downward where he met your eyes for a second before delving into your folds. He marked a few spots on the inner side of your thighs as Stephen marked his on your chest and neck leaving you a tingly mess.

“Oh God…” a sharp inhale of breath felt necessary as Loki’s tongue plunged into your soaked core.

“Relax sweetheart.” Stephen’s voice thick & muffled against your chest as his hands caged yours above your head securely but you continued to struggle.

“Mmm. She tastes exquisite, Doctor.”

“Does she now?”

Loki rubbed his thumb against your clit after detaching his lips from your core, admiring how it glistened in the dimly lit room, all because of him.

Your back arched off the bed when he inserted two fingers in your entrance without warning, the other hand working your clit as he slowly began massaging your walls, stretching you out gently.

Your nails dug into Stephen’s forearms and before you knew it, there were ropes wrapping around your wrist holding them tightly against each other, emitting a soft orange glow.

The wizard, of course.

You had no time to adjust as Loki hadn’t stopped his actions, your first orgasm of the night approaching fast as you clenched around him, hips lifting off the bed seeking more of him.

You cried out loud as you came, Loki placed a final kiss to your core before standing on his knees. It was when your eyes fluttered open that you realized the sorcerer had lifted you up and was on his knees, his chest to your back.

You were sandwiched between the two men, hands tied above your head still, knowing they were just getting started.

Loki captured your mouth to give you a taste of what you had offered, making you groan into the kiss while Strange parted your knees before palming your dripping core.

“I want to touch you too.” You pulled against the restraints, making them chuckle.

“You will darling.”

“We have all the time.”

Strange’s slender fingers cupped your pussy while he nibbled on your earlobe, rubbing your clit in fast circles before plunging a finger inside with ease.

For someone who could manipulate time, Strange seemed to be in a hurry when it came to you.

“She is lovely, isn’t she?” Loki purred.

“Indeed.”

The compliments and their expert touches brought your second climax of the night impossibly quicker, your walls fluttering and aching for more as you shuddered, crying out profanities as your head rolled back in pleasure and your legs quivered.

“Do you want to take a break?”

One of them offered softly, you weren’t sure who, the buzz from your last orgasm lingering over making the details around you a little fuzzy.

“M’fine.”

Your juices coated Stephen’s fingers, his attempt to lick them clean halted by Loki who popped his fingers in his mouth. The sight was hot enough to remain a permanent capture in your brain & embarrassing enough for you to hide your face in the crook of Loki’s neck who chuckled.

“Don’t be shy, sweet mortal.”

“Okay I may need a minute.”

Part 2 is uuuppp!!!

#stephen strange x loki x you #stephen strange fanfiction #doctor strange x reader #loki laufeyson smut #loki smut #stephen strange imagine #marvel smut #stephen strange fluff #loki x reader #loki imagine

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engagemy-others · 4 years ago

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Fuckt Up Lil Bros Intro:

a fic that won't get finished so I'm putting it here

When Wylan was eight, his father had finally gotten fed up with him, and had packed Wylan and his mother into a car and taken them to see a specialist. His mother had argued the whole way there, saying Wylan would learn to read when he felt like it, that the strange outbursts would end eventually. After all, Wylan was a child! Children were unpredictable, at best, she’d said. Stubborn. His father had growled something under his breath, along the lines of Wylan being less stubborn and more of a problem.

Then they had walked away from the specialist hours later, and his father berated his mother, throwing all those words she’d said back in her face. Wylan didn’t quite understand, especially not when his father had slammed the car door shut and called Wylan something that Wylan wouldn’t realise until much later was a disgusting, horrible word. His mother had already known, and she had hissed at him to not say such things.

“He’s our son,” she’d said.

“Not mine,” his father had said. “Not if he’s like this. My genes wouldn’t pass this on.”

“Jan Van Eck,” she snapped.

“Your father was always strange,” he said. “Maybe this is from him.”

“I don’t care who this came from,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. He’s still your son. None of this matters.”

“How can this not matter?” he demanded. “He can’t read, Marya. He’s socially inept, and he will evidently remain so for the rest of his life. He’s not normal. He’s not right.”

And she had murmured something lowly and dangerously, something Wylan couldn’t hear from the back. It had shut his father up, though.

Wylan was both too young to understand and too old not to understand words like “dyslexia” and “autism” and “severe anxiety” and whatnot. Looking back on it, it didn’t matter if he knew what it was or not. All that had mattered was the noticeable change in his father’s behaviour to him.

That had also been when all the therapies started. Physical, to get him over how awkward his body was. Occupational, to stop him from getting upset about “minor things.” Speech, in hopes that it would help the reading. Tutoring, because that should have helped the reading. Drugs, to stop him from being timid all of the time.

He hadn’t needed most of those; the most use they gave was to keep his father hoping that he could someday “get better” until they ultimately proved ineffective to his standards. Granted, the medications would continue to help throughout his life, just not the way Jan Van Eck had thought they would.

If Wylan had to pinpoint where his life had gone to hell, it would be that moment he stepped in the car to go to that specialist.

Though, if he had to pick a second point, it would be months later, when his mother had died. He didn’t get to go to the funeral. That was when things had gotten worse from his father, with his mother no longer around to mitigate, to stick up for Wylan. His father started hiding him then, keeping his contact with the world as minimal as possible. He had his therapies, he had his tutoring, he had whatever nannies his father hired, and he had the occasional parties he couldn’t get away from.

He hated those parties. They were loud, and everyone always bothered him, and the food was gross, and his father always yelled at him later for acting like a fool and disgracing the Van Eck name.

The third hellish point in his life, though, was the moment that “Van Eck” ceased to have meaning at the end of Wylan’s name. He could no longer disgrace the name, if the name no longer signified his ties to Jan Van Eck.

Perhaps he should have been happy. He no longer had those parties, no longer had those therapies and tutors, no longer had his raging father. He was free of it all.

But he wasn’t happy. Mostly, he was just… scared.

Wylan hadn’t even known he had second cousins twice-removed until the day he’d been disowned. Maybe that would have been obvious to most people, but his father had cut ties with most of his family. Wylan was certain the only people Jan Van Eck was legally related to anymore was Alys, his new (and insanely young) wife, and their future child (the reason Wylan was finally let loose).

After a long taxi ride, oh-so graciously paid for by his father thanks to Alys’s bleeding heart, Wylan had enough time to fully terrify himself with catastrophic thoughts of what these “cousins” would be like. Jordan Rietveld and Kasimir Brekker could possibly be worse than his father. Hell, the name of the second one sounded intimidating enough.

Wylan spent a short while wondering why they had separate names if they were full-blooded brothers. He’d asked, but at that point, his father had stopped bothering with him altogether, and had walked away halfway through Wylan’s question.

The cab driver said something, but Wylan had lost himself so deep in thought that he couldn’t catch what the man had said.

“Sorry?”

“Five minutes,” the cab driver grunted.

“Oh. Thank you.”

And Wylan sank into his seat, panic beginning to eat him alive.

Wylan had only three bags with him. Two were packed with the essentials: clothes. Just clothes. Well, and the remnants of this month’s medications. But other than that, it was his sweaters and shirts and jeans and underwear and socks and two pairs of shoes. And that was all. The other case had been filled with things Wylan had snuck with him. Paints and easels and canvases and brushes and pens and charcoals and pencils and his flute. He had no clue if his father would’ve let him take them, so he’d hid them in the suitcase and bolted before his father could inspect anything. Perhaps that had been pointless—Jan Van Eck had stopped looking at him the moment he’d announced Wylan would be disowned.

Two of those three suitcases were dropped unceremoniously on the side of the curb by the driver. Wylan had fortunately grabbed the bag filled with his supplies, so nothing broke when the bags thudded to the grass.

“Thank you,” Wylan said to the driver. “I’d tip if I could.”

The driver just shrugged. “Whatever, kid.”

Then he disappeared back into his cab and drove away. Wylan watched as the taxi turned the corner and disappeared, suddenly feeling his heart thud louder and faster than ever before. Everything felt both too real and too unreal at the same time.

“No panic attacks before noon,” he told himself quietly.

“Wylan?”

Wylan nearly jumped out of his skin, and his heart likewise nearly flew out of his chest. If pain was painless, that would be the feeling of his heartrate returning to the pace it had previously set before as Wylan tried to regain his breath.

He turned towards the voice, suddenly filled with so much anxiety that his stomach hurt.

Two people were just a short stretch down the sidewalk, slowly making their way over.

“Wylan Van Eck?” one of them asked, clearly the owner of the voice that had previously called for him.

“Yes,” Wylan said. He discreetly wiped his palms against his pants, trying to get the sweat off of them. “Hi. Um. Jordan and Kasimir?”

The speaker began laughing, and Wylan suddenly noticed his face. It was painted in large scars and marks, a patchwork masterpiece of pristine porcelain and burnt blemishes. They had no distinct pattern, and clearly did not hurt the man, as he smiled widely through them. Wylan did also note that the half-eyebrow missing did add a bit of intrigue to his face, but otherwise… well, Wylan averted his eyes. He found staring at people’s faces to be unbearably uncomfortable in the first place, but this just made it worse. He knew he shouldn’t look at all, really. Didn’t people always find that rude? But according to his father, Wylan not looking people in the eye was rude, too…

“It’s Kaz,” said the second person, his voice harsher than rock grating rock.

He had no scars on his face—which seemed young and fresh, making him seem hardly older than Wylan, despite the hardened lines of his permanent scowl. Either that, or he already despised Wylan. Neither seemed favourable. Perhaps his taxi-ride fears weren’t totally unfounded.

But what stood out more to Wylan was the cane he leant heavily upon.

Jesus Christ, Wylan thought to himself. No wonder Jan Van Eck had never mentioned being related to them before. If he had hated Wylan…

That was rude to think that, though. He shouldn’t think of how his father thought of things. His father’s view of the world was skewed. At best.

“If you call him Kasimir,” the first guy said, “he might kill you.”

Wylan glanced to the kid—Kaz—and then immediately dropped the gaze to the ground. The scowl had gotten deeper. Kaz did indeed look murderous.

“I’m Jordie,” said the first guy, his smile balancing Kaz’s serial killer glower. He stuck out his hand to Wylan. “Jordie Rietveld.”

“Wylan Van Eck,” Wylan said, shaking the preferred hand.

“We know,” said Kaz. He did not offer his hand for Wylan to shake. Wylan noted the dark leather gloves that covered his hands. Interesting, especially when balanced with Kaz’s otherwise dark and grim attire.

Jordie, on the other hand, wore a white t-shirt and faded jeans, looking like a completely normal person. And the lack of near loathing on his face made him preferrable to Wylan. Even if Kaz wanted to kill him, perhaps Jordie wouldn’t hate him.

Not until he learned how much of a fuck-up Wylan was, anyway.

“So, you’re our cousin,” Jordie said conversationally. His eyes searched Wylan’s face, perhaps trying to find the similarities there.

“Not that we knew it,” Kaz said, his rasping voice filled with an unamused tone. Everything about Kaz screamed “unamused,” really.

Jordie coughed loudly. Kaz glanced over to him, something temporarily erasing the annoyance on his face. But then Jordie send Kaz a meaningful look of some sort, and the look returned to Kaz.

“Sorry,” Jordie said.

“No, it’s okay,” Wylan said quickly. “I didn’t know either.”

“Hm,” Kaz said.

“Anyway,” Jordie said, raising his voice somewhat. It reminded Wylan somewhat of whenever Wylan dared speak in his father’s presence at one of those parties, when his father would speak right over him to draw attention away from Wylan. Hiding his screwed-up son. But Jordie didn’t seem… well, Wylan couldn’t say that for sure. He had just met the man. But he did seem to only be doing it for Wylan’s sake, to keep Kaz’s irritation at bay. Again, Wylan couldn’t tell for sure, though. Only time would tell, he supposed. “I suppose… welcome.”

“Thanks,” Wylan said.

“Shouldn’t ‘welcome’ wait until he has actually seen the apartment?” Kaz asked dryly.

“Right,” Jordie said, frowning and blinking. “Right, yeah, that would…”

He trailed off, staring somewhere off in the distance. Then he shook his head, looking back to Wylan.

“Would you like to come inside?” he asked.

“Sure,” Wylan said, because what the hell else was he supposed to say? Someone different could have perhaps found something far more eloquent to say, but Wylan was not someone different. He was unfortunately just Wylan.

“Great,” Jordie said, smiling once more.

He bent down and grabbed one of Wylan’s clothes bags before Wylan could take them himself. Wylan shouldered his supply bag, ready to grab the last bag, but Kaz had already taken it. Guilt rumbled through Wylan’s chest. They shouldn’t help him. They’d already burdened themselves with taking him in; they shouldn’t add more to that. But Jordie had already begun walking away, towards the apartment complex Wylan now bothered to look at. Kaz was directly behind him, limping even worse than before. Wylan’s guilt likewise compacted.

The apartment complex looked… to be fair to the place, it wasn’t the worst place Wylan had seen. He’d seen way worse on his drive over here. But it was rather bad. The white paint had lost most of its life, living a now grim existence as faded yellow ivory. The windows and their sills looked old. That was the most Wylan could say about them. And the fire escapes everywhere looked rusty and rickety. Wylan wouldn’t trust those with his life. He hoped he’d never have to.

Jordie unlocked a side door to the place, then pushed through. Kaz followed, hands too busy with bag and cane to hold it open for Wylan, who had to rush to make sure he wasn’t locked out.

Inside looked about as dreary as out—old, matted carpet covered the stairs that lead to all of the floors, and decaying plant matter and dirt tracks and bug remnants scattered across the tile landing. The popcorn walls had crumbling and faded paint, much like the outer walls.

“Oh, boy,” Jordie said up front. “Here we go.”

Then he mounted the first stair with a sigh. Wylan frowned, wondering what that was about.

He figured it out after the first flight.

“Inhaler,” Kaz said, almost bored, as Jordie wheezed and coughed, leaning against the wall.

Jordie nodded, shouldering Wylan’s bag so he could root around his pockets. He pulled out a white and blue inhaler, popping the cap off as he began to shake it.

“I can take my bag back,” Wylan said, now feeling another layer of guilt. “You don’t have to carry it.”

Holding his breath as he removed the inhaler nozzle from his lips, Jordie shook his head. Kaz just scowled over his shoulder at Wylan, his cane held horizontally in the same hand that held Wylan’s bag as the other hand clung to the railing.

All of this burden they placed on themselves, only for them to sooner or later realise that they wasted it when he showed them just how useless he was.

They had to go quite slowly after that, but they eventually made it to the correct floor. The Rietveld apartment (Wylan assumed it was under the Rietveld name, anyway; Jordie was the older of the two, and Wylan was now dead certain Kaz was near his age) was the first door off the staircase. Convenient, in a small way. Not convenient that the place had no elevators, but Wylan wasn’t about to ask why they lived here and not a more accessible place. There was a reason why people lived in a place like this: money (or the lack thereof).

“Home, sweet home,” Jordie said, unlocking the door to the apartment.

Wylan’s first thought was: It’s bare.

His second thought was: It’s small.

The living space held a crackling old leather sofa, a brown corduroy reclining chair, a coffee table scattered with dents and mail, and flatscreen TV. The TV was the only thing that looked remotely new; Wylan suspected the rest were either hand-me-downs or thrifted.

