#and they ought to be given enough weight to feel like full people‚ even if they're full people we aren't focusing on

[aeide-thea]

also: i just finished n*torious sorcerer, and enjoyed certain aspects of it but was left unimpressed/unconvinced by others (longer letter later on this, maybe? no promises tho), which i guess makes it yet another addition to the growing list of m/m tradpub fantasy novels i wanted to love but ultimately didn't, quite? part of me is honestly starting to wonder if the capacity for love is burnt out of me, although that sounds awfully dramatic and i quite frankly think it's equally possible that we're just getting more and more writers coming up by way of fandom and that it's eaten particular, recognizable sorts of holes (ha) in their skillsets...

[typellblog]

Hitagi Crab - An Analysis

Let’s start with Oshino’s story about the boy who sold his shadow. It’s present in the anime only as text flashing on screen at the start of the episode, which feels like the kind of thing you do not when something is unimportant, but rather when it takes up too much space to fit in the anime adaptation.

I think it’s a good jumping-off point, though.

To summarize, the boy sells his shadow to a strange old woman for ten pieces of gold. This is already strange, raising the question of what value we place on something as unimportant yet natural as one’s shadow. Losing the shadow doesn’t inconvenience the boy in any way – the problem arises when he returns home and the townspeople find his lack of a shadow to be creepy. As Oshino puts it, what the boy sold wasn’t just his shadow, but “what ought to be”.

The shadow itself is nothing, the reflection of an absence.

The parallel to Senjougahara is clear. While her weightlessness inconveniences her directly in some ways, by far the biggest is the social consequences – or rather, what she does to ensure that there are no social consequences. In order to live a normal life with her condition she must ensure that nobody gets close enough to her – literally, physically close to her – in order to find out.

The school setting is interesting in this respect. There’s a certain mandated closeness between students, but an equally mandated distance, like the arrangement of seats in a classroom. Senjougahara isn’t bullied or shunned, but nor is she approached.

She didn’t simply lose her weight, she also lost her presence, becoming “ethereal”, like she isn’t there at all.

This, however, is a deliberately maintained act. She reads books during class as if “building walls around herself”. She uses stationery to fend Araragi off. She builds a shell around herself, like a crab, and then uses her claws to snip at anyone who gets close.

Let’s talk about misconceptions. This is a theme that’s present early on, when Senjougahara refers to herself as a tsundere, implying that her cold persona will be pulled back to reveal a loving attitude. (Araragi doubts this.)

Many things are revealed about her, in this story.

Take, for example, how long she spends changing, Araragi assuming that she’s showing off when in fact she genuinely isn’t that good with wearing clothes. She hides the surgery scar on her back by giving him the full frontal view.

Acting tough in the cram school, an environment that poses real danger to her. Being reluctant to trust Oshino after already being fooled five times.

At every turn, what Araragi takes to be rudeness or arrogance is bravado, trying to distract from and cover up old wounds.  

Perhaps his most significant misconception is that she’s already given up, “resigned herself” to a life of weightlessness. But why see five different con-men about it – why trust Araragi, despite being willing to cause significant injury in order to make him go away a minute ago? Part of it is witnessing his vampiric healing (and the self-sacrificial nature it represents), of course, but even so some part of her still wants to believe she can be cured. She only half-trusts Oshino, but put the other way around, that still means she’s giving him half of her trust.

Because – and this is the root of it all – Senjougahara wants to hold on to something.

Now is probably a good time to bring up oddities. It’s not particularly original to point out that they serve as physical manifestations of a person’s specific mental and emotional issues. Their very existence is questionable, a “trick of perspective”, the reflection of an absence. The important bit here is that their existence is also metaphorical, a sort of pun-as-narrative, as you can see with the Weight Crab’s name also being interpreted as ‘Emotion God’.

The Weight Crab does not only take away Senjougahara’s weight, but also her emotions, her memories, and crucially her ties to other people, snipping them up with its great big claws.

To link back to what we were talking about earlier, the reason why she distances herself from others isn’t really to hide her weightlessness. The deeper cause, the reason why the Weight Crab visited her in the first place, was to repress her trauma, to lighten her burden, to make it easier to go on without being bothered by her connections to others.

