“Your hair’s gotten longer.”
It’s conscious effort that keeps him from tucking the strands behind his ear, from taking the knife at his hip and shearing it all off. He keeps his stance focused, attentive, there’s little else he can do when he’s taken so completely after his mother when it comes to his hair. His father scratches his chin, the clouds of his beard snaking about his finger like mist parting for mountain-peaks. Ares’ chin is still child-smooth. He can feel the tickle of his over-long fringe against his soft jaw. There’s no heart in his chest, but still he feels as though a pulse is lodged in his throat.
Father sighs, put-upon, disappointed, and Ares feels a slight tremor start in his calves from holding himself so tense. “Well done, Ares. Go clean yourself up and get some rest. Phoebus will want to look you over later.”
He should be ecstatic to be praised by his father. Over-the-moon with joy. There should be pride emanating from every pore of his body, the blood on his skin should be sweeter than ambrosia.
Instead, he bows, manages a soft ‘thank you, Father’ around the lump in his throat and immediately flees the room. A mild ‘make sure to trim your hair’ hits the back of his head like a spear through the skull. He almost wishes the great door had slammed on his foot so he would have reason to feel this horrid in his retreat.
Phoebus Apollo is waiting for him in his infirmary.
He’s gilded as ever, gold from crown to heel. Perfect like the statues they carve of him in his temples. He has a smile for Ares when he sees him, a crinkle at the edges of his pretty eyes from the weight of his joy. Ares is waiting to see the crack in the marble, to see if that’s the chip that’ll reveal his fangs.
“Brother,” he greets, and his voice is warm - like the arms that embrace him, his voice is so warm, “Welcome back. I’ve heard you’ve done well.”
There’s a tremble in Ares’ fingers he hadn’t noticed before. Strain from carrying his sword for so many days, a throb from wounds he hadn’t noticed he’d accrued. “Heard? There’s already gossip?”
Phoebus blinks, disarming, demure, coquettish, “But of course,” and Phoebus’ voice is honey to Ares’ gravel, the juxtaposition is grating on his skin, “It’s Olympus. The gossip began long before you set your course.” Those warm hands lead him further into the room, bodily sits him on the chaise, pulls his helmet from his head. It’s all one, unbroken motion, “It’s summer alas, so I could not watch your war myself, but I hear it was quite the decisive victory.”
A thousand thoughts run on horseback through his mind then.
Did Father overhear some terrible slander that pre-emptively disappointed him? Was Ares’ victory merely a rumour, a bet his father hadn’t bothered to take? Was the gossip more enticing than the stark truth? That Ares wasn’t some child toddling about in the shadow of his sister, that his sword and spear weren’t merely for show - he’d think such a thing would warrant celebration. Not -
“Oh my,” Phoebus is in front of him, pleasant warmth more sticky heat with how close he’s pressed himself into Ares’ space. From this angle, Ares can see the multi-coloured flecks of his eyes, like shards of golden glass suspended in ichor. From this angle, with his hand so gently holding his hair, were Ares to blink too hard, he’d swear Phoebus looked just like his mother. “Your hair’s grown long again.”
He pushes Phoebus off with such force that he bangs into the wall. It’s Phoebus, it won’t make even the impression of a scratch on him, but Ares wishes it would. Wishes he’d hit his shoulder or crack his neck or hit his head just hard enough for all that perfect, gilded gold to bleed.
“I’m only here for you to heal me,” the tremble in his hand extends to his shoulder now. He flexes and unflexes his palm. Gods what he would give to just have a sword - “Don’t waste time with the pleasant-work.”
Phoebus huffs, adjusts the fit of his himation, “...Only because we’re meant to be celebrating your victory.” He crosses the room in two great strides, his hair a swirling tempest behind him as he gathers his poultices and wraps. “The only reason I’ll not throw you from the window is because we are meant to be celebrating your victory.”
There’s not enough acid in his tone for this to truly be a fight. Ares’ jaw clenches, he bites out a terse, “How benevolent.”
“Aren’t I?” He’s got nectar and his sutures in hand, that focused look falling upon his face when he switches from overbearing busybody to Paeon of the Gods. “Now strip unfaltering Ares, let us see the measure of damage done to your indomitable flesh.”
(Somewhere between the fifth set of stitches and the gentle frown that crosses Phoebus’ face when he notices the persistent tremble in his fingers, Ares pins his eyes to the far wall and asks, “What does it mean when Father says ‘well done’?”
Any other sibling would mock before they gave a true response. Any other sibling would laugh and dismiss it, would say that praise is praise and any lingering ill feeling is just the worst of the war still fogging his mind. Phoebus does not answer immediately. He doesn’t make a single sound. The question settles like fetid water between them, unignorable, the scent right there on the tip of the tongue yet firmly unacknowledged. Ares closes his eyes and tries again to settle his squirming so he does not interfere with Phoebus’ work.