Beyond that lay a kitchen, removed from the living room by only an island bar. It had space for a refrigerator, oven and stove, sink, and a small stretch of countertop that was surrounded by cupboards and drawers. If all three of them stood in that room, Wylan figured, it would become quite crowded.

He couldn’t see the rest of the place, but a hall led away from beside the kitchen. That likely held the bedrooms and bathroom, and whatever else could possibly be in this small place.

Jordie dropped Wylan’s bag on the sofa. Kaz set the other beside it, continuing to walk until he disappeared down the hall.

“Don’t mind him,” Jordie said, not once losing his cheer. “He’s always a grump.”

“Oh,” Wylan said, unsure what else to say.

“Anyway, this is it,” Jordie said. He began gesturing around the place. “Living room, kitchen… down the hall’s going to be your bedroom on the left. Me and Kaz’ll sleep together in the other one. Bathroom is last door on the left. Um… yeah. That’s about it.” He turned to Wylan, smiling ruefully. “Yeah. It’s not much, but it’s home.”

“It’s… nice,” Wylan supplied.

Jordie laughed. “You’re funny. No, it’s okay. You don’t have to lie. This place is a shithole.”

Wylan wouldn’t have put it like that, but yes. He’d seen the hole in that one cupboard, the chunk missing from the faux marble island counter, the dents in the wall, the crack in that corner of the ceiling…

“It’s not so bad,” Wylan said, generously.

“It’s cheap,” Jordie said, placing his hands on his hips and surveying the ceiling. Oh. Another crack. “That’s what it is.”

“Oh.”

“So,” Jordie said, looking down at Wylan. “Want to see your new room?”

Wylan shrugged. “Sure.”

This time, he managed to grab both cases of clothes before Jordie could reach them. Wylan’s arms felt like they were being torn off, but at least Jordie wasn’t burdening himself for Wylan. Plus, the short hall was nothing like that staircase.

Jordie led him through the hall, pushing open a door with a hole in a conspicuously shoulder-height place. Wylan eyed that warily until the door had swung fully open.

If the rest of the apartment was barren and small, then this was… Wylan didn’t even know the words.

The walls were popcorn white—as with the rest of the place—but they were studded with holes of previous tenants nails and tacks. Nothing lay on the walls currently other than those holes. There was a bed pressed against the back right corner, taking up most of the space. Half of the bed rested below the window (which seemed to lead to this apartment’s fire escape). Another large portion of the space was taken up by a dresser and desk combination. A small stool went along with it, tucked beneath the desk portion. And in the far corner across from the bed, a shallow cut-out of space denoted a closet.

“Used to be my room,” Jordie said. “But I’m in with Kaz now.”

“Oh…” Was there anything that wouldn’t make Wylan feel like guilt was piled so high atop him that he might sink beneath the ground?

“I assume you don’t have a toothbrush or shampoo or anything?” Jordie asked.

“Um, no,” Wylan said.

Jordie nodded. “Thought not. Well, you can use mine for the time being. Shampoo, anyway. Please don’t use my toothbrush.” Wylan managed a feeble smile as Jordie grinned broadly at him. “Use your finger, or something.”

“I do, um…” Wylan fumbled to find the right words. “I have some medications… I don’t know where—”

“Medicine cabinet’s behind the mirror,” Jordie said quickly. “You might have to rearrange a few things to get your stuff in there, though.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“For what?” Jordie asked.

“Moving your stuff around, I guess.”

Jordie frowned strangely at him. “I toldyou to do it. You don’t have to apologise. Hell, you haven’t even done it yet.”

Wylan pulled his lips into his mouth, biting them together. Jordie studied him for a short while longer, then shook his head to himself. The easy smile returned to Jordie’s face.

“I’ll leave you to unpack, then,” Jordie said. “Oh, and we’ll get you those supplies tomorrow. Or sometime soon.”

Then he disappeared out of the room. The door creaked as it swung most of the way shut behind him. For reasons he couldn’t begin to fathom, that summed up exactly how Wylan felt.

Wylan didn’t have hangers for his clothes, he discovered.

“Oh,” he said to himself. “Okay. Um.”

He refolded the sweater he had just pulled from one of the bags, then shoved it back inside. He zipped the bag back up. With any luck, the clothes wouldn’t get all wrinkled. He highly doubted that this place had an iron.

The dresser, he figured, would likely only need to house his underwear and socks. Those could all get tossed in the same drawer. Thus, he could appoint all the other drawers for his art supplies.

Organising those drawers gave him a good hour of clear headspace. He organised them one way before deciding he didn’t like that, then started over.

When he had nearly finished with the drawers, he stopped, staring at the oil paint tubes in his hand.

Why was he doing this? He had no right to. He shouldn’t be here. He didn’t belong here, for any number of reasons. This wasn’t his place. He couldn’t be a burden on two other people—people who looked like they had enough burdens of their own to bear. Yet, here he was, unloading all of the life he could carry into drawers and closets that weren’t his.

Ungracefully, he dumped the paints back in his bag, followed by all of the other supplies he had just spent forever organising. The only thing he left in the drawers was his canvases. Those shouldn’t get tossed around so much. He only had five; he had to treat them with care. He could spare exactly none of them.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a loud cough came from somewhere outside of the door. It hit him, moments later, that he had dimly heard coughing in the background for a few minutes now. But that particular cough was unexpected. And quite horrible.

Wylan moved to the door, cracking it open. He saw a dark head of hair outside, bent over as another cough came. Jordie’s head raised, elbow pressed against his mouth as he coughed again.

“Wy—” a cough cut him off for a moment “—lan.”

He shook his head, then dropped his elbow to reach into his pocket and grabbed his inhaler. Wylan looked away as he primed and then used the inhaler. It was awkward, watching him… well. It was just an intrusion, wasn’t it? And rude. Nobody was supposed to stare at anyone different. Not Kaz’s cane and limp, not Jordie’s scars, not this.

“Sorry,” Jordie said a minute later.

Wylan heard the click of something closing, and he looked up to see Jordie capping the inhaler and ramming it in the pocket of his jeans. Jordie had an amiable smile on his face.

“Asthma,” he said, as if the coughing had been merely some bug he’d swatted away.

“I’m sorry,” Wylan said.

Jordie waved a dismissing hand. “Don’t. I get enough of that in my life.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, that’s new.” Jordie’s smile had broken wider, genuine and confused amusement splitting his face. “An apology. For an apology.”

Wylan tried another, “Sorry?”

“Are you kidding? I haven’t had an actual apology in this house in…” He trailed off with another disregarding wave, but Wylan got the point. Kaz didn’t seem to be the relenting and apologetic type. “Anyway. I came to ask…”

Wylan watched him, waiting for the question. Jordie simply frowned. He looked over to the wall for a second.

“What was I going to ask?” he murmured to himself. “Shit.”

Unsure of this new situation, Wylan felt his fingers fumble for the fabric of his shirt’s hem. Jordie kept frowning at the wall, his teeth gnawing at his bottom lip as he concentrated.

“Jordie?” Wylan asked after what seemed like too long.

Jordie’s head snapped back to Wylan, frown deeper for a split second. Then it erased, reverting to an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I can’t remember what I was going to ask.”

Wylan knew that feeling all too well, but something about the way Jordie had zoned out bothered him.

Suddenly, Jordie snapped loudly, his index finger pointing to Wylan. Startled, Wylan drew back somewhat.

“Dinner,” Jordie said, amusement lighting his face once more. “Dinner. I was going to ask about dinner.”

Still uncertain, Wylan merely stared at Jordie.

“What do you like to eat?” Jordie asked. Before Wylan could even begin to think how to answer that, Jordie said, “We don’t do fancy rich people stuff, though. We’re cheap.”

“Oh. I didn’t… I mean, I’m not… you don’t have to worry about that,” Wylan said, words stumbling ungracefully. “You can just… make whatever you want, I guess.”

“Okay, I’ve heard that before, and that never goes over well,” Jordie said. “Nina’s the only person that has ever worked for.”

Wylan did not know who Nina was, but he still felt guilt gnawing at him. He really did not want to make Jordie change whatever meal he had planned.

“Seriously, it’s okay,” Jordie said. “Just tell me so that you don’t starve and then I don’t have the police investigating me.”

Wylan blinked.

“That was a joke,” Jordie said. He waited a second longer, expecting Wylan’s laughter. Wylan managed a grimaced smile. “Okay. No jokes. Um. Fine. Look. This is what we eat on a regular basis. Chinese takeout. Pizza. Uh. Boxed noodles. Frozen vegetables. Any easily-heated meal. Any of that repulsive to you?”

Truth be told, Wylan wasn’t entirely sure. He’d never had boxed noodles before. Or easily-heated meals. He knew he didn’t like most vegetables—they all reeked or had unpleasant textures (broccoli being the worst offender of all)—but maybe frozen made them different?

“No,” Wylan said. Even he could tell he sounded unconvincing.

“Fine,” Jordie said. “We’ll start with pizza. Nobody hates pizza.” He turned and walked away then, grumbling under his breath, “Not even Kaz.”

Wylan slowly closed the door, utterly confused by that entire encounter.

(and this is all I have written lmao sorryyyyyy)

#lets hope this all fits in one post lmao #its 4k so who knows lmao #wylan van eck #kaz brekker #jordie rietveld #jan van eck #marya van eck #six of crows #crooked kingdom #shadow and bone #fuckt up lil bros au #if i ever write more i'll reblog but that likely wont happenlmao

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jdevinembroidery · 4 years ago

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Part 1:

Overall tips and tricks for silk shading, or needle patting:

Try to wash your hands before stitching. The oils from your hands can collect on the floss and fabric, which isn’t great for them. It will degrade the fabric and floss over time. But washing your piece when you’ve finished will help remove anything that may have unintentionally transferred. I can send you info on exactly how to launder your piece when you’ve finished if you’d like as well. It also helps to block or damp stretch the piece when you’ve finished stitching. This will ensure a perfectly flat embroidery with no puckering or warps.

Equipment

A medium plus weight linen is ideal for shading. I sometimes will back my linen with another fabric like muslin or calico to help stabilize the fabric, and help keep the stitches secure and support them. If using a linen or even a cotton, make sure to pre-launder your fabric first to shrink it. You can also use a high count good quality quilters cotton. Silk dupioni works even better. Silk is my favorite and preferred by professional thread painters, but it’s finicky to work with.

Make sure when you cut your fabric, it’s squared on grain. If it’s not cut and mounted on grain, it can lead to terrible puckering and warps. Measure out your fabric, to the dimensions you’ll need to properly finish it for mounting. Mark a mark with a water soluble pen at that measurement. Cut a 1 inch slit along the measurement line. Find and then separate a single strand within the fabric, along the slit you just made. Pull that thread out of the fabric. By removing a single thread from the fabric, you’ll be left with a straight line from where that thread was in the fabric. Using your scissors, cut along that line, using it as a guide. Repeat for all four sides. This will create a perfectly squared piece of fabric in which all the edges are on thread. When mounting the fabric on a frame or in a hoop, keep it squared, on thread. Meaning keep the warp and weft threads straight. They’ll either go vertical perfectly, or horizontal perfectly. Don’t pull one area of the fabric so hard it warp the threads of the fabric. It should be pulled drum tight, but kept so that the fabric remains on thread.

Transfer your pattern using prick and pounce, if you can. An alternative is to use a water soluble transfer paper. This works on any fabric, and on every color. Yellow transfer paper works especially well for fabrics that are dark. Another option is to trace the design using a light box or sunny window. Make sure you’re using a good water soluble pen. Note that this only work for fabric that is thin enough for the light to pass through, and typically you want a thicker fabric for stitching. ****Be wary of heat erase pens!!! The ink my look like it disappears, but it’s always inside and on the fabric and can show back up at any time. They can also leave ghost marks that are permanent and can ruin the piece. Regular carbon paper and iron on transfer methods are also permanent so must be stitch over perfectly and transferee perfectly. Which is not easy to do. It’s best to use transfer methods that are non-damaging to the fabric, like water soluble products.

I recommend using a slate frame to mount your fabric. But stretcher bars work just as well and are cheaper and easier to set up. Use stainless steel tacks to secure the fabric onto the stretcher bars. Other tacks can rust and stain the fabric. A hoop can work in a pinch. I prefer quilter’s embroidery hoops if I’m using one. They’re sturdier and hold the fabric more securely. If you use a hoop, make sure it’s good quality and can either be tightened with a screwdriver or has a wingnut. You can always bind your hoop with bias tape or hoop tape if you feel the fabric is slipping too much or if you’re worried about hoop burn. Just make sure it’s much larger than your actual embroidery design. You should have plenty of space around the pattern. Remember to always keep the fabric drum tight. I can tell you exactly how to mount it up in the hoop or on stretcher bars if you need that info. If using a hoop, remember to take it out of the hoop if not actively stitching to prevent hoop marks and burns.

It helps to lay down acid-free tissue paper over your fabric to protect the it and stitches while working. You can move it around as needed to access the areas you’re working on.

Use good quality, new embroidery needles. I love Tulip brand size 10. John James are fine to work with. Note that old or cheap needles form burs which wear the floss down more quickly making it appear fuzzy and worn.

Start with stranded cotton. DMC or Anchor brand floss are a good place to start. If you’re looking to step it up a bit, look into Cosmo floss, Madeira or Valdani. They’re amazing. Spun silk like Au Ver a Soie d’Alger is superior to stranded cotton. It’s heavenly to work with. I actually use filament silk floss a lot as well, like from DeVere Yarns (size 6). It’s finer and allows for greater detail. It can be hard to work with though and is a bit more expensive. A good alternative is regular sewing threads, like Gutermann. Sewing thread will work to get the same results for detail work.

Cutting and working with your floss

Don’t cut all 6 threads off your skein at once. Separate out only one thread, strip that thread from your skein, then cut it off. Cut the piece of floss 16-18inches long. Any more will wear your floss down, making it fuzzy and it will loose its shine. You can gently wrap the threads still on your skein around it to keep them from getting knotted up. I use DMC’s stitchbow storage system to hold my skeins. It’s very convenient and keeps them organized. I just wrap the un-cut threads back onto the bow after I’ve cut off my one thread.

Make sure you’re paying attention to the grain of your floss. I cut one thread at a time from the skein. Make sure you’re pulling the floss from the proper end of the skein. I then thread my needle with the non-cut end of the floss. This ensures I’m stitching with the grain of the floss. Embroidery thread has a grain, kind of like wood has a grain. Therefore, If you rub along embroidery thread in the wrong direction, you’ll be working against the grain, and subsequently, you will achieve inferior results with your stitching, because you’re pulling the fibers against the grain. To ensure that you’re not stitching against the grain. Always thread your needle from the same end of the floss, which should be pulled from the right end of the skein. To make sure you do this, you pull your floss from the right end of the skein and cut only one strand (of the six) at a time, threading the “front” of the strand into the needle (the end opposite the cut you just made), that way, every time you thread your needle from floss from a pull skein, you’re always threading it so that the thread travels in the same direction through the fabric, and that direction is with the grain and not against it. Stitching “with the grain” of the thread will result in smoother stitching, in fewer knots as you work with your thread, and embroidery thread that doesn’t wear down as quickly.