She lives a kind of ethereal half-life, untroubled by her poor relationship with her mother and the memories of nearly being raped, but equally troubled by her lack of feeling towards them, unable to properly move on.

All the bells and whistles that Oshino sets up - the priest outfit, the ritual site, the ‘purified clothing’ – exist simply to get her in the right mindset. He isn’t helping her; he helps her help herself. She is the one that must make a genuine request of the Weight Crab, to truly want to confront her own trauma.

She addresses Oshino more formally, more hesitantly than she does Araragi. I think she’s scared, a little bit. Scared that Oshino won’t want to help her. Scared that he will want to, and end up being another scammer.

But it’s interesting that she treats Araragi that casually in the first place, isn’t it? He’s someone who caught her without a second thought, someone who keeps running after her despite all her snipping. Someone that’s quick enough to respond to her biting humour, but not quite quick enough at picking up all the things she’s hiding beneath its surface.

She needed someone like Araragi to get her there in the first place. Oshino, for all his knowledge, wouldn’t have cared enough.

That’s part of why I find it such a moving line when she tells him that she can do it herself. Talking to Oshino, she means, but the same tone is also there when she begs Oshino to let her try and talk to the Weight Crab again. Despite everything, she really did want to hold onto those emotions, and was brave enough to try and reclaim them on her own.

At the end of this story, Araragi realises that Senjougahara might actually be a tsundere. What this means in practice is that despite how bluntly she is capable of delivering a vicious joke, she is equally capable of bluntly delivering a heartfelt thanks, shifting from irony to sincerity in an instant in a way that catches Araragi off-guard.

She’s more vulnerable than she first appears, but she’s also brave enough to confront that part of herself. Nothing will change, Oshino says, pointing out that her relationship with her mother will still be poor, her family will not come back together.

But it’s not as if everything will stay the same, either, she responds. In overcoming the crab, she also formed a new relationship with Araragi. The world keeps turning.

I am reminded of the imagery from her opening, staplers drawing lines across a grey cityscape. Slowly, surely, one step at a time, they create their own paths.

I don’t have an epilogue or a punchline (this time round, at least), but I’ll give a quick explanation of my plans here. Basically, I’m going to be reading the light novel version of each Monogatari arc followed immediately by the anime adaptation, and then writing up an essay on my thoughts for each one. This is sort of like what I’ve already done with Fate/Stay Night (and I’ll try to keep moving those posts over here while I’m doing this) so I’m sure this is going to end up increasing in scope and effort the longer I carry on.

Anyway, next time I’ll be writing about- well, I guess you already know, huh. That’s gonna take some getting used to.

[who-is-muses]

Important Canon Divergence Facts About the Lanterns

[ a quick reference of what's different in my portrayals and what other muses might know to help the Lantern mutuals- and anyone else that might be interested in some rainbow bitches <3 ]

Lady Bleez Yennick

First and foremost, fuck you DC I'm giving her a full name. If she's supposed to be the daughter of a powerful lord and lady and a carrier of the former's royal bloodline, she ought to have a family name. It also makes her more of a character than a plot device.

Bleez is a lesbian (and asexual.) Rankorr is very important to her- but not in any romantic fashion. She finds it difficult to put a label on what they are, and thus vehemently refuses to do so. Guy is a similar story- only she's much more willing to use words like "hate" and "bastard" for him.

Even if she wanted to visit her planet of origin, Havania has long since exiled her and writ her from her royal family's records. As far as the history books are concerned, Bleez was a lowly slave that was sold off to the Sinestro Corps by the Yennick family to bargain for their planet’s safety.

After her battle with Fatality, Bleez developed a stronger resistance to her ring’s influence. Though she is no less filled with rage, Yrra's efforts inadvertently helped Bleez gain more control over it, able to focus it and even learning to create simple constructs. (On the flip side, their encounter restored a lot of Yrra's mind from her ring’s control, but that'll wait to be elaborated on when I add her.)

Her unique Red Lantern power is that she can drain energy off other living things to recharge her own ring. It is possible for a source to charge her willingly, but most often is achieved by biting or otherwise injuring a target and ingesting their blood.