The metallic snip of scissors cutting thread breaks the silence. Phoebus bids him to sit up and slides his warm palms up his back until his fingers tangle gently in the ends of his hair. He twists the dark red strands until he’s gathered it all into a neat handful, holding it loosely as he switches his scissors for his shearing blade. “You should know it was not praise,” Phoebus says softly. The first of Ares cut hairs fall like viscera from his head. Phoebus treats each cutting with the sacredness of a blood-sacrifice. If he focused on the moment of tension right before the blade cuts though, Ares thinks he can imagine the agony of his sister’s sacred birth. “It is acknowledgement. Father thinks you’ve done well so he says ‘well done’.”
Gently, Phoebus releases him. Ruffles his head so all the extra hairs fall like red rain to the floor. Ares runs his fingers through the ends now curling against his ear. “Has he ever told you ‘well done’?”
A laugh, warm and gilded, “No, and it would not make you feel better if he had.”
Ares swallows down a thousand different questions. Phoebus wouldn’t answer them, he’s infuriating like that. Instead, he clenches his teeth, the phantom of Father’s dizzying tangle of grey cloud-hairs persistent in the corner of his eyes. “Cut it shorter.”
Phoebus doesn’t protest. He never seems to say a word when it really matters.)
114 notes
·
View notes
secretly afab jiang cheng poll
(someone once wrote a post about a similar scenario but i cannot find it. if someone finds it please send me the link)
consider the following scenario:
yu ziyuan gives birth to two biologically female children. her second birth in particular is difficult and renders it impossible for her to have any more children. determined to have one of her children inherit, however, yu ziyuan lies, and announces to the cultivation world the birth of a son, jiang cheng.
jiang cheng is raised as a boy. only yu ziyuan and a handful of trusted maids know the truth. jiang fengmian never finds out. jiang yanli never finds out. even wei wuxian somehow never finds out.
as time goes on, various other parties discover the truth at different points in jiang cheng's life--wen chao and his men after jiang cheng is captured in wei wuxian's place, wen qing and wen ning during the golden core transfer, possibly jin guangyao as well--but, due to various circumstances, everyone who knows dies before they can spread the information. eventually, the only person left alive who knows the truth is jiang cheng himself.
jiang cheng leads his sect. jiang cheng purposefully gets himself blacklisted by all matchmakers. jiang cheng raises jin ling. somehow, for the entirety of the 13 year timeskip and beyond, jiang cheng is able to hide the truth of his body from the entire world. wei wuxian returns after 13 years of death, the present half of the plot plays out exactly as it does in canon, and somehow this specific information just never comes up. even after wen ning's return, wen ning somehow never brings it up either, because he assumes wei wuxian knows already.
then, some time after the end of canon, wei wuxian finds out the truth: that jiang cheng, who he fully believed to be biologically male, was in fact biologically female this entire time, and also that jiang cheng managed to hide this information from him all the way up until now. maybe wen ning finally spills the beans or something.
how does wei wuxian react?
things to consider:
how does jiang cheng think of himself in this scenario? as a woman pretending to be a man? as the ancient fantasy chinese version of a transgender man?
how does jiang cheng wish to live in this scenario? does he wish to live as a woman? does he wish he were biologically male?
have jiang cheng and wei wuxian reconciled?
how would wei wuxian react to learning that there was a huge chunk of jiang cheng's life he had zero idea about?
what kinds of attitudes towards women has wei wuxian exhibited in the text?
what kinds of attitudes towards women has mxtx exhibited in the text?
explain your reasoning in the notes!!!
73 notes
·
View notes
Sabezra in a fantasy au for the ask game?
I have no idea if this was what you were looking for but it's what my brain invented, so ta-da!
--
Mother had forbidden---Forbidden, actually with a capital F---Sabine from leaving the Seelie realm to look for trouble.
So the next time she got restless, she made sure she'd already found trouble before she left.
Today, trouble looked like a grungy teenage boy, in ratty jeans and a faded orange sweatshirt, stomping through the woods. He seemed like the type she could mess with. Bored with life, discontent, easily fooled. Maybe she could even trick him into following her home for a while and see how he fared there.
(She'd ask him for his name, first, of course. She always did. It was an old trick, and rather overdone, but that was why she did it. If a human was stupid enough to ignore all the old stories and warnings and just tell her that right off the bat, she didn't feel bad about causing them further trouble. They earned it.)
She waited, unseen, until he had passed her by. Then, with a last glance over her shoulder to make sure no one of her mother's Court had noticed her, Sabine slipped through the dark mists that parted one world from the other.
"Hey, there!" Sabine called out at his back. He stopped in his tracks and turned around, looking at her in curiosity, but with far too little suspicion.
Sabine smiled.
This boy may not know what she was---not yet---but if Sabine had her way, he would find out.
Oh, he would find out.
39 notes
·
View notes