Part 2 next…

#embroidery #hand embroidery #needlework #needlepainting #silkshading #embroideryproject #embroidery craft #embroidery pattern #embroidery tips

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beclynn-herondale · 4 years ago

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hi!

hope you are well ❤ and i hope it's fine if i talk about robert adopting jace!

since this is totally related to robert's homophobic behaviour i'll have to mention it, take this as a trigger/content warning to anyone who may need it! (you probably know a lot about it already but i guess many people don't actually understand robert's side, and not sure if i even need to say it, but everything next is canon or based in canon information, i'm not making up anything) so here's my analysis:

so first i'll mention the basics: robert adopted jace (as jonathan wayland, michael's child) because of what he did to michael in the past. what exactly does that mean? he was trying to compensate what he did to michael. and how this compensation works? helping michael after his death?

something kinda obvious i guess is that robert felt miserable most of the time, for multiple reasons combined. one of them being his intense self-loathing/none self-steem, also caused for multiple reasons. for most of his life robert was ashamed for.. existing, basically, i mean he really was extremely ashamed of himself in general. another reason, more specifical, was michael. i won't explain the effects of a dead parabatai to a shadowhunter, but in was mentioned in later books how the life-death separation of robert and michael devastaded both of them, and that's just the parabatai part. along with their other complications, it was all very harmful, and robert is shown getting triggered under mention of michael.

now there's something one needs to understand so they can understand 1) robert's self-loathing over michael and 2) robert hoped adopting michael's son would "redeem"/"forgive" him?

see, on robert's opinion, homophobia is unforgivable. really.

nobody ever lectured or told him this. that's his actual opinion on homophobia. and that was his opinion on the matter years before alec was born or any shadowhunter close to robert cared about it. when robert was a 80's teenager, he thought it was unforgivable, and he kept thinking that through the years. this is important 'cause it's a impression of mine that a lot of people think robert was actually anti gay people and then changed his beliefs for alec's sake, and this is absolutely incorrect. robert knew that discriminating people for their sexuality was wrong — and he hated himself for doing it to michael (and afterwards to alec, but then it was mostly a misunderstanding)

said that, we know michael was something like a ugly open wound in robert. because, as i mentioned, they missed each other, and robert had to cope with the fact that he was horrible to michael and he knew what he did was horrible, and he just had to live thinking of himself as trash. michael was a extremely sensive topic and thinking about him hurt too much. that's how alec and isabelle ended up taking many years to find out robert had a parabatai, because robert never even mentioned michael. they only found out who michael was because of jace's adoption.

now i'm getting close to the point. robert didn't want anything to ever remind him of michael, because it hurt too much (that was the main reason he didn't react well to alec's relationship with magnus!!!!! his children took a decade to find out michael even existed!!!!). and that's why i can't agree with the idea that robert only adopted jace to feel better with himself.

obviously valentine can't really be trusted as a source of information, but he was probably who best knew robert after michael, and his entire plan relied on robert taking jace in for michael. now, according to him, he knew robert would do that for michael. and how could him be so sure? robert had to actually fight maryse to adopt jace, and valentine trusted he would do it over michael. valentine thought very low of robert, so that's really something.

if robert only wanted to feel better about himself, adopting jace wouldn't make any sense to him, first because, well, robert's self-loathing is deeper than that (and he would know it better than anyone), but i know people in pain don't always act logical and robert is a great example of this so, second, as i showed, michael is a big emotional trigger to robert and he gets very upset about. we don't know how much and how often robert and maryse got agressive with each other, but their fights about adopting michael's child envolved a lot of shouting, and this is not the only context we see robert getting upset over michael.

(as if this wasn't evidence enough, in the wicked ones we are directly informed that all of robert agressive and permanently triggered and dangerous vibes are nothing more than hurt over michael. that's really something)

if thinking of michael was so triggering to robert at the point he hurts people - and people he love (maryse, alec) over it, how adopting michael's son and taking care of him with his presence as a permanent reminder of michael (and that michael was gone) would make robert feel better with himself? and, even more: he wouldn't expect jace to look like michael, as he did expect. if he was thinking mostly about himself, he would be satisfied finding out jace's looks don't remind him of michael, but instead he was awkward and got worried about how jace was feeling.

so what was this about? robert says he was trying to compensate for what he did, as according to cassie, "awkwardly and painfully trying to convey that he loved michael." and yeah, doing something good to michael would make robert feel better, because he loved michael and doing good things to michael makes sense to him. robert never expected what he did to michael to be forgiven, but he did want to demonstrate that he loved michael and that he could be better than that - better than what he had done - for the people he loved.

that was a ride, sorry any mistakes (not native english speaker) and i hope you like these observations, since i understood you liked my last robert analysis

xoxo, thank you for your attention 💓

Hello again, flower

I'm hanging in there 😎

Sorry it took me a bit to answer

I actually got a new perspective on Robert from this. And I love the way you explained this. I don't have too much to add, but a little.

I do agree that he wasn't as homophobic as some might think. He was afraid of what other people would think, and in which case, did end up kind of being that way.

I think if Robert hadn't been so afraid of what people would have said, (I do think the trauma he had with the rune played part in this. As he didn't want to have something else people felt he should be ashamed of), I think he would have actually accepted Michael. It was a very complicated situation and it was cringe a little to, but there's so much to unpack there. And I do believe there's always at least two sides to a story. We know he was a little homophobic with Alec, but he acknowledged it and started changing his ways, which is all you can ask for in this case. I appreciate him trying to change and be better, as I am a sucker for redemption and growth and change. Sometimes change is all that can be done. It won't erase the hurt that was caused but it does mean there won't be anymore hurt done, and I think that's what matters.

Also, the stuff with Jace I very much agree with. but I think it also left Jace feeling like the only reason they took him in was because they thought he was Michael's son, we know that isn't actually true and they love Jace for Jace. I think itleft Jace struggling a little bit though. But in TDA it kinda seemed like him and Robert had somewhat of an improved relationship, as Jace said that Robert had mellowed out a lot since he had become a grandfather, and he wasn't so bad. I do think Robert was fond of his children he just didn't express it openly with them. We do however see him doing it with his grandchildren, everytime he called Max, his M & M, I thought it was precious.

And I fully believe he apologized to Michael in the afterlife and they are hanging out, and taking care of Max. I also believe he tells the other Circle members there about TMI Gang. Mostly about his kids.

This is also a stretch but I think they Robert and Jace could have bonded over their experiences with runes. Jace didn't have the same experience as Robert, but we Valentine marked Jace early, and marking Nephilim children early gives them terrible nightmares. I think there could have been an understanding between them. But we know neither of them like to talk about their trauma. And definitely don't like to talk about their feelings lol.

Hope you are well 💛🧡

#tsc asks #robert lightwood #jace herondale #michael wayland #tsc #tmi #beau peeps 💛🧡

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jadekitty777 · 4 years ago

Text

On Your Six, Chapter 3

Day 3: Parenting for @taiqrowweek

Rating: T for this chapter, M for overall

Words: 5k

Summary: Qrow was what most of society would call a small-town criminal. But to those oppressed, he hoped only to be a healer. In an effort to make a change in the world, he moves from kingdom to kingdom, searching for branded omegas in need. His goal? To turn the derogatory words the reformatories forced them to bear on their skin into works of art.

Then one day, his past catches up to him in the form of Taiyang, his former best friend, with a brand of his own stained onto his skin and a plea for help in his eyes. Qrow has no choice but to answer, even if it means he’d have to face his mistakes once and for all.

[An ABO-style universe in a modern-day style Remnant. No Grimm, because people are the real monsters in this one]

Ao3 Link: On Your Mind

Early on in his career, Qrow had come to value the strength in listening.

He knew for every omega who walked through his door, he was a step in their healing process. It didn’t matter at what point in that process he was treading into; everyone came needing something. A sense of control. A desire to feel beautiful again. A need to shake off shame. No matter what it was, every reason was understandable and downright defensible.

But he knew his deed didn’t always end at the tip of a needle. Sometimes it wasn’t what was on their skin, but what was in their minds that weighed the most. Those were his talkers. The ones who felt so hurt or overcome by what had happened to them, they had to tell their story to someone.

So Qrow listened. He listened to the Mistrialian baker who tried to escape his abusive relationship by drugging his alpha one night and escaping into the night as the word Disloyal was overwrote. Erased Rebel as he was enraptured by the Rights Activist from Mantle who handed out self-funded newspapers all dedicated to lining out the inequalities among the dynamics. Nearly cried with the elderly Valian spinster who had been trafficked from her home in Vacuo decades ago to became the fourth wife of a rich proprietor as he made sure Owned could never be seen again.

Now today, he was turning the word SLUT into art as Tai recounted the love story that dared him to engage in one of society’s most taboo acts.

“So there I was, dragging my feet out of the ER at 2 AM, feeling like the worst parent in history as Yang bawls in my arms. I was so distressed, I couldn’t even remember where I’d parked and just started going through the rows.” They were sitting today. Tai cross-legged on his bed and staring out the window while Qrow sat behind him. “That’s when Summer called to me. She remembered I was one of the patients just going in as she got off her shift. She asked me what was going on and I told her how the doctor who’d seen us kicked me out for wasting his time over some diaper rash. And you know what she did?” A smile uplifted his tone. “She looked between me and Yang and said, ‘No parent spends five hours in the ER over nothing.’ Then she took my arm and led me back inside. Snapped at the staff to give her a room and saw to Yang herself. I couldn’t believe it. She’d just come off of a twelve-hour shift. She had to of been exhausted. But that was the kind of woman she was. When she saw someone who needed help, she put everything else aside to do it.”

A hiss breathed through the other’s teeth as Qrow lined over the base of the T, tailing the ends to look more like the trunk of a tree. “Were you right?” He prompted, hoping to distract him.

“Yeah. Yeast infection.” Tai puffed up proudly. “Nothing a bit of prescription cream and some TLC couldn’t fix, but it still felt so validating to be told my worries weren’t just in my head. It was the first time since Raven left that I felt I really could do this on my own.” That uplift was back, overlayed with fondness. “But, it was Summer who reminded me that just because I can, doesn’t mean I had to.”

He moved his pen higher, maple leaves beginning to bloom along his back. “How’d it happen?”

“Well, so, they called me in a few days after that night for a check-up. When I got there, I found out Summer had arranged things to make sure she was the doctor attending us. She had told me at the time it was just normal for her to touch base with anyone who came through ER that she had looked after. That it made her happy to see her patients doing well.” He barked out a laugh. “She was such a liar! She didn’t tell me this until later, but apparently the only reason she did it was because she thought I was cute and wanted to see me again.”

Tch, what a brat. Qrow scoffed, doggedly ignoring the had he been in her position, he absolutely would have done the same.

“We started talking and joking around. One thing led to another and suddenly she was asking me out for coffee! I was so shocked I almost fell out of my chair. But… I said yes. And, it was the best decision of my life.”

He couldn’t do this. He jerked back and turned off the pen before the shaking in his hand ruined his work. “Sorry. Hand’s cramping up. Can we take a break?”

Oblivious as ever, the omega gave him one of those stupidly bright smiles that he hated because it made his heart do weird things. “Sure.” As they slid off the bed and Tai took the opportunity to stretch, he asked, “How about tea?”

“Yeah, I’ll go put on the pot.” Qrow didn’t even get two steps before a hand clapped down on his shoulder.

“Nope. You’re resting.”

“But-”

“Relax. I got this.”

Then Tai wandered right into his kitchen like he owned the place, leaving him with no choice but to throw up his arms and take a seat. Qrow watched him go through the motions, turning to fill the kettle. From this distance, the word that had once been etched into his skin was completely unreadable, overtaken by a mismatch of new marks in various states of healing.

A perfect reflection of the man who bore them.

Regret dropped like a stone in his stomach, feeling sick as the omega took care of him over a lie. He lowered his head and took his punishment in the form of a simple question, “So when did you two get serious?”

“Hm? Oh, you mean Sums and I?”

“No, I meant you and me.” Qrow snarked, because he hated himself.

Tai set the pot on the stove, the burner sparking to life. “I knew we had a forever connection the day you offered to eat all the yellow Starburst from the bag and leave all the good flavors for me.”

Well now he was resentful and insulted. “Yellow is the good flavor.”

“Mmhmm, keep telling yourself that.” He started tearing open a pair of tea packets, dropping one each in the mugs. “Anyways, promise not to judge me too much?”

“For what, your love life or your weird issues with Starburst?”

“Qrow!”

He held up hand as a peace offering, leaning back. “Okay, okay. I promise.”

Tai eyed him suspiciously for several seconds before finally saying, “We bonded four months in.”

“FOU-” He cut himself off and took a breath. He seemed to have to do this a lot more lately. “I mean, that’s not so bad.”

“Good save.” Sarcasm dripped from his tone. “Look, I thought I was going too fast too. But when I would sit down and think of my future, I just could see her in it. Summer was a piece of me I didn’t even know I was missing. And when I found out she felt the same about me we decided, fuck it! Who cares about what everyone else is going to say? We knew we wanted each other.”

On display as he was, Qrow’s gaze fell to the spot on Tai’s neck where the two scars lay. The imperfect ovals were layered atop one another right in the juncture of his shoulder and collarbone, cutting through his scent gland. Similar to a snake’s fangs, alpha incisors had a hollow part, allowing them to release a bit of their musk during the bite which would then inject itself into an omega’s glands and permanently alter their scent.

Staking a claim.

Granted, with the tattoo he couldn’t smell even a hint of either Raven or Summer any longer. But back then, he could imagine how pungent it had been. Even if the new smell wasn’t a dead giveaway, the pinker shade of the fresher one was a big neon sign that drew the eye. There wouldn’t be any hiding it, even if the couple had tried.

Which meant they absolutely became the gossip of every corner on the street. Summer being well off and Tai being abandoned and annulled didn’t help matters in the slightest. He already knew what people would have thought, well before the brand was ever made.

He frowned. “Even knowing you’d get the worst of it?”

“Tch. Tell me something else that’s new.” Tai snipped, rolling his eyes. “You know, I could have been a perfect little omega. Quiet. Thoughtless. Unopinionated. Or I could have also spent the rest of my life as a part of the Single’s Forever Club. Risen Yang alone and never looked at another Alpha again. And you know what? People would still have shit to say about me. That’s what happens when society’s rigged against you.” He smacked his hand down on the counter. “When does my happiness matter?”

That stone still in his stomach was only getting heavier. “Sorry.”

The fire burnt out as quickly as it was there, and Tai only shook his head, mumbling, “Forget it. It’s whatever right?”

“It’s not. It’s fucking wrong.” He said with more fury than he meant to.

Tai’s smile was tired and defeated. “If only more people thought like you.”

The kettle whistle blew, effectively ending their conversation. It wasn’t long before Tai was taking his seat across from him, their mugs steaming on the table before them. Idly, Qrow traced the rim of his with his index finger, trying to think of something to say.

His focus shifted when a hand was suddenly being held out before him, clearly asking for something. “Uh?”

“Give me your hand.” Tai demanded.

His brain moved sluggishly, but when he understood what the other was offering, his face went redder than his eyes. “I, uh, need to drink my tea?”

“You’ve got a left one for that. Come on already.”

“It’s fine. It’s not that-” Any argument he had slipped away when he tried pulling his hand further away, only for the omega to reach over and snag it.

The simple touch was like electricity zinging through his muscles, leaving him helpless to resist as Tai laid his arm across the table. “You’re such a big baby.” He teased as he rolled up the cuff of Qrow’s shirt, pressing the pads of his fingers along the length of his forearm.