Saint Bro'Dee Walker

He didn't succeed in saving his home planet in my canon. He tried to climb Mt. Helios and lost his family in the process, but was forced back down when traffickers invaded Astonia to abduct the people en masse, knowing "limited" species like theirs sell for more. Bro’Dee was among those taken, and did his best to protect his people while they were all held prisoner on board. (To this day, he isn't certain how long he was held captive.) Ultimately the ship was downed by a combination of attacking Red Lanterns and Mogo’s influence as they passed by, Bro'Dee rallying the survivors of the ensuing crash and helping them to overpower their captives and flee into the jungles. After making sure his people were settled enough, Bro'Dee followed Mogo’s urging to climb yet another mountain where he then received his ring.

There are only a few thousand Astonians left alive. They're not a common species, but not utterly unknown either.

Bro'Dee is from a monosexual species with a much more fluid sense of gender than humans. He isn't male or female, and identifies somewhere in the middle of feminine and masculine- but rarely objects to being called a "man" or anything like that.

I abide by the rule that Blue Lanterns need a Green to do things like constructs and advanced healing (including the rejuvenation of stars thing), but their rings shouldn't be nearly as useless on their own. Bro’Dee by himself is still able to fire energy blasts, heal minor injuries and keep people off the brink of death, create force fields and protective bubbles, and manipulate energy to push or pull things (including people.)

Besides the abilities afforded to him by his ring, Bro'Dee being an Astonian means he can lift things several times his own weight, breathe underwater, travel great distances without requiring a break, and has an innate tele-empathic sense. He respectfully keeps this latter ability significantly under control, but still has a sense for how others are feeling beyond simple empathy.

Also the markings on his face + body glow different colors depending on stimulation (but are much fainter than the light given off by his uniform so they're very easy to miss.)

Salaak tel Ouro

Like Bleez, fuck you DC he gets a full name.

Also like Bleez, he was exiled from his planet of origin- only Salaak was erased entirely, no official records of his existence remaining. Regardless of his actions as a Lantern, he's considered a criminal on Slyggia for defying the societal caste structure and thus breaking a large number of laws.

Salaak was born into the lowest social class, and thus had a future with no education and his occupation predetermined. He was nevertheless drawn to more intellectual matters- technology in particular- and repeatedly disobeyed authority figures to teach himself, discovering a seemingly innate talent for robotics and engineering. He was ultimately exiled as a young teenager to a habitable exoplanet in the space sector with nothing to protect himself. Ganthet himself recruited Salaak into the Green Lantern Corps there on that lonely junkyard planet, finding him attempting to construct a ship from the scrap and wreckages strewn about. It's extremely unlikely any muses would know this full story, but may have put some pieces together.

Slyggians and Korugarans were Space Sector neighbors, and frequently interacted resulting in a strong but (usually) civil rivalry between them before Korugar's sector became off limits to outsiders. Because of this, Salaak was imbued with a dislike for Korugarans, leading him to clash often with Sinestro throughout the entire time they were both Green Lanterns. Though Salaak has since unlearned this baseless prejudice, he maintains a hatred for Thaal which outshines much of his fellow senior Lanterns.

He is extremely loyal to John as Corps Leader, and admires him greatly- but still struggles with the after effects of the original Guardians of the Universe's betrayal. Though he has the utmost faith in John- holding him in high regard before there was even a question of a Corps Leader- Salaak worries that his loyalty to a figurehead may someday again blind him from his loyalty to the Corps as a whole.

Thaal Sinestro

I don't care what nu52 says, his eyes were NOT originally like that. Every other Korugaran had whites in their eyes and a range of iris colors. Thaal's were originally teal, but were permanently changed while captured in the Central Battery with Parallax.

Also he has the white streak in his hair permanently after containing Parallax for so long.

The vast majority of Sinestro Corps members that survived the destruction of Ranx/War World are loyal to Soranik now. The only Lanterns Thaal still has as back up are Arkillo, Dez Trevius, Lyssa Drak, Rigen Kale, Slushh, and Smithwick. All others have been killed, and any rings that are dispatched are not Thaal's doing (unless stated otherwise.)