When the massage started, Qrow absolutely melted. While he hadn’t been entirely honest, it would still be true to say that he was probably working his way into an early case of carpal tunnel with how much tension built from his shoulder down to his wrist during his work. He sighed, slumping over the table as the other made his way up past his elbow. “I hate you.” He mumbled, face pillowed in his other arm.

“Yeah, I’m the worst.” Tai replied cheerily.

Gods, if only that were true, then maybe he wouldn’t love him as much as he did.

“I wish you could have met her.” Tai told him a little after sundown.

Qrow hummed questioningly, not pulling his eyes up from the midribs he was painstakingly adding onto every leaf. He felt like he was performing some sort of a balancing act, sitting on the edge of the recliner so he was close enough to draw while also trying to keep out of the beam of his scroll light pointed at them from his nightstand, since the weak 40 watt overhead just wasn’t bright enough to work with. There was a reason he never tattooed after dark.

“Summer.” Tai clarified, reminding him exactly why they were an hour behind. “You woulda liked her.”

He almost laughed at how inane that statement was. “Doubt that.”

“Really! She was sweet and a little shy. A bit of a rebel too. And I mean, she moved to Vale ‘cause she knew she could help more people in need for cheaper than the high end hospitals she could have worked in would charge.” He glanced over his shoulder as Qrow re-inked. “You gotta let that Atlesian stigma go, man.”

There really was no good way to answer that, so he didn’t bother trying. Gods only knew what Tai would have thought of him, if he found out the real reason they never would of gotten along was because Qrow didn’t believe he’d be able to resist his instincts a second time around. The ones that screamed at him to show Tai he was the more worthwhile mate, even if that meant delving things into a fistfight.

“I guess it doesn’t matter now.” The omega said when he caught on that he wasn’t going to get a response. “At least you’ll have a chance to meet Ruby. I warn you though, you’re totally going to fall in love. She’s got so much energy to her, like you wouldn’t believe. She giggles so much too, it’s the cutest little sound. And-! And…”

Pausing, Qrow flipped off the pen. “Tai?”

“S-Sorry.” He rubbed a hand over his face, clearing his throat loudly. “It just, hurts. Not knowing how they’re doing.” His voice broke. “I miss them.”

Not sure what else to do, he silently pressed his forehead against the base of Tai’s neck, mindful of his back as he wound an arm across his middle in a loose hug.

Knew, without a doubt, that it wasn’t nearly enough.

A year ago, when Qrow was working outside of Mantle for a spell, a client he’d never forget walked through his door. He was unusually broad-shouldered and buff, just like Tai. Yet, it wasn’t his physical attributes that truly made him stand out. It was the omega’s confidence. He had a stride to him that exuded self-assurance and a stance that yielded pride.

It threw him completely off his game, as he was used to playing the role of consoler. Yet, as the omega held out his hand to shake, Qrow found himself wanting to compete against him. “You’re Harbinger. It’s a pleasure. I’ve heard a lot.”

“Only good things, I hope.” He replied, his grip firm and unyielding. “And you are?”

“Clover Ebi.” That name rang a bell, but he couldn’t place why. “And they were. You did a rebrand for a buddy of mine who lives over in the orange district. I was hoping you could do the same for mine.”

That brought some air to his sails as he found himself on more comfortable ground. “Yeah, ‘course I can. Why don’t you take a seat and I can get a gander at what I’m working with?”

“That’s the thing…” For the first time since he walked in, some of that boldness faltered. “If I show you, I need you to promise me not to freak out.”

Well, now he was really intrigued. “Come on. It can’t be that bad. Wait – it’s not on like, your ass cheek or something right?”

“You’re as crude as Robyn warned me you’d be.”

Qrow perked up at the name, remembering her as the outspoken journalist he’d looked after during his first stint in Mantle.

Clover placed a hand over his left bicep. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s under this.”

“Okay then, what’s the proble- Oh, shit.”

His heart rate jumped from resting to cardiac arrest in record time at the sight of the brand – not a harsh word like so many others had been forced to bear, but a simple, cursive script of the man’s own last name. The mark of someone who was in service of the Atlas military.

Which meant he was probably being set up right now.

“Fuck!” Qrow stumbled backwards, looking around wildly for a weapon. An exit. Anything.

“Hey, it’s okay!” Clover followed after him, albeit at a slower pace. “Come on, you said you wouldn’t freak out.”

He picked up an umbrella, holding it en garde like his sister used to with her katana. “We’re way past that, buddy. So, what is this? A trap? Are a bunch more of you about to bust through my wall to take me in?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Will you just – put the umbrella down!”

He came within striking distance – so Qrow struck. A fast swipe at his face.

Clover didn’t even look as his hand shot up to catch it. With strength he wasn’t even trying to hide, he yanked the makeshift weapon right out of Qrow’s grip and tossed it over his shoulder. He caught the fist that came next, boxing him into the corner so that he didn’t have room to move. It was an oddly uncomfortable feeling, being pinned down and powerless.

But while the hold was solid it wasn’t tight, nor was Clover’s face aggressive. “Can you calm down, please? I didn’t come here to turn you in. I came here because I want your help.”

“Why?” He barked back. “You chose to take that mark. Feeling regretful now soldier boy?”

The omega’s expression shifted darkly. “The only thing I chose was to fight for my kingdom, because I believe in protecting the people. This mark is something I have to bear, if I want to pursue that goal.”

His hands slid off, giving Qrow some breathing space. As he stared at the other, suddenly it came to him. “Wait. Ebi. I knew I recognized your name. You made headlines recently. You’re the captain of Tin Jimmy’s specialty squad.”

It had been a huge sensation, an omega taking a leadership position like that. It was practically unheard of and people talked it up like it was a sign of the ‘changing times.’ But he had brushed it off as another one of the kingdom’s typical publicity stunts. They always had something or the other going on to turn the people’s heads – because if everyone was looking at Atlas, no one would see anything else.

“I don’t get it. Why?” His brow furrowed, trying to make sense of it.

“Because I represent something larger than just a captain of a team. I represent hope. The worst thing for us is when no one’s talking. And I sure got them talking.”

That made sense. Nothing changed if no one was having the conversation. Still… “Rebranding could get you decommissioned. Negative PR be damned.”

“Well, as they say: Sometimes you got to risk it all for a dream.” Clover said with a quirk of his lips. “So, will you help me?”

It was one of the most needlessly reckless decisions he had ever made, but he did. In two, relatively short sessions, they were done. He slept with one eye open every day in-between, but when they finished and Clover was instead urging him to keep his contact info (“Just in case you ever get in trouble.”), Qrow felt oddly at ease. Like maybe he truly did make a friend in all this.

He never questioned why the case never hit the news – but if he left Mantle a little quicker than normal, well, that was his business.

Now, as he hit dial on that old contact, he could only pray Clover at least was going to keep this part of his word.

He picked up after the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hey soldier boy.” Qrow started, trying to sound casual. “It’s Harbinger.”

A beat. Then, “Oh. Oh! Uh, two seconds okay?” There was a muffled bit of a noise and a faint, “I’ll be right back. Gotta take this.” A bit more shuffling and background noise as Qrow assumed he left the room, then Clover’s voice was back in his ear, surprisingly frantic. “What’s going on? Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Sorry, it’s not an emergency call.” He replied.

The omega let out a sigh of relief. It felt oddly nice to be worried about. “Oh thank Gods. So then, what’s up?”

“I was hoping you might be able to help me with something.” Qrow said, unconsciously pacing around his box-in-the-wall apartment. “Might be a longshot but, you got any connection with OPS?”

The OPS, or Omega Protection Services, were a kingdom-to-kingdom association that talked big about how they were dedicated to the proper care of the omega brethren in need. While in some veins of their work that was true, like funding lobbies for better rights in the system or providing financial support to those in trouble, it was equally true that under the table the organizations were fed big money from the reformatories to turn over a revolving door of clientele.

The biggest contributor of which was the Crisis Department. It was no secret that a death of a bond mate was devastating to an omega and there was a small percentage of those who became non-functional after the loss. Therefore, any omega known to have recently lost their mate was visited by an OPS agent. If the agent found the omega to be in such an extreme state, it was customary that the widow would be sent away for rehabilitation and any children would be rehomed either with known family or into a foster family until the parent was well enough to care for them again.

The key words being a small percentage. However, according to statistics, almost a quarter of all widowed omegas were in need of ‘reformation’. A percentage that went up or down depending on what kingdom was involved. Vale, their home country, was the only one underperforming on those numbers. By all accounts, Tai never should have gone to a reformatory at all.

The issue was the OPS agent assigned to the omega was from their alpha’s home kingdom. Which meant the agent that knocked on Tai’s door was from Atlas, the kingdom boosting the highest reformatory count by almost double any other one. They also had one of the strictest policies on how they rehomed children. Rather than even consider familial connections, they fostered all of them, claiming it would provide a more stable environment without the potential of an omega in probation from seeking them out and ‘influencing’ their young one’s minds before they were fully well.

All this to say it was almost impossible to know where Tai’s kids were unless he could talk to someone on the inside.

“I know someone who works out of there.” Clover said, before prying almost teasingly. “Why? Who are you looking for?”

Qrow realized too late that he probably should have expected this. “Don’t get any ideas!” He squawked. “I’m… trying to get some info on my niece. Nieces, actually. Just wanting to make sure they’re doing alright.”

“Oh.” Just like that, Clover was all business again. “Yeah, I can swing that. Just gonna need their names and ages, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find them. The names of their sires helps too.”

A sense of relief spread through him. “Yeah I can get that to you. I’ll message it.”

“Perfect! Should have something for you in a few days, okay?”

“Thank you Clover.”

“Anytime.”

It was only after the call ended and he’d written out the requested information, that it hit Qrow.

If he disclosed all this, it really wouldn’t be much further of a stretch for Clover to locate his own information alongside it. All these years on the lam potentially wasted in one single text message.

He flopped onto his bed with a groan, mussing a hand through his hair as the weight of the decision nettled him. Yet, as his thumb moved over to erase everything, his gaze unconsciously fell to his nightstand, where the pages of Tai’s designs were still resting. Thought of all the pain his friend still had to go to finish them, coupled with all he bore before this. Wouldn’t just a day of solace be worth it?

His thumb moved back up.

Sometimes you just had to risk it all, right?

Qrow hit send.

Tai smelt his anxiety the moment he walked through the door.

“Everything alright?” He asked, looking about the room as if he expected to find a portion of it on fire.

“Yeah, yeah.” Qrow assured, doing a very bad job of actually appearing alright as he fidgeted with his necklace. “I just have something I wanted to show you. Come here.”

“O…kay?”

Tai followed him over to his bed, sitting down beside him. It was more comfortable than the stiff plastic of the mismatched dining chairs at least, but now Qrow was also realizing it was painfully intimate. As he sat there, fighting the urge to just shove his scroll into the other hands, he realized maybe he should have planned this better. “So, I know this guy from Atlas, right? Someone on the higher end who has a lot of connections. And well, I asked if he might be able to check in on your daughters.”

“What?!” The omega gripped onto his arm, a sort of manic desperation dancing in his eyes. “Qrow, are you serious?”

He nodded, plucking his scroll off the nightstand and swiping over to his photo album. “Yeah and he was able to get me this from their file.” He handed the device over, seeing the way Tai eyes went wide. The photo was reportedly back from January, taken on some sort of outing the family had been on. The two girls were sitting in a sandbox, Yang pushing sand into a yellow bucket with her hands while Ruby watched her, biting on the end of the shovel that her sister probably should have been using.

“They’re with a beta family. An older couple whose kids have already left the house.” Qrow rambled as his friend just continued to stare at his children. “It’s a real nice place. Both the girls have their own rooms and there’s a backyard for them and everything. And the expense reports are showing their getting a nice, balanced diet and toys and even some learning, uh, things. Books and flashcards and all that fancy shit. And, well, uh – T-Tai?”

Tears dripped from the man’s chin, hitting the display of the scroll. “Yang’s in pigtails.”

“What?”

Tai lifted his head, eyes swimming. “I couldn’t get her to let me brush her hair most days, let alone put it in pigtails.”

“Tai…”

The omega brought the device to his chest, as if it was a suitable replacement for the children he’d rather hug. “And look at how big Ruby is now. She’s sitting up all on her own now. Probably walking.” He sobbed, a wretched, terrible noise that burst from something aching to his very core. “What else have I missed? Ruby has to be talking now. I didn’t even get to hear her first word. And Yang’s old enough to be in kindergarten – I should have been there to take her to her first day. But I wasn’t! I wasn’t there for any of it!”

Something in Qrow’s own heart shattered listening to the father’s anguish and he surged forward, gathering Tai up. Pulled him into a tight embrace as if it could protect him from all the hurt he had to bear.

“It’s not fair.” Tai cried into his shoulder. “It was awful enough, losing Summer. But then those OPS bastards came into my house, took one look at my marks and said I was unfit to raise my own kids! I felt so humiliated.” He clenched onto fistfuls of Qrow’s shirt, shaking hard enough he might just fall apart. “It’ll be almost two years by the time they give them back to me. They took those years away from me and I’m never getting them back!” He heaved over another sob. “What if they don’t even remember me Qrow?”

He ran his fingers soothingly through the other’s hair. “No one could forget you Tai. Not with that big, stupid, sunny smile a’yours. Those girls’ll take one look at it and go ‘there’s daddy!’. I just know it.”

It earned him a watery laugh that only delved into more tears. If he could have, Qrow would have torn up all of Atlas to find those pups and bring them back to Tai right then and there. As it was, there was little else he could do but hold him through it.

When the cries eventually turned to sniffles, Tai pulled away to wipe at his face. He looked a mess, eyes bloodshot and blotchy and red. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to lose it on you like that.”

“Think I should be the one saying sorry.” He cast a guilty glance to his scroll, which had fallen onto the bed at some point. “I just thought – I don’t know what I thought. Maybe I wasn’t.”

“Oh, no! Qrow.” Tai pat his knee reassuringly. “I can’t even begin to tell you how much it means to me to see them. To know you did all this for me.” He cast his gaze away, sighing. “It’s just, some days I feel like I’m drowning. There’s not a day that goes by I don’t think of my girls. Worry about them. But if I’m too emotional, suddenly I’m ‘too unstable’. So, I’ve been trying so hard to hold it together.”

Qrow’s jaw clenched. Becoming a professional arsonist was sounding better and better every day. “You don’t have to, not with me.”

“Heh. Even if I cry every day?”

“Cry every hour, if you need to.” He made an aborted gesture towards Tai’s hand. Touched his forearm instead. “Whatever you need, I’m here for you. Alright?”

Tai had no such inhibitions, his other hand laying down over Qrow’s, squeezing gently. “Thank you. I know I haven’t said it nearly enough, but I really do appreciate everything you’ve done. I don’t know how I would have gotten through these past few weeks without you.”

“You would have.” He said, doubtless. Tai was strong inside and out. He’d always admired that about him. “But, I’m glad I can help.”

Anything was worth bringing that smile to his face.

As if on cue, one stretched across Tai’s lips as he said, “I’ll pay you back one day, promise.”

One day, maybe Qrow would tell him he already had.

#qrow branwen #taiyang xiao long #Taiqrow #taiqrowweek #rwby #fanfiction #Chase Firekitten's Tale

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i-like-plan-m · 5 years ago

Note

Something I've been thinking about is what if Madame Yu was just a bit more obvious in how much she hates wwx, and wwx ran away from Lotus Pier? It's clear his siblings matter more to him than anything else and he hates causing them strife. If he believes that he's the cause, he'd take steps to make them happy, right? I want to write story about that but I dont think I have the ability. If you ever wanted to write something like that I would be overjoyed to read it! - an0n

[Ao3] [Chapter 1/3]

I love this, thank you!! _____________________

“What are you doing?”

It was the fear in Jiang Cheng’s voice that stopped him.

Madam Yu’s last words to him still ringing in his ears, Wei Wuxian pasted on a cheery smile and spun on his heel to face his... to face Jiang Cheng.

“Ah,” he said on a little laugh. “Jiang Cheng…”

“She didn’t mean it,” Jiang Cheng said desperately, stumbling towards him with a panicked edge to his words. “You know that. She wasn’t serious, it’s just the same stuff as always.”

“I know,” Wei Wuxian said gently. That was exactly the problem. Madam Yu’s hurled abuse at her children hurt them, and Wei Wuxian was too convenient of an excuse for her to ever pass up. She would never stop, not while he was there to set her off again.

“You can’t leave,” Jiang Cheng said, curling a fist in the front of his robes and holding tight like he could keep Wei Wuxian in Lotus Pier if he just held on tight enough.

“Madam Yu is right,” Wei Wuxian said with a sad smile, reaching up to cover Jiang Cheng’s hand with his own. “I’ve spent too long causing trouble for her and the sect to stay any longer. I shouldn’t be a burden for you all anymore.”

“You’re not a-- did you even tell jiejie? Does she know you’re leaving?” He seized on Jiang Yanli, knowing that she was his weak point. “She doesn't know, does she? Were you just going to disappear?”

Wei Wuxian ached at the thought of Jiang Yanli, of never seeing her again or having her hate him for leaving. But Madam Yu had been clear-- she no longer wanted him at Lotus Pier. He’d heard such things from her before, basically ever since he’d been brought back by Jiang Fengmian, but Madam Yu’s use of Wei Wuxian as a way to torment and ridicule Jiang Cheng had only escalated since their return from the lecture at Cloud Recesses.

Without him, she would have fewer things to be angry about, and less anger to take out on her children and husband.

“I left shijie a letter,” Wei Wuxian said, swallowing roughly. He reached down to pick up his bag, Jiang Cheng still clinging to him, and took one last look around his room. He hoped whoever got it next appreciated the art carvings, the hidden stash of snacks and alcohol under the floorboard, the small, colorful trinkets he’d collected over the years.

Or maybe they would get rid of it all, erasing the signs that he’d ever existed here.

“Then go give it to her yourself,” Jiang Cheng snapped.

“I can’t,” Wei Wuxian said truthfully. He tried to smile, felt it waver in the face of Jiang Cheng’s betrayed expression. “It’s time for me to go, shidi. Ah, and think of it this way! Now you can have dogs again.”

“I don’t want the fucking dogs,” Jiang Cheng choked out. “I want you to stay here. You promised we would be brothers, in this life and the next. You promised.”

Yes, he had. But Madam Yu had told him she’d had enough of him taking advantage of their family, of him thinking himself a part of it when in fact he was nothing but a burden. When he did nothing but make Jiang Cheng and by extension their sect look bad.

So. Better to leave now under his own power before the rest of them started to feel the same, or Madam Yu made Jiang Cheng hate himself and resent Wei Wuxian even more than he already did.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say. A thousand words between them and not a single one spoken, their relationship permanently fractured by the competition neither of them had signed up for, that neither of them had ever wanted.

Wei Wuxian’s presence at Lotus Pier made Jiang Cheng’s life harder. There was no way around the truth of it.

Jiang Cheng’s grip went slack, as though he realized that this was really happening, that his brother was leaving him behind. Wei Wuxian saw stark pain in his eyes before they shuttered, anger becoming his armor against such hurt.

“Fine,” he spat, but the hitch in his breath betrayed him. “If you want to leave so bad, then just go.”

“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian said, torn to pieces at the anguish in his brother’s voice. “I don’t want to leave you or shijie. But…”

Jiang Cheng looked away. They both knew the real reason he was leaving. Coming to terms with it would be hard for both of them.

“I’ll write,” Wei Wuxian offered quietly. “If… if you want.”

“You’d fucking better write,” Jiang Cheng said, swiping impatiently at his damp cheeks. There was a brief pause, the tension softening into a quiet, shared grief. “Where will you go?”

“Who knows!” Wei Wuxian said, trying for cheerful and sounding uncertain instead. “There’s a whole world out there, you know. Plenty of trouble to find.”

Jiang Cheng made a familiar exasperated sound that made him want to laugh. “Weekly letters,” he threatened. “Or I’m coming to find you.”

Wei Wuxian’s smile was a little more genuine this time. “I can do that.” He hesitated, then added, “Can you…”

“I’ll tell jiejie,” Jiang Cheng said quietly.

“Thank you.” Wei Wuxian enveloped him in a hug, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that threatened when Jiang Cheng gripped him back hard enough to bruise.

“I will see you again,” he promised, and felt the eyes of his brother watch him leave.

~*~

His new mantle of rogue cultivator hurt a little less when he thought of his parents. They hadn’t belonged to a sect after they married, and he wondered if they’d been happy to freely wander the world.

His one clear memory of them made him think so. There’d been laughter, and warmth, and a sense of safety and security that Wei Wuxian found himself wishing for during those first few weeks after leaving Lotus Pier.

Too much freedom, he’d discovered, was a hard adjustment to make. He had no responsibilities other than finding food and water, no duties or chores around a sect, and no sect leader to answer to.

He’d considered, briefly, going to Gusu. The lecture would be over by now, the guest disciples returned home. He wondered if Lan Zhan was happier now that the Cloud Recesses was quiet again. He wondered if Lan Zhan would even want to see him.

But after losing his home so abruptly, Wei Wuxian found that he did not want to go where he was not wanted. Usually he wouldn’t pay any attention to it, would not care what others thought of him or his presence, but now…

Well. He’d been kicked out of Cloud Recesses. Out of Lotus Pier. Neither would welcome him now. Maybe he could go to Qinghe and accomplish the trifecta of banishment.

The thought would be funnier if he weren’t so cold and hungry.

There was a trick to surviving as a rogue cultivator, and that was bartering. Larger towns were typically protected by sect cultivators who could banish spirits or ghosts. Smaller villages usually could not afford such services, so they would trade shelter and a hot meal for a cultivator’s help.

Wei Wuxian hadn’t yet made it far enough away from Yunmeng territory to find these villages. Mostly he hunted or fished to feed himself, and slept out in the open since he couldn’t afford to stay at an inn. It was a far stretch from his days in Yunmeng, never wondering where he would sleep or when his next meal would come.

He was lost in a way he hadn’t been since a recently orphaned child living on the streets and eating trash to survive. Funny, how these things came back full circle.

Wei Wuxian poked at his miserable little fire, hunched over it in the fading light within the forest to soak in the weak warmth it emitted. The wood was too wet to truly burn, still damp from the downpour earlier.

So was he, as a matter of fact. His wet robes clung to him uncomfortably, and he would take them off to let them dry if the descending night weren’t so cold.

Quiet voices had him lurching to his feet, Suibian in hand as he warily scanned the heavy shadows thrown by the trees. They were coming closer, light footsteps that echoed through the forest and hid the direction of their approach.

And then white robes bled out of the darkness, his heart skipped a beat in breathless, astonished hope… and then fell at the sight of a stranger’s face. The man’s companion wore dark robes like his own, a curious pair that moved in sync and spoke without words.

“Our apologies, Young Master. We did not realize there were others so deep into the forest,” the white-robed man said with a polite bow.

Wei Wuxian returned it, noting with a spark of interest that they carried swords that marked them as cultivators. “No apology necessary. I am Wei Wuxian,” he said, rising from the bow. “I was hunting for dinner and didn’t realize how far I’d walked before the sun set.” More like he’d had nothing to turn back for.

“My name is Xiao Xingchen, and my companion is Song Lan.” Xiao Xingchen looked around his campsite with a mild look of curiosity. “Are you traveling alone?”

“I am,” he said, his smile dimming despite his best efforts.

Song Lan studied him for a moment, then shared another brief, wordless conversation with Xiao Xingchen. “Do you have a destination in mind, Master Wei?”

“Ah… no? I’m just wandering,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You are welcome to travel with us, if you wish,” Song Lan offered. “Rogue cultivating can be dangerous and challenging on your own.”

Wei Wuxian looked uncertainly between them, remembering his recent vow to stop going where he wasn’t wanted. These two were obviously close, and he wondered if he would be intruding.

“As Song Lan said,” Xiao Xingchen added at Wei Wuxian’s hesitation. “You are welcome to join us.”

“Yes,” Wei Wuxian decided, spirits lifting. “I would appreciate your company.”

“We are headed for a nearby town,” Song Lan said. “Do you need to rest, or can you make it through the rest of the forest tonight?”

Wei Wuxian stomped the dying fire out and eagerly grabbed his bag. “No need to wait!” He followed them through the forest, grateful to have their company. The world seemed less lonely all of a sudden, and the companionship was a buoy for his spirits.

“Have you two been traveling together long?” He asked.

“We met a few years ago. I was raised in Baixue Temple,” Song Lan said, drifting gracefully over the uneven ground. “And Xiao Xingchen was a disciple of Baoshan Sanren.”

Wei Wuxian made a startled sound and nearly tripped over his own feet. Song Lan steadied him and traded a look with Xiao Xingchen over his head.

“Baoshan Sanren?” Wei Wuxian asked, stunned by the reminder that he had family left in the world.

“Yes,” Xiao Xingchen said, eyeing him with some concern. “Are you familiar with her?”

“She is my grandmother,” Wei Wuxian said distantly.

Xiao Xingchen’s eyes widened. “You are the son of Cangse Sanren? Adopted into the Jiang Sect as a child?” Wei Wuxian nodded, and Xiao Xingchen’s surprise morphed into a smile. “Your grandmother wishes to meet you, Wei Wuxian.”

Wei Wuxian was a little surprised she even knew he existed. “She does?”

“Yes, she does,” Xiao Xingchen said, smile lines crinkling at the corner of his eyes. “I can tell you where to find her, if you wish.”

What else did he have? No place to call home, no family left other than the immortal cultivator secluded on her celestial mountain-- and the part of his heart that urged him to find her, the only ones left in their line.

“There is no hurry,” Xiao Xingchen said gently when the silence stretched too long. “You are still welcome to travel with us as long as you wish. Your grandmother is a patient woman; you can take as long as you need.”

Wei Wuxian swallowed hard and paused to bow to him. “Thank you, Master Xiao. I… I think one day soon I would like to know how to find her.”

Xiao Xingchen nodded. “You need only ask.”

Wei Wuxian let the pair lead him out of the dark, unknown forest, with something like hope burning in his chest.

#anon #asks #the untamed #mdzs #wei wuxian #lan wangji #jiang cheng #xiao xingchen #song lan #wei ying #lan zhan #my fics #my writing

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popsunner · 5 years ago

Text

'Cause I Was Just Thirteen (when I got my first taste of danger)

@cubedleo this isn’t what you’ve been waiting for but it’s somethin’ sjdjb

A/N: I was trying to write the Spirit Sokka AU but my brain wouldn’t let me until I finished this,,, so. AO3 link!!

Summary:

“We’re just kids.”

“Are we?” Sokka asks, and the silence stretches between them.

(The answer is yes, but it’s easier to pretend they grew up a long time ago than admit they’re just broken children trying to fix a broken world)

When Sokka was twelve years old he carved a promise to be a warrior into a block of ice.

It took him an hour to chop out the crude symbols with the tip of his boomerang, and when he was done he was sweating, and his arm ached. War was in his blood, it was his main drive, his life.

He never understood the people who didn’t want to fight.

(Later in his life, he would meet a boy with a scarred face and a girl with dangerous eyes, and he’d know that in a different life, that could’ve been him and his sister)

(The desire to fight would all but fizzle out at that realization)

There are few people left in the world who weren’t raised for war.

Bumi is one of them, and so is Aang. Sokka can see it in the way they speak, the way they move. The way they don’t shy away from fire or loud adventures that draw attention. He can see it in their smiles, wide and fearless and kind.

Bumi and Aang weren’t born into a world of destruction and stifling fear.

(Maybe that’s why Aang looks so much more hurt by the charred forests and waves of injured troops finally coming home)

(Sokka hurts too, but he’s tired)

(He’s so tired)

When the war ends, Sokka breathes for the first time in his life.

It’s like a wave of exhaustion hits him all at once, and if Suki hadn’t been supporting him and his broken leg, he would have crashed to the ground.

“We won,” Katara whispers.

No one cheers. No one smiles.

Slowly, Zuko stands, Katara’s hand hovers next to his hip and the second scar his family gave him. He holds a hand out to Aang, his face stone.

Aang doesn’t shake his hand or nod back grimly. He launches himself at Zuko and laughs with so much relief in his voice it reminds Sokka just how young he is.

(Aang wasn’t raised for war, but he was shoved into the middle with no warning, and expected to fix it)

Zuko shudders and stumbles, and Katara catches him and Aang before they all fall.

Sokka watches her, his baby sister, and realizes she’s been catching people her entire life. His eyes go blurry, and he staggers out of Suki’s grip to grab her shoulders and crush her against his chest.

“You made it,” he says into her hair.

Katara starts to cry.

Sokka isn’t sure how long they stand there after Toph burrows her way between them all and Suki wraps her arms as far as they can reach over the group, but it’s long enough for his leg to scream painfully in protest, and the weight on his chest to return.

Because it isn’t over yet.

Sokka looks down at his friends- his family , and realizes with a shaking breath that the war might be over, but the fight is far from done.

***

Getting used to a post-war world is more difficult than Sokka could have imagined.

For Toph, it’s not very hard. She was raised sheltered, and even despite her attempts to shun that lifestyle, she was never exposed to the loss of war or the scar it left.

Sokka is proud of Aang and Katara, who despite everything, held onto their wonder and inner light.

(the nights he spent pouring over strategies and plotting routes, burying evidence of scorch marks from around their campsite, the days he spent cracking jokes and letting them take out their frustrations on him through light hearted teasing paid off, and he’s so, so proud)

Suki was always an optimist, and Sokka is grateful for her every day, especially at night when he feels the guilt and fear grip his heart and threaten to undo him.

(She holds him and they whisper uncertainties and reassurances to each other until the sun rises)

Sometimes, though, Sokka just wants someone who understands what it’s like to live with what feels like the weight of his people on his shoulders, who knows what it means to grow up training every day for a fight he never asked for.

He finds himself sitting with Zuko more and more often after the war is over.

“Do you think they can ever really forget?” Zuko asks, watching a group of kids fly kites in the courtyard a ways away from where they sit.

“Them?” Sokka shrugs. “Yeah, they’ll forget. They’re just kids.”

Zuko’s eyebrows lower into something sad. “We’re just kids.”

“Are we?” Sokka asks, and the silence stretches between them

(The answer is yes, but it’s easier to pretend they grew up a long time ago than admit they’re just broken children trying to fix a broken world)

***

Hakoda is by no means old, even though his eyes crinkles at the corners and his hair is lined with wisps of white from years of stress, but war takes its toll on everyone, and the warrior has seen too many battles.

He walks with a permanent limp now, and when he asks Sokka to succeed him as chief of the Southern Water Tribe, he favors his right leg.