This isn't something any muse not within his circle would know, but Thaal was born and raised in a small rural town. What any muse could notice, however, is that he has a marginally different accent than the other famous Korugarans.

Realizing now it would've been quicker to just preface that other muses wouldn't know a lot of the points for Thaal, and this is another one djdjdjs. He has a number of health problems that he keeps tight under wraps, only his inner circle of Lanterns (and Hal for some if we're being real) are aware of the extent of. That being said, muses may certainly notice the effects of these issues such as him keeping his eyes closed for extended periods, his back and/or left shoulder pop-snap-crackling, putting his weight on his right leg more, etc.

Again, very private information, but he was in a relationship with both Abin Sur as well as marrying Arin. Everyone was aware of it- Abin purposefully introducing Thaal to Arin- though the siblings kept their respective relationships with him independent of each other. Thaal believes to his core that they both djed hating him, and will likely never be convinced otherwise, but is nevertheless very touchy about their memories.

[separatist-apologist]

You Painted Me Golden

Did you know that while your mate was warming Amarantha’s bed, most of our people were locked beneath that mountain?

Did you know that while he had his head between her legs, most of us were fighting to keep our families from becoming the nightly entertainment?

SUMMARY: Eris Vanserra never wanted a mate, never wanted a wife. When a chance meeting in Day Court alters the course of his life, Eris will be forced to acknowledge both. But a new threat is looming, and an old foe has come back to Prythian.

And it will take more than luck for Eris Vanserra to keep himself and his family safe when he's dragged beneath the sacred mountain

Read More: Chapter 1 | AO3

Chapter 2: I'd Kiss You As The Lights Go Out

TW: UTM violence/gore

She wondered how Amarantha had managed to turn the mountain into a sprawling palace. Carved out balconies and stairs seemed as if they’d taken years to construct. Decades, given their smooth rails, the shiny, immaculate floors. Candelabras and chandeliers of softly glowing faelight greeted them as they came down.

Beron, and a limited amount of his court, was allowed to move between Autumn and the mountain. She assumed that meant Eris and hoped it meant her, too. He hadn’t said a word when they winnowed to the tunnels that ought to have allowed them to move between Spring, Summer, and Winter and instead led them down, down, down. Everything smelled like the earth, cool and musty before the artifice slammed against her senses.

It was her new husband who balked when they were fully beneath, his legs halting as if he couldn’t bare to step through the archway that would take them in. Arina saw Beron’s mouth pucker and, still thinking of the twenty lashes healing against Eris’s back, tugged him forward like she hadn’t seen anything at all. 

They only glimpsed the throne room and that onyx chair set atop the room. Amarantha wanted to play Queen, Arina supposed. Did her king know what she was up to? Or had he given her permission to make all of Prythian her subjects? 

They weren’t the only court making their way through the labyrinth of halls. Dawn was there, headed up by the imperious if not irate looking Thesan. He had his hand tucked into the crook of another males arm and when he saw Beron, he merely inclined his head, both in greeting and respect. Beside her, Eris froze again, eyes fixated on a female in the retinue of courtiers just behind.

Pregnant. 

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what worried Eris. Arina almost laughed. Did he think of a week of sex was enough to root life in her body? Or that Arina would ever be so careless in such a fraught place? 

They were given a whole wing. A terrible, winged creature Arina had only ever seen in her books was waiting with a dripping, rotting smile. Attor. It was her turn to balk, to back into the solid muscle that was Eris’s chest. He didn’t acknowledge the creature, even when it’s gravelly voice spoke to the High Lord.

“Your home, Lord.”

Beron’s upper lip curled in disgust. He didn’t hide the revulsion they all felt, looking down at the leathery winged beast that seemed somehow both slimy and bone dry. They swept in behind him, choking against the foul smell emanating like a cloud. Arina hated this, didn’t want to walk into that cavernous room where Beron would be allowed to govern. No throne like before but merely a set of tables and chairs, cozy if they were closed to the carved out fireplace and serious and studious at the far end of the room.

And no windows. Eris led Arina into their suite without a word, as if he hadn’t realized there was no sunlight down here. She wanted to be sick, walking towards that black adamant wall. She couldn’t even feel the warmth of the outdoors. No fresh air, no wind in her hair, no breeze ruffling her cheeks. Arina lived and died by that, had always been a creature driven by nature. 