Sokka is eighteen, the same age his father was when he took charge, technically a full fledged adult now. But the sag in Sokka’s shoulders and the numbness in his eyes didn’t appear on his father until Kya died. His father grew up in a war just like he did, but he didn’t fight in it until Sokka was twelve.

There’s guilt in Hakoda’s eyes, so Sokka doesn’t stop himself from grinning and accepting happily, erasing any sign of the aching exhaustion off his face.

“Is this really what you want?” Katara asks him later, staring into the fire that crackles quietly between them.

Sokka wants to ask her if she’s ever asked Aang that, or Zuko. He wants to tell her he doesn’t have a choice, none of them ever had a choice.

Instead, he smiles. “Well, yeah! I was getting tired of Zuko being the only royal one.”

He can see it in Katara’s face, that she doesn’t believe him.

(But the war is over, the war is over so she lets him lie, the war is over and the worry lines on her forehead are slowly going away)

(Sokka knows now, more than ever, that the war isn’t really over)

(He lets her believe it is)

***

Sokka is at another meeting, another day long discussion of how to achieve peace when the sight of fire and red emblems still scares children, when all that conceals Ozai’s fallen statue in Omashu is a large, green canopy, when Sokka’s people are still scavenging for any food they can find, when Aang is still the only Air Nomad left.

Sokka forces himself to sit straight instead of prop his head on his hand and roll his eyes at Aang as the Earth Nation ambassador goes on and on.

Usually, Toph would be here to cut in with some crude one liner to break up the tension, and Katara would take notes for him when his mind wandered. Usually Suki would squeeze his hand under the table to keep him present.

But this is a closed meeting, as stupid as that is, and only recognised officials are allowed inside.

Zuko sits next to him, hands folded on the table, the epitome of royalty. Even Aang, who’d gotten such a sugar rush from his fourteenth birthday the day before that he tried to teach Momo to swordfight, sits stoically and nods along to the speech that’s been going on for an hour.

“-focusing our rebuilding efforts at this time on Ba Sing Se would be our smartest move,” the ambassador finally finishes.

Sokka raises an eyebrow. “Rebuilding what part?”

“Excuse me?”

“In your entire drawl you didn’t mention the outer rings of Ba Sing Se once. Do you really think we should spend more time and money on a rich inner ring that thrives off the other citizens' poverty?”

Aang looks surprised, like he’s trying to walk back through the meeting to figure out why he missed that. Zuko nods. “I spent time in the lower ring of Ba Sing Se personally, ambassador. I agree that you should be putting your main focus on the people there.”

If the ambassador were a firebender, he’d be blowing smoke out of his ears. “All due respect Fire Lord, but you’d really take the side of a chief of the most desolate land in the world over mine? A non-bender no less?”

Sokka’s wolf tail flips over his head as a rush of hot hair whips past him, from the Fire Lord and Avatar respectively. Aang is standing, his staff in his hand, and Zuko’s hands are clenched, his eyes flashing a warning.

Sokka holds up a hand, and Aang sits down, Zuko relaxes slightly.

(Because he might not be able to do the things they can, he might not have their power, but he does have their respect)

“You forget, ambassador,” Sokka says coolly, “that your king himself is a non-bender, and a personal friend.”

The underlying threat is understood loud and clear, and the ambassador sits down.

The discussion goes on, and Sokka has the taste of bile in his throat for the rest of the meeting.

It isn’t the first time he’s been disliked, like not being able to bend somehow makes him unfit. He sees the looks people give him when he walks alongside Aang on the street instead of behind him, when he tousles the great Toph Beifong’s hair or spars with the Fire Lord, when he teases his sister in public.

It isn’t the first time he’s been disliked for being a non-bender, but it’s the first time someone has said it to his face, in front of his allies. It’s the first time he’s heard the disdain voiced, and the ambassadors words cut sharp like a wip.

(The bile returns later, when he realizes his mind changed the title ‘family’ to ‘ally’)

***

The first thing Sokka does as the official Chief of the South is make plans for a memorial to commemorate the men lost in the fight, and the waterbenders lost in Ozai’s attempts to make sure that his grandfather's plan worked, that the Avatar wouldn’t survive.

(Sokka and Zuko find the place where the waterbenders were held a few weeks later, an entire underground fortress of cages)

(Every cage is full except one, there are no survivors)

(Sokka stares at Hama’s empty cage and forgives her)

It’s Katara’s idea to make the old Fire Nation warship part of the memorial, and with Toph’s help, the two of them build a statue that intertwines with the tarnished red flags and snow beaten metal. It means remembrance and hope.

Sokka’s tears freeze on his flushed cheeks when it’s finished.

“You know,” he tells Zuko the first time the Fire Lord sees it, “that ship isn’t all bad memories. It’s the reason we met.”

Zuko scoffs. “I thought that was a bad memory?”

“Funny how things can grow, isn’t it?”

Zuko has never looked more thankful than in that moment, and that night, sleepily sipping wine while Toph snores in his lap with her feet propped against Suki, watching Aang and Katara dance around the fire, he tells him so.

Sokka smiles, and looks around at his family. It seems like a lifetime ago when all he had was gran gran and Katara.

(Funny, how things can grow)

***

Rebuilding the South is… not easy.

Even with the men home from war, the South’s trade systems and outreach to the other nations had been completely demolished in the war.

The North, despite all its talk about rebuilding its sister tribe, does very little in the way of help.

The Northerners who moved with Sokka’s grandfather are angry, and a group of them plan to sail back to the North to convince them to bring aid.

Sokka lets them, and the day after they leave a blizzard hits the South.

Only four of the seven return.

(After the funerals, Sokka stands on the wall of ice surrounding their village and begs the moon for an explanation until his throat is sore and his voice is hoarse and raspy)

(She never answers)

***

Aang shows up one day, bouncing on his toes and grinning so brightly it hurts Sokka’s eyes, and tells him they’re taking a vacation.

Sokka has things to do, responsibilities and work that he can’t just blow (ha) off, and he just about says so when Appa roars, and Sokka remembers a time when he didn’t have to be chief or have the weight of his entire tribe on his shoulders.

(Somehow, the weight of the world felt lighter than this)

(Maybe because he grew up carrying it, or maybe because he never did, he only ever carried his friends)

Hakoda agrees easily to take over the Chief’s duties for the time being, and Sokka sees relief in his eyes when Sokka picks Aang up in a hug, and the two run off to the flying bison waiting for them.

Sokka sits in the saddle and stares at the back of Aang’s head, and tries to remember what it felt like when this was his life.

“Aang? Do you ever… miss when it was just us?”

The way Aang’s shoulders slump tells Sokka everything, and the younger boy nods. “Sometimes.”

(Sokka climbs up next to Aang and wraps his arms around his shoulders, and takes the reins when Aang turns to bury himself in Sokka’s shirt, because being Chief is hard, but being the Avatar is infinitely harder)

They meet at the Western Air Temple, because that was the first time they were all together.

Usually, there would be workers milling about, restoring all they can, but Aang got them to take the day off.

Katara hugs them both when they arrive. She cups Sokka’s face with her hands and squints at him like she knows he’s hiding something, and it takes all Sokka has not to crumble.

“Move aside!” Toph shouts, not giving Katara a chance to listen before she slides the stone under her out of the way. Toph punches Sokka’s arm hard, enough to make him wince, and then she drags both him and Aang into a bone crushing hug that they barely get out of alive.

Zuko laughs at them both, which is a welcome sound. Sokka only ever heard him laugh a few times during the war, and even fewer when they were all still navigating the new world. He steps forward and bows to Sokka, “Chief.”

Sokka doubles his dramatics when he bows back, “Fire Lord.”

Zuko snorts and stands. He pulls Aang into a side hug, and grips Sokka’s forearm. “It’s been too long.”

“The South Pole isn’t exactly a short walk away from the Fire Nation.”

“No,” Zuko smiles. “I guess I’ll have to plan more diplomatic meetings.”

Sokka groans.

Suki is a lot gentler in her hello, kissing Aang’s cheek and squeezing his shoulder, then wrapping herself around Sokka where she’ll stay for the better part of their meetup.

“Look at us,” she says, and she’s beautiful. “We’ve all changed so much.”

(Sokka hates how as the others smile, his stomach churns)

***

The anniversary of the end of the Hundred Year War is filled with celebrations, the steps of Zuko’s palace are transformed into a festival, a symbol of the Fire Nation opening its gates with kindness for the first time in a century.

Important people from every nation attend, and Zuko works with the Earth Kingdom to pay travel costs for as many citizens as possible, especially children.

Sokka has never seen so much food.

His stomach growls and his mouth waters, and Katara laughs at him when he’s led off to be formally introduced instead of being allowed to eat until he bursts.

Katara falls into step next to him, and Sokka takes a few seconds to take in how amazing she looks.

Her travels with Aang aren’t rushed or secret anymore, her eyes are brighter than he ever remembers seeing them, and she wears the Air Nomad cuffs Aang gave to her on her last birthday, a green headband holds her hair in place, and Sokka recognizes it as Toph’s. She kept the light-weight red shoes from their time hiding in the Fire Nation, and her blue dress has been altered to handle the hot climate most of the world shares right now.

Sokka thinks she’s the only one who could pull off wearing an outfit that includes all four nations, and he thinks she looks happy.

“I love you, you know,” He tells her, because he hasn’t seen her in months, because he missed her.

(He won’t admit it, but Sokka is still getting used to not having his sister at his side. His whole life, she’s been there. There’s something missing in him when she’s not)

Katara looks surprised for a moment, and then she smiles, and slips under Sokka’s arm, leaning against his side. “I love you too.”

Eventually, Sokka gets to eat, and relax, even if it’s only for a moment.

He watches Aang and Toph laugh at something Momo is doing as he devours a leg of meat he can’t name, and the sound of people enjoying themselves fills his ears.

Sokka had spent so much time staring at plans and treaties, organizing trades, building houses in the South, teaching people to fish and wash fur, that he hadn’t stopped once to look around him.

He’d spent so much time trying to heal the world, he never realized it was working.

(He loses his appetite then, but he still dances with Toph until his feet hurt, and he still tries to play Airball with Aang again, and he still smiles, and he still laughs)

(Because maybe he spent so much time trying to heal the world, that he hadn’t realized he was healing himself too)

***

People have tried to assassinate Zuko before. Sokka gets a letter from Toph (from Iroh, really, but they all pretend he’s not the one she dictates to) explaining a failed attempt in great detail at least once a month.

Toph finds it hilarious, but that’s because she’s there to take down the guy before they even make it into the palace.

Sokka finds it terrifying, because he’s halfway across the world with no way of helping.

It’s one of those sunny days that makes Sokka glad to be in the Fire Nation, and he’s sparring with Zuko, and for once, he might be winning.

Zuko’s dual swords clash against his singular one, and the two grunt as they both try to gain the upper hand. Sokka smirks and sweeps his foot out, tripping Zuko and knocking him onto his back. “Ha! I win!”

He reaches out to help Zuko up, fully intent on bragging for the rest of the day.

“Zuko move!” Toph shouts suddenly, and it scares Sokka so bad his instincts kick in, and he drags Zuko back to the ground, rolling away as a spike of ice longer than his wingspan flies through the air right where his head used to be.

Zuko breathes heavily under him, and Sokka slowly lifts himself off the ground, staying crouched as he scans the area.

Toph is on her feet, Katara at her side with a hand on her shoulder, and Aang is rushing forward, pulling Zuko to stand.

“Just so we’re clear, that wasn’t you, Katara, right?” Sokka asks, pulling his boomerang off his hip stealthily.

“What? No!”

“Didn’t think so,” Sokka says under his breath, and whips around to throw his boomerang towards Zuko and Aang.

Aang yelps and ducks behind Zuko, and there’s the sound of metal hitting something soft, and a loud ‘oof’.

Sokka barely has time to move before a wave of water forms a tiny tsunami in his direction. “Zuko, you need to get inside!”

People had tried to assassinate Zuko before, and it wasn’t out of the ordinary for the assassin to be from a different nation, though most of them were firebenders, loyal to Ozai.

Sokka realizes too late that this one being a waterbender is no coincidence.

His legs are swept out from under him and he hits the ground with a grunt. He’d slipped on ice like an amatuer. Sokka pushes himself up, reaching for his sword, and is met face to face with the assassin.

His eyes widen. “Nia?”

She snarls at him and yanks him into a choke hold, Sokka watches as his friends circle her.

“Let him go,” Zuko says, and it's only because Sokka knows him that he hears the tremor in his voice. “This is about me and you.”

“You think I’m here for the Fire Lord?” Nia spits, tightening her grip on Sokka’s neck. “I couldn’t care less about you or your people.”

And oh. Sokka should have known. He should have known because he knows Nia, he knows what she’s been through, what she’s lost. “This is about your sister.”

Nia’s breath quickens in his ear and she snarls. “You sent her back to the North, she died on that ship!”

Sokka should tell her it’s not his fault, but he doesn’t, because it is.

(He learned a long time ago that when you’re a leader, everything is your fault)

“You’re weak,” Nia continues, and Sokka can see Toph stiffen in the corner of his eye.

Katara’s glare is sharp. “Leave him alone. What happened to your sister was an accident!”

“It never should have happened!” Nia shouts, and her voice softens when he talks to Sokka’s sister. “If you were Chief, it wouldn’t have happened.”

For a moment, no one does anything. Everyone is still, frozen in a stunned and confused silence. Finally, Aang says, “What does that mean?”

“Our leader should be a bender! You and your father have made us weak! I saw it when I moved to the South!” Nia yanks on Sokka’s head, cutting off his airway with her grip. “With you gone, a bender will be in charge, as it should be.”

Sokka gasps on air, and closes his eyes.

That’s it. That’s always been it. Sokka can’t bend, which makes him less, which makes him weak.

History will remember the Avatar, and his three masters. History won’t remember Sokka.

(History has never remembered non-benders before)

(The world may have changed, but it hasn’t changed that much)

Maybe it would be better, with Katara as chief. She’s cool headed and smart, she pays attention in meetings, she’s respectful and kind and responsible.

Ever since they were kids, Katara has been everything Sokka is not.

Sokka coughs as a rush of air fills his lungs, and he grabs at the closest thing to him, which happens to be Aang’s hand, and holds tight. Zuko is holding his shoulders, searching his eyes for something Sokka isn’t sure is there. Katara has an arm around his back, and Toph is squating next to Zuko.

“Nia?”

No one answers, and Sokka understands. They caught her. She’ll be shipped back to the South for a trial. A trial Sokka will have to rule over.

(He’ll have to banish her, he knows. He knows and he hates it because she’s a child)

(She’s a child who was raised for war, and when it was won, she found another one to fight)

(Sokka knows, he knows and he understands)

His shoulders start to shake, the mask he’d been wearing for so long starts to shatter, and the hands holding him tighten, Toph says, “You’re not weak.”

“I would hate to be a chief,” Katara assures him.

But none of them say anything about Nia, and none of them try to stop his tears.

(Because in a world where children fight the battles, who really wins?)

***

Sokka is accompanied by his friends when he returns home, which sounds a lot better than saying he’s bringing back the Fire Lord, the Avatar, and the two most powerful water and earthbenders in the world.

He’s welcomed back with open arms.

The South has grown, refugees of the Water Tribe are returning home, the warriors are all home, the children are growing up on their own terms.