She took a gasping breath, knees buckling as the full weight of the horror of their circumstances crashed around her. Eris surged, catching her before she hurt herself.

“Take a moment,” he told her, his voice strangely devoid of emotion. “Let it out. There can be no more weakness after.”

“How can you stand it?” she gasped, hitting him hard in the chest. Eris exhaled for a moment, eyes blazing. “There are no windows, Eris.”

Fury rippled over his features as he raised his hand. She flinched, waiting for him to strike her. Gentle fingers tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and when she dared to look at him again, anguish had replaced his anger.

“The alternative is death,” he told her, tilting her chin upwards to look at him. 

“I’d rather die than stay down here,” Arina said in response. Eris dropped her as if she’d burned him, taking a step away from her. His face rippled with rage.

“If you die, I die too,” he snapped. “Don’t you ever say that to me again.”

He stormed from the room, leaving Arina alone with their things to unpack. She thought to follow him only for a second before deciding she wanted no part of whatever the Vanserra’s would do in order to make this experience more heinous than it already was. Instead, Arina dropped to her knees, opened the shared trunk between her and her new husband and began unpacking. 

It was soothing, to lay out all of their things against the bed. A small closet filled with a seemingly endless supply of hangars allowed Arina to arrange her and Eris’s clothing by color. It made her feel a little better, looking at that gradient in a sea of black. She closed the door and then opened it again, reaching upwards to pull the door off its hinges. No art, no little knick-knacks. Only this, their things that made the room seem as if life existed elsewhere. 

By the time Eris returned, obviously shaken by what he’d seen, Arina had some measure of peace. Small, to be certain, but her panic had ebbed. Eris returned that evening, pale and beckoning her to join him. He halted when he saw what she had done, those sharp features softening, if only for a moment. 

“This is…” he trailed off while she waited, hoping for his approval. “Nice.”

It was as good as she’d get, she decided. Arina resisted the urge to touch him, swallowing the rising frenzy between them. They might indulge this evening when whatever the whore queen had in store for them ended, but for now, Arina knew she was expected to appear unaffected.

He seemed to be struggling too, if the salty scent of him was any indication. It was instinct, she reminded herself.

It was only instinct, she reminded herself. Terrible, unyielding instinct that made her crave him the way she did. Eris was watching her, russet eyes dark and hungry and she wished he’d throw her on the bed and ravish her like he had before. That they could sink back into the sex and forget the terrible worrld around them.

His nostrils flared, catching her arousal blooming around them. He groaned softly, reaching for her face to tangle a hand in her hair. “Later,” he swore, lips ghosting over her cheekbone.

“Spring Court has not arrived.”

She only barely cared. “So what?”

Eris exhaled, dropping his hand and putting distance between them. The loss of his scent was so jarring that Arina whimpered without meaning to. Looking back up at him, it was clear Eris was angry.

“Lucien is in Spring,” he told her, his voice imperious and haughty.

“I wasn’t aware you cared,” she replied honestly. She didn’t know a thing about him, if they were being honest. Eris reared back as though she’d slapped him.

If you die, I die too. 

“Let's go,” he said instead, offering her his hand. Arina took it, given she had no choice in the matter. His fingers laced between her own, his body half angled before hers as they moved down the hall to the large common space where Beron was waiting. They weren’t the last to arrive—two of Eris’s brothers made up the rear, halting just behind her with cruel, bored expressions.

Arina had no practice making her face look that way, so she settled for a blank sort of apathy. 

Beron’s eyes swept over them. They were almost certainly being spied on—he didn’t need to say it. Anything they spoke of, save for perhaps in the safety of their own bedrooms, would have to be carefully worded. The High Lord of Autumn lifted his chin.

“Do not embarrass me. Not tonight. Not ever. Do you all understand?”

It was a warning she understood. Cold as the High Lord was, his family meant something to him. Arina wasn’t sure, what, exactly, they meant to him. Only that he had his arm wrapped protectively around his wife and he took a moment to look at each of his sons with an expression that said he did not want to see one of them die. 