Hakoda tells him they found a place for Nia in the North, a school for kids who’d been traumatized by the war or the resulting events after it ended, and Sokka is so relieved that he spends the rest of the day letting Aang drag him penguin sledding and teaching Toph and Suki to spear fish.

They have a feast, and it’s the first time Sokka laughs in a long time. Aang doesn’t let go of his arm the entire time, and Zuko promises another spar.

Sokka isn’t perfect, and he isn’t all powerful. But when he looks at the shining, beautiful, alive faces of his family and his people, he knows he’s not weak, and he knows eventually, they’ll be okay.

When Sokka was twelve years old he carved a promise to be a warrior into a block of ice.

Now Sokka is nineteen, and he carves his name into a tiny corner of the icy memorial, right above Katara’s, to the left of Zuko’s, to the right of Toph’s crude fist print, and just above Aang’s.

Sokka was raised for war.

He held his sobbing sister as his father explained that the Fire Nation killed his mother. He watched the warriors ships sail away without him. He spent years teaching himself to fight so he could protect his family.

He was the newly redeemed Fire Prince’s first friend and the first (honorary) male Kyoshi Warrior. He fell in love with the Moon Spirit and crafted a sword from meteorite. He taught the first metalbender it’s okay to cry. He taught the Avatar how to deal with nightmares.

Sokka was raised for war. He was raised in fear and hate. He was raised to fight.

As the years go by, there are more people in the world who aren’t raised for war.

Sokka can see it in the way they speak, the way they move. The way they don’t shy away from fire or loud adventures that draw attention. He can see it in their smiles, wide and fearless and kind, and with those new faces and new hope, Sokka learns to forget.

(Of course he does, he was just a kid, and he learns to stop pretending he grew up a long time ago and admit he was just a broken child trying to fix a broken world)

(They all were)

#atla #avatar the last airbender #sokka #sokka x suki #yall i apalogise #my writing #ace writes

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apsaraqueen · 5 years ago

Note

For the ask: Love & Sleep. I started listing questions and then realised there were only 5 I missed out, so... ALL OF THE QUESTIONS PLEASE. I WANT TO KNOW ALL YOUR BRAIN THOUGHTS ABOUT LS.

1: What inspired you to write the fic this way?

There’s a lot of ways to interpret this question! In terms of substance, I wanted to write the kind of classic “the Shitennou come back” fic for Jadeite and Rei (my OTP, of course) that I’ve always wanted to read - something long and layered that deals with what happens after the initial shock, distrust, etc. of the return and delves into what the process of forgiveness and rediscovery might really look like. And to be clear, I’ve definitely read a lot of wonderful takes on this concept, it’s not new and so many other authors have done it better, but I haven’t found any that focused on my favorite couple (if there’s one I’ve missed, PLEASE SEND IT TO ME). And then stylistically, I just kind of wanted to write something...indulgent. For myself, really. Slow-paced, dreamy, gentle. I hope it hits the mark.

2: What scene did you first put down?

Boringly enough - the first scene! Where Jadeite, now called Junin, comes back, taking place on the grounds of the shrine. I had the image in my head for a long time before I started the fic.

3: What’s your favorite line of narration?

I...have no idea. It honestly changes all the time. I’ll just pick a random one I like. It’s of Rei watching Junin (the reincarnated Jadeite) sleep. Not creepy at all, right? I like the level of comfort between the two it implies, and it’s just a tender, quiet moment with her thinking of him, and of what draws her to him.

Junin slept on his back, one arm tucked under his nape, the other tossed across his front; the length of his legs extended several centimeters past the rumpled sheets’ edge. A book propped on his chest bore an English title that made little sense to her. She knelt by his head, suddenly concerned he might be feverish, or taken ill. He wasn’t sweating, nor ashen. The priestess touched his forehead and found the temperature not dissimilar to her own.

Under her palm his eyebrows bristled, permanently arched where hers ran like the ties of train tracks. She felt fine sun-lines there that she couldn’t see. Against her fingers his hair was dense, grown now slightly off the scalp, lightened more from working outdoors. She took back her hand, put it in her lap. From time to time it still startled her, to be able to look at him like this, unrationed. Even here at rest, she thought there was control in his features, a kind of ruthless calm she’d never been able to help responding to.

4: What’s your favorite line of dialogue?

This is really hard because I wouldn’t call this a dialogue-driven fic. Why, you ask? Because I can’t write dialogue to save my life. A lot of this fic - maybe even the majority - exists between the spaces of what’s said, so the dialogue is pretty.........formless. If I had to pick, I’d probably go with this.

“I killed you,” she said, and couldn’t help but add, “twice.”

“You were right,” he told her.

“And I didn't want to,” she went on dully. “When you came I – thought you were a ghost.”

“You wish I were?”

“I wish I didn’t remember. What we did.”

“Them,” said Junin. “Not us.”

She said, low: “I wish we’d done – anything else.”

I liked writing this because while I definitely think there’s a part of Rei struggling to forgive Junin for what his past self did, I also think there’s maybe even a larger part that wishes none of it happened at all, that their history could be erased and they could start fresh, that recognizes culpability is often complex and not as one-sided as you maybe want it to be (this of course depends on how you headcanon the Silver Millennium going down - I like to imagine it wasn’t necessarily all Shitennou=bad, Senshi=good).

5: What part was hardest to write?

Urg. Writing the first Silver Millennium flashback was pretty hard. It took me forever to figure out the right tone that didn’t sound horribly stilted and Lord of the Rings-esque. Also hard trying to convey the differences between Mars/Jadeite and Rei/Junin along with the similarities. Rei, for example, is a lot more wounded and careful with her emotions, for obvious reasons, than Mars ever was. And while Junin is still capable of being somewhat morally ambiguous, he’s also genuinely a nicer guy than the more politically-minded Jadeite could be. I wanted to get that across without getting mired in irrelevant details about the past……….which I maybe need to save for another longwinded fic altogether. *bangs head on wall*

After the first flashback things fell into line, more or less, but I must have rewritten that first one, like, ten times.

6: What makes this fic special or different from all your other fics?

It’s longer than 12,000 words! AND took me more than double that to get to any smut! In seriousness, I think this is the first multichaptered fic I’ve written since, like.............high school.

7: Where did the title come from?

From the poem of the same name by A.C. Swinburne. It’s quite sexy, and the woman described in it sounds very much like Rei to my mind.

8: Did any real people or events inspire any part of it?

Normally, with most of my fics, I’d say yes...but in this case, not really. Other than the food. I most definitely drew on real-life inspiration - delicious things I’ve eaten, particularly while in Tokyo - for the food. You’ll never find me writing a fic without some gratuitous food pr0n in there for good measure. The wagashi shop the girls meet at is based on one I visited while there, actually.

9: Were there any alternate versions of this fic?

Not really. You could say this is in some ways an alternate version of another fic I wrote a while back, Tragedia? When I wrote that one I had in the back of my mind that someday I should write the same concept with a very different ending...and here we are.

10: Why did you choose this pairing for this particular story?

Because I love them! And I feel like I rarely see them happy in fic (to be clear, I do love my RxJ angst, so that’s not a bad thing!). I wanted to write a story for them that felt realistic and for lack of a better word, adult - that progressed in a natural way. I wanted to challenge myself to do it in a way that was slow-burning and relatively low-drama but not boring. And I wanted to see if I could sustain the tension and intimacy that makes their relationship so interesting to write, without resorting to my usual go-tos of smut (at least not immediately!) and angst.

11: What do you like best about this fic?

I’m happy with the atmosphere it conveys - sometimes moody, mostly serene. I worked really hard on that aspect and I feel like it maybe, kind of, sort of paid off!

12: What do you like least about this fic?

I wish it was wittier, more humorous in some places - I feel like it would add a sense of balance. That’s my biggest failing as a writer, I think; I really have no clue how to do comedy. I am not funny in the slightest.

13: What music did you listen to, if any, to get in the mood for writing this story? Or if you didn’t listen to anything, what do you think readers should listen to to accompany us while reading?

I had just seen Call Me By Your Name when I started writing it, so a lot of the soundtrack for that. Mystery of Love in particular. Also a lot of Rhye.

14: Is there anything you wanted readers to learn from reading this fic?

Learn? No, I don’t think so. Just trying to put more of my OTP out in the world in hopes of inspiring more of it!

15: What did you learn from writing this fic?

So much. Like I’ve noted above, this is the longest thing I’ve written in a long time and honestly I’m kind of amazed I’ve been able to stay motivated! Writing something longer requires, obviously, patience - you can’t just fire all your guns at once, you think of things you want to write RIGHT AWAY but then have to save them for later, you have to actually, ugh, have a structure………….this is all patently clear to a competent writer, but these are things I was pretty sure I’d forgotten how to do, so it’s been nice stretching myself this way.

Thank you for the ask, @coppercrane2 - this was so fun!

#fic asks #jadeite x rei #rei x jadeite #mars x jadeite #jadeite x mars #hino rei #jadeite #senshi x shitennou #shitennou x senshi #sailor moon fanfiction

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spirit-of-vengeance · 4 years ago

Text

@spxcemuses Muse Medley at Pitch, because instead of April's Fools, I decided to make an April's Gift for you

They were no doubt celebrating, his loss and becoming one happy, joyful family. Even though the sea of pain, the thought brought a scornful snarl onto his face.

The shadows weren't at his aid anymore, no matter how he called upon them. Thrown around, bitten, trampled on, bruised, torn; rich mahogany blood seeping in streams from his wounds. He ran, fled but from what? Wasn't he a shadow himself? The shadow to the light, cast by delight of the world? The feeling tightening his chest wasn't entirely unfamiliar, yet he struggled to recognize the primal emotion scaling new heights within him. It was far from the mild, excited tingle that coursed through him when he offered partnership, companion to the young spirit whom he thought of as kindred in suffering from the solitude and lack of recognition.

But even Jack turned his back to him, as if he was unworthy for even for family; how easily everyone forget and turn a blind eye towards the stiff, frozen corpses of hypothermia. An another bite tearing into his ashen flesh jolted him well enough from his thoughts, forcing him to return his rapid, frenzied search for shelter, for a moment of peace.

He was afraid -the Bogeyman realized at last- sheer terror radiating from every fiber of his being; but wasn't Fear what he was? Was he something else, he never received an answer to his questions throughout his rich history, so he had accepted what he thought the truth: the embodiment of Fear, bringer of terror and the Nightmare King. King! How far he had spiralled from his former grace! His very core turned inside out and against him, consuming both his mind and body.

He was afraid, but of what? Pain? He was accustomed to it. Failure? Already happened. Loneliness? Oh no, his creations kept him in company. He dug deeper and found a striking answer: Death. It seemed the nightmares no longer needed his direct control to function and something within his chest stirred, swirled, stretched against the boundaries of his body as if desiring to crawl out from the hold of his ribcage. How he came to the existence? He was born from the shadows, but on the contrary, the occasional flashes of a life vastly different from this remainded a mystery or more like a delusion. His armor was golden, his scythe gleaming silver, the sunrays caressing warm, human skin instead of ashes, the loving smile of a woman cast at him with a child's delighted voice calling for him.

Was he the embodiment of Fear throughout all of his existence? The silent question recurred but he did not have the time to ponder as the feeling of slithering creatures wanting to burst from his body reached the point of causing physical and psychical agony. The Bogeyman howled, if closely listening, more voices, little, shrill demonic wails formed a twisted chorus within his deep baritone.

Pitch stumbled across a broken mirror, unknowingly inspecting himself in a jagged shard: his whole being disheveled almost beyond recognition, clothes and mind torn, stretched past limits. But his eyes. The only color in the dungeon of darkness and suffering were his brilliant golden orbs, no longer the faint eclipse they before were, but bright, glowing with fire he thought he had long lost during eternity. His creations' assault now constant as he had stilled, the beings within him a vicious vortex.

He wasn't born, has not existed for this long only to crease living like this, on this wretched planet he chosen to reside after scorching galaxies with terror as a feared pirate lord. He had brought the Dark Ages, lasting over centuries before the Moon had chosen his new favorites. He stood up, picked and placed his pieces together after every defeat, no matter how long it took, but he still did. He was ruthless, calculative, patient and quite innovative, always slithering through the cracks of the Guardian's defense in some way. He was the Embodiment of Fear, Bringer of Terror and the Nightmare King; no amount of light, no defeat can challenge his status, his very purpose after this.

The Bogeyman felt the power coursing between his fingertips once again, his scythe formed from the now willing shadows, bringing the weapon down in a ferocious slash, the demonic horses dismembered by the force, their ruined parts returning to sand. Be it then; he will carve his path, his permanent mark in history what nothing could erase or eradicate. The tidal wave of creatures rose until he could not see where they began, where they ended, but he was no longer afraid.

" HALT "

Pitch bellowed with terror turned fury, his amber eyes sizzling viciously against the wall of void. At the command, after a dreaded pause while hunting for traces of fear in their master, the nightmares obliged after coming across none. Their newfound obedience failed to please the Bogeyman, his scythe brandished once again until none of them remained standing; the nightmare sand shifting to form a grand throne instead.

Shadows eagerly rethreaded his ruined clothes, covering the bloodied wounds, bruises, cuts; his posture no longer cowering but tall and erect, fitting for a King. Pitch Black took his seat on his throne, scythe in one hand, the other resting on the ornament, although beyond exhausted, his eyes gazing victoriously into the abyss and nothing dared to glance back.

There always will be fear. Now the Guardians are unsuspecting and living a large life; but fall blind to recognize: larger they are, greater shadow they cast. And he will be there, waiting.

#I actually ignored the meme at first but then my thoughts kept crawling back and I decided to brush off the dust from writing him #If something out of place; forgive me; I haven't written him in literal years. I also like the small font oops #so have him experiencing and rising above an identity crisis #👑pitch🗡 | used to be a general; now a conqueror #so my hot take is that Pitch is actually a very much needed force because without him the fear and its creatures know no bounds #background info: if he hadn't found that mirror the fearlings within him would've left his body or he become truly mad #also if anyone who likes what I've written; feel free to reblog; I don't mind it ♡´･ᴗ･`♡

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rejectedanimexp · 5 years ago

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we meet again Part 2 of villain Eraserhead au

A few months later after their first meeting.

Warning, some cursing and mild torture (hot wax and bugs. Nothing too serious.) Abuse of entomophobia (fear of bugs). Overall, Hizashi doesn't have a fun time.

Hizashi groaned as he slowly came to. His arms and legs were stiff, and he had a pounding headache. He slowly opened his eyes, only to realize he couldn't see; was he blindfolded? He tried to move his arms only to find them stuck firmly behind his back. His legs also seemed to be restrained. 'Am I tied down to a chair? Why am I tied down to a chair?'

He goes to yell, anything to figure out who has him and why, only to find that he can't tell. There's a fucking muzzle on him!!! A fucking muzzle! How the hell did he not notice it sooner?! It's so tight that it almost hurts. 'Ok, think Hizashi. Who have you pissed off lately? Any villains or thugs in particular? I've been investigating the Red Demon drug ring with Loud Cloud (he lives bitches) for the past few weeks, so I couldn't have angered that many villains. So who could of-' Hizashi paled considerably when he realized who he might of angered. Eraserhead did warn him to stay out of the underground after all. How could he have been so careless? He left his guard down and now look where he is. The last thing he remembered was inspecting a noise that he and Loud Cloud heard while doing their mid-day patrol. Loud Cloud told him to be careful and come back as soon as he checked out the noise. Except, he never made it all the way to where the noise was. He blacked out as soon as he was out of sight from his comrade.