I cannot protect you down here. 

It was a jarring realization that even Beron Vanserra must have a heart. Twisted, and ugly as it was, Beron still possessed it in some capacity. Did Eris, too, feel the same as his father? There was too much to lose and no ability to stop himself from losing it? She squeezed his hand reassuringly, glancing up at her unaffected mate. He didn’t react at all. He merely inclined his head in understanding to his father, and then followed just behind. 

The throne room was every bit as terrible as it had been that morning. They weren’t the only court filing in like this was normal. In some ways it could have been another party. Piles and piles of food lay over large tables and the room itself was broken by chairs and tables for sitting and eating and generally holding court. A large dance floor was broken by the onyx dias Amarantha sat atop, her ruby nails clacking over her stone throne. Arina noted the ring on her finger—a moving eyeball, watching them all find a place nervously. 

Beron picked a place between Dawn and Winter, two courts who were unlikely to draw any unwanted attention. They weren’t flashy like Day or loud like Night or so lovely it was impossible to stare the way Summer was. 

Just as Eris said, Spring was missing. The absence was conspicuous—loud. A statement that Amarantha might hold the High Lord’s power, but she did not control his leash. Curiously, she had not sent in her army like she’d done to the others and Arina wondered why. She wondered even when Eris tugged her into a chair, resting his body on the arm just beside her. He, too, was staring at the entrance they’d all come in through. Was he praying to the mother his brother arrived? 

The chandelier overhead rattled softly from some unknown disturbance, silencing them all. No one seemed to breathe as Amarantha stood, her black gliding over the polished floor beneath her. She swept that blood red hair off her face, beetle black eyes surveying the crowd. She snapped her fingers and the High Lord of Night materialized into the mist.

“You sent word to Spring?” she questioned. His grin was feral.

“I did.”

She pouted. “Were you mean about it?”

Eris stiffened, his expression unchanged. The whole exchange made Arina so uncomfortable. Rhysand was effortless—if he liked her, if he hated her, Arina couldn’t say. Maybe it was better to guess than to know for certain. 

“I was vicious, my Queen.”

She opened her mouth to say more, striding down those four steps, just in time for the youngest Vanserra to stride into the throne room like nothing was amiss at all. All of Autumn went taut, watching him with his hands jammed into brown breeches. His red hair was half pulled from his handsome face—a face, she thought, that didn’t look quite right. 

As if pulled by an invisible string, Arina turned to look at Helion. He was staring intently at Lucien, golden eyes narrowed with recognition and surprise. She’d thought the night in Spring that Lucien was familiar to her—his nose, his coloring, the way his mouth was shaped. All things she’d spent a lifetime studying while betrothed to Helion. 

She started to twist in her chair to look at the Lady of Autumn but Eris put his hand around her wrist tightly, fingers curling into her skin hard enough to bruise. He never looked, made no other indication he knew what she was doing.

It was a warning.

Don’t you dare. 

Amarantha turned, her surprise evident. “Where is Tamlin?” she crooned.

“He’s not coming.” Lucien’s deep voice ricocheted off the walls, reminiscent of her oldest friend. How did no one know? How could they not see it? 

Beron had stood, one hand on his wifes trembling shoulder. It took Arina a moment to realize his hand was the only thing keeping her from surging out of her chair. 

“Not coming?” Amarantha questioned, slithering forward like a terrible snake. Eris’s grip tightened again, not out of concern she’d betray him, but what had to be fear. He reeked of it in that moment. 

Their whole court did. 

Lucien pulled a hand out of his pockets, examining his fingernails as if he were bored. “He aggressively declines.”

Amarantha was practically vibrating with rage. “And he sent you, an Autumn Court reject to pass along this message?”

Lucien’s russet eyes snapped to her face, his temper flaring. Arina sucked in a breath. How often had she seen that very look on Helions face, his temper rising like a thunderstorm. 

“On behalf of all of Spring,” Lucien said, his tone level, his expression one of open hatred, “Why don’t you go back to the shithole you crawled out of?”

The entire room was deathly quiet. Beron Vanserra stared for a moment before closing his eyes slowly while his wife sobbed silently beneath him. Eris was pulled tight, his skin as pale as moonstone. All of Lucien’s brothers looked the same. Outwardly amused, though their freckles were stark against their usually rosy skin.

Amarantha snapped her fingers, dragging Lucien forward without effort. She grabbed him by his throat, earning well placed spit against her pale face. Her amusement died, replaced by open fury. She twisted her hold, slamming him to his knees with little effort.

Scraping her nails over his cheek, Amarantha crooned, “You have such a pretty face. Just like your mother.”

It was a warning. A threat to Beron, who had taken a step towards his youngest son. He backed down instantly, choosing in that moment to protect his wife. Eris’s fingers were sticky with sweat against Arina’s wrist, the only proof he felt anything at all. 

“What do you think, Jurian?” Amarantha murmured, glancing to the eyeball rolling wildly in the ring. “Should we remind little Vanserra what happens when he speaks out of turn?”

Lucien struggled against her hold but did not beg. Not until those fingers, still caressing his cheek, dug into his flesh viciously, sending a trio of rivulets of blood staining over his golden brown skin. Lucien screamed when those same three fingers found his eye socket, scooping out his pretty, russet eye with a disgusting, squelching sound. 

“Stop it!” Amera Vanserra screamed, breaking out of Beron’s hold just long enough to throw herself to the floor. “Please, I’ll—” Beron caught her, placing a hand over her mouth before she could make some foolish bargain in her sons place. 

Amarantha didn’t acknowledge her at all. She did release Lucien, still holding his eye in her hand. He panted, held up by his hands and knees. Red hair formed a curtain over his now ruined face while she examined the carnage before her.

Amarantha dropped his eye beside him, raised a heeled foot, and squashed it viciously beneath before crouching next to Lucien. She hooked one of those bloodied nails under his chin and raised his face so they could all see.

“Tell Tamlin I request his entire courts presence at the end of the week. A masked ball, do you think? Given…given your condition?”

She laughed, pressing a kiss against his forehead. “Run along then, little Lucien. Don’t let your High Lord keep me waiting.”

Lucien stumbled to his feet. How he ever made it out, Arina would never know. She kept expecting Amarantha to change her mind at the last minute, to drag him back and rip out his heart. His blood, still warm on the floor, reflected Amarantha’s delighted smile locked firmly on his back. What would Tamlin say when he saw?

Would Lucien even survive it? Or would he collapse dead between there and Spring, a warning for Tamlin’s insolence. Arina got the feeling Amarantha wouldn’t have minded that outcome at all.

The only sounds were Amera’s soft weeping into Berons chest, held tightly by the High Lord of Autumn. Amarantha looked at the High Lord, frowning with exaggeration when she saw his lady.

“Are you not having fun?” she taunted. “Perhaps—”

“I found it immensely entertaining,” Eris interrupted with a savage grin. “You are quite diverting, my lady.”

He was all but purring as he said it, earning her approval. It gave his mother just a moment to wipe her face, to pull from Beron’s embrace and incline her head. 

“Dance with me,” Amarantha ordered. Eris took, his delight catching even Arina by surprise.

He didn’t turn to look back at her.

“It would be my pleasure.”

ERIS: 

His brother's blood was on the bottom of his shoes. All night, all Eris could think about was Lucien’s blood staining the bottom of his boots, creating imprints that, when he finished his waltz, were burned into more than just the floor. His very soul was stained, wrecked and ruined and yet had he not done something, his mother would have been the one forced to play one of Amarantha’s games.

He could take it. He’d been born to withstand torture. Beron had been preparing him his entire life, though Eris thought he would have preferred stakes beneath his nails than Amarantha’s lips against either of his cheeks or her murmured appreciation of his form. Her invitation that he could join her in her bedchamber anytime was made worse by his assertion he would take her up on that, knowing full well his mate was listening. Watching. Trying to determine what sort of male he was. He saw it in those glassy green eyes when he returned, her betrayal and disgust. She was careful to angle her body away from his so he couldn’t touch her despite how badly he needed to. Eris wasn’t going to force himself on her, not in such a public forum. Let the other six High Lords speculate he didn’t care for her. That she was little more than a trophy. It might keep her