The sound of a door opening and slamming could be heard, followed by two sets of footsteps heading towards him. One of them stopped a little bit away from him. The other stopped in front of him, and Hizashi stiffened at the feeling of something cold against his neck. Wait, were was his directional speaker? And why did he just now realize his hair was down and his headphones were missing? But how could he hear if his headphones were gone? He could vaguely feel his hearing aids now that he was conscious about his headphones missing. HOW THE FUCK DID HE GET A HOLD OF HIS HEARING AIDS?! And were his boots off too?

"So, we meet again, Hero~" Eraserhead greeted as he lightly traced Hizashi's jawline with his knife. He pulled the knife away only to lightly tap the hero's nose with it. "Such a shame you couldn't keep your nose out of the underworld."

With a sigh Eraserhead put the knife down beside him and reached behind the hero's head to untie the blindfold. Hizashi squinted as he tried to make out the blurry figure that was kneeling in front of him. Realizing he wasn't going to be able to see his captor real well no matter how hard he squinted, he decided to glare at him. Eraserhead just chuckled at his pathetic glare.

"I should of known someone with your level of stubbornness wouldn't stay down for long. You're just too persistent to do so. Still, I can't have you running around and snooping into my business so I'm going to have to deal with you accordingly. Of course, your co-worker needs to be dealt with as well, but I'm sure he will back down once I'm through with you, Hero." Eraserhead chuckled darkly.

The other person spoke up. "Shouldn't we figure out what he knows about the drug ring?"

"Perhaps, but let me have my fun with him first, Puppeteer." Eraserhead answered as he looked behind at the figure sitting on boxes afar.

"If you say so. What so special about this guy anyways? Why don't you just off him like you would any other snooping hero?" the person scoffed.

Eraserhead hummed as he studied the hero in front of him. "Sure, he can be such a nuisance, and I'd rather him be permanently out of my way, but he just seems so fun to play with(he means torture)! He's not like the others. He's not afraid to be defiant and I can just tell that this won't be the last time I have to punish him for being such a naughty hero."

Hizashi flinched when the knife appeared in his face.

"Don't think that means I won't kill you if it comes to it though. I might find amusement in you're stubbornness, but I do take my criminal empire very seriously. The moment you become too big of a threat, I will end you by any means necessary." Eraserhead warned before pocketing the knife.

Eraserhead then dug into his pockets and pulled out Hizashi's prescription sunglasses that he wore when in costume. He put them on the hero with a smirk. "That's better. Can't have you squinting at me all night, now can we? Besides, you have to see what I'm doing to you or it won't be as effective as I want it to be."

Hizashi looked around and noticed he was in a basement or cellar. The person who came in with Eraserhead seemed to be around Izuku's age and dressed like a purple/ silver Eraserhead. His purple and silver hair was hanging flat against his head. The boy was causally lounging on a pile of boxes and crates. Looking down at his legs, he realized it was Eraserhead's scarf that bound him to the chair.(And his boots were indeed missing.) Nearby, to the right about a yard away, was a table covered in a lot of equipment. Torture equipment to be specific. Hizashi's eyes widen with fear as he frantically tried to get out of his bounds.

"Quit struggling, Yamada, or your punishment will be worse." Eraserhead sighed with irritation.

Hizashi stopped struggling and hung his head in defeat. Eraserhead hummed with approval as he got up and went to the table. He was feeling sadistic but slightly merciful today. After carefully considering which items to use, he settled with the giant jar filled with centipedes and a jar of wax (currently on a burner). He put the items down behind the tied up hero (so he couldn't see them) before making his way to the back of the room to pull out a weird looking table with four metal cuffs, one in each corner. The table had wheels on it which made it easy for Eraserhead to pull it. The villain brought it to where it was two yards in front of the hero. The table was currently completely horizontal, though it could become perpendicular with a few tugs on the lever on it's side. Hizashi eyed the contraption with a mix of fear and confusion. It looked like one of those tables that the spies in movies were strapped to when the villain threatened them with a laser. Hizashi did not want to know what the villain was planning if it involved being cuffed down to a table. He didn't want to know where those blood stains on it came from.

Eraserhead smirked under his mask at the look on Hizashi's face. "Oh, are we going to have so much fun!" Hizashi went pale. Eraserhead chuckled as he stalked back to the hero to remove the muzzle. "Well, fun for me at least. You're probably going to hate this."

Hizashi groaned as he stretched his stiff jaw out and contemplated on whether or not it would be wise to yell with his quirk. Eraserhead activated his quirk and narrowed his eyes. "Don't even think about using your quirk or I promise you'll have a way worse punishment."

Hizashi gulped, "no quirk usage, right. Got it."

Eraserhead patted him on the head while teasingly telling him "good boy."

Eraserhead then grabbed onto the scarf that bonded Hizashi to the chair and manipulated it to untie from the chair before bounding the hero once more. Eraserhead picked the hero up and placed him on the table. With the help from Puppeteer, he managed to get all four of Hizashi's limbs into the table's cuffs without too much trouble.

Hizashi turned his head to the side (left side) as he watched Eraserhead go to pick up something from behind the chair he was tied to moments ago. It was a jar of wax on top of a heater plate of some sort. What was he going to do? Cover him in hot wax? That sounded painful. Puppeteer was pulling a cart over- probably so Eraserhead could have something to place the jar of wax on when he wasn't using it. Eraserhead did use it place down his torture item and then he wheeled the car to be behind Hizashi so he couldn't see it. He then went to grab the other item while making sure Hizashi couldn't see it before placing it down on the cart. He walked around the table so he could be on the side of Hizashi. He unzipped the hero's jacket and pulled his shirt up to his neck. Hizashi squirmed when the villain's cold, yellow glove grazed his stomach while the villain was pulling his shirt up. Although, with his arms firmly restrained above him head and his legs restrained to the corners of the table, his squirming wasn't really effective.

Eraserhead moved to the cart and grabbed the now melted wax. He walked back to Hizashi's side and with an evil gleam in his eyes, he held the opened jar of wax over the hero's bare chest. Hizashi started struggling in his bounds again, not entirely thrilled about what's about to happen.

"No no no..." Hizashi mumbled fearfully.

"You should have thought about the consequences before you chose to go snooping in the underground again. Now you have to suffer the consequences." Eraserhead scolded as he tilted the jar.

The wax drizzled out of the jar and onto Hizashi, causing him to bit back a shout of pain. It was probably not wise to yell least he wanted to anger the villain above him. Eraserhead slowly moved the jar as the wax drizzled onto Hizashi, causing the wax to create small shapes and lines all over his chest over the next ten minutes. Hizashi was trembling in his his bounds, tears in his eyes as more and more wax was poured onto him. There was no doubt that he would have burn marks after this. About a few minutes later, Eraserhead accidentally spilled a rather big glob of wax near Hizashi's waistline, getting a painful shout from the hero. Eraserhead managed to erase the hero's quirk before it could accidentally activate and sighed as he stopped pouring wax on the hero and put the jar down on the cart before returning to his position. Puppeteer, who was filming the whole punishment session on his phone, tossed a package of wipes to Eraserhead.

Eraserhead gently wiped the wax off of Hizashi as he softly hummed a happy tune; the villain's "cheerful" attitude was rather unnerving for Hizashi. Eraserhead sighed as he wiped off the last of the wax.

"Hang in there, Hero." Eraserhead drawled as he went to put the wipes down and pick up the jar of centipedes. "We're only half way done here."

Hizashi nearly passed out from fear when he saw what Eraserhead was holding. He then started squirming as if his life depended on it. "No no no... please no. God no! I'm sorry for poking my nose in the underground- please not the bugs! Anything but that!"

Eraserhead shook his head with a laugh as he opened the jar. "Sorry, Hero, but you've got to learn what happens to heroes who bite off more than they can chew."

Eraserhead poured the centipedes all over Hizashi, watching with sadistic humor as the hero tensed up with absolute fear and horror. The hero looked as if he was going to have a panic attack from the bugs being on him. Hizashi could feel the bugs crawling all over him, some of them wiggling their way into his pants and under his shirt and up his arms. It was horrifying. The worst! A few minutes later Hizashi couldn't handle it much longer and let out a blood curdling scream when one found its way to his chin. This time, Eraserhead couldn't erase his quirk in time. The whole room rattled from the hero's terrified scream. Luckily, Puppeteer's phone wasn't affected and was still filming. Hizashi broke into wrecked sobs as he trembled under the bugs. He was mumbling "sorry" and "please make it stop" over and over as he started to hyperventilate. He was starting to gasp for breath as his hyperventilating got worse. Eraserhead, having an extremely rare moment of pity and not wanting Present Mic to die from over hyperventilating, undid Hizashi's restraints and put the hero on the ground. Hizashi immediately brushed the bugs off as if they were poison before he started rocking back and forth in a fetal position. Eraserhead pushed the bug covered torture table away and motioned for Puppeteer to stop recording. Eraserhead then sat down next to the hero and rubbed Hizashi's back as if trying to ease him out of his panic attack.

"There, there. It all over. I know how traumatizing that must of been, but you forced my hand by being oh so nosy. You do understand that, right?" Eraserhead said softly as he tried to coax Hizashi out of his panic attack.

Hizashi's breath hitched as he tried to slow his breathing, his face covered in tears. He slowly stopped rocking and peered over the rims of his sunglasses and knees at the villain next to him. Hizashi was too tired to even try to move away from Eraserhead or talk back to him. Hizashi just mumbled a weak sorry as his panic attack finally subdued. He just wanted to go home and sleep. To sleep away his fears and anxieties from today. But he couldn't. After all, didn't that kid- his name was Puppeteer, right?- say they needed to get info from him? That meant he couldn't leave yet- if they let him go at all. Hizashi started to shake again as his mind filled with horrid thoughts of what Eraserhead might do to him if he did end up not letting him go. Would he kill him? He did say he would kill him if he thought he was a big enough threat. What if he suddenly deemed him big enough of a threat and decided to end him tonight?

Eraserhead reached for his capture scarf that was a few feet away as he reassured Hizashi, "I'm not going to kill you."

Hizashi froze as he slowly looked up from his knees and let out a weak, "huh?"

Eraserhead sighed, "you were mumbling about the chances of me killing you. I'm not going to kill you until you give me a reason to do so. So far, I don't really have one. And you're not going to be stuck here- at least not forever. You may be here for another day or so, but that all depends on your fellow heroes and how quick they meet my demands." He held up his scarf in his hands to Hizashi. "Now, please give me your hands so I can restrain you long enough to get you to the guest bedroom."

Hizashi, with some hesitation, held out his arms towards the villain and tucked his legs under himself. Eraserhead carefully bound the hero's wrists together, making sure to not be too rough. He doesn't want to be soft towards the hero, but at the same time he doesn't want to rub the hero's wrists raw. Especially after the torture session he just went through. With a final knot, Hizashi's wrists were firmly bound together. Eraserhead then helped the hero get up on his wobbly feet and started to tug him by the other end of the scarf towards the door. Hizashi was stumbling a lot, but he managed to keep on his feet as the villain pulled him along.

"We'll question him in the morning. Puppeteer, send the video and our demands to his agency." Eraserhead said to Puppeteer as they passed him.

"Sure thing Nii-san." Puppeteer laughed as he texted the video to every member of the agency, and then followed with a small list of demands.

The demands were simple, really. Just to stay away from the drug ring and to destroy any and all files on Eraserhead that the law enforcement had. If they didn't, then they wouldn't get Present Mic back. Of course, being the heroes they were, they would do anything to get Present Mic back. It certainly helped that Eraserhead was known for his ruthlessness and murderous tendencies. They would probably be working overtime to meet the demands in order to save Present Mic from possible death. Not that Eraserhead would kill the blond hero. But the heroes didn't know that.

Eraserhead led the hero up the stairs and through a door that only opened via fingerprint. They entered a decent sized room that looked like it could be the living room or a lounge. It had multiple couches and tables as well as four giant tv's. It had grey carpets and black walls. Across the room was a hall, and to the right was another door. Eraserhead led him towards the hall that had six doors on each side. Eraserhead led him through the 2nd door on the right that required a retina scan to open. The room was a decent sized bedroom with yellow walls and black carpet. There was a bed centered against the back wall. There was a black dresser on its right and a yellow door on its left. The bed was made from black colored wood and covered in fluffy yellow blankets. On the bed was a pair of yellow, plaid pajamas folded neatly. His pajamas that Izuku got him for Christmas. Did Eraserhead break into his house to steal his clothes and hearing aids? Creepy. Why was the room black and yellow? Was this room made specifically for him? How long ago was it made? Does that mean Eraserhead has been planning to kidnap him for a while now? Was there multiple plans? (Eraserhead literally based the bedroom off of his villain color scheme. It has nothing to do with Present mic. Well, mostly anyway. Hizashi's just freaking out.)

Eraserhead untied Hizashi's hands before shoving the pajamas into his arms and steering him towards the door on the left side of the bed. He opened it and shoved the hero into the room beyond it. Inside was a black bathroom with marble counters and tiled floor. There was a toilet and a giant Jacuzzi with a shower above it.

"Get changed and try to sleep, Hero." Eraserhead drawled. "And before you even think of trying to escape the room, the walls and door have already been quirk proofed and the door will be locked."

Hizashi looked uncertain as he turned to look at the villain. Was it normal for a hostage or prisoner to be locked in such a luxurious room? Why wasn't Eraserhead locking him in a dingy dungeon or cage? Was this some sort of trick Eraserhead was pulling to get him in a false sense of security? What time was it anyway? How long was he out before he woke up? Was he going to be fed or would he be starved as a punishment for being a hero? If he was fed, would the food be drugged? Would Eraserhead try to keep him in the room by weakening him with narcotics? Eraserhead did say he'd be here for a day or more. So how long would he be here?

Eraserhead groaned as he fixed a reprimanding gaze on Hizashi. "You've seemed to pick up on your brother's mumbling habit. How about instead of questioning things you just be grateful for them. I could easily move you to a cold dingy cell if I feel like it. Also, you were out for about a little over a day. You'll get food if you sleep. So get dressed and go to bed."

Eraserhead left the room after that. Hizashi sighed as he heard the door automatically lock when it was closed. He was finally alone. Hizashi changed into the pajamas and put his hero outfit on top of the dresser. He then put his hearing aids and sunglasses down on top of the outfit before climbing into the very comfy and soft bed. Seriously, why was this bed so comfortable? It was like sleeping on a cloud! If it weren't for the fact he was being held captive, he would have been happy about the soft bed. But here's the problem. False sense of security is exactly what the villain wants. By giving Hizashi a soft bed and "cool" living arrangements, he's already declaring some sort of physiological warfare. What better way go keep the hostage under control then to be nice to it. After all, the hostage is more willing go cooperate if you treat them decently. And the hostage might just fear angering their captor if it means losing what little luxury they have. (Eraserhead was just being logical by having him in a locked room next to his own bedroom. No physiological warfare. Hizashi is just bring his usual paranoid self.)

Hizashi eventually fell asleep.

Part 3 will continue Hizashi's time being held captive.

#villain aizawa #villain eraserhead #villain shouta #present mic #villain shouta aizawa #villain!aizawa #arch enemies #frienemies in future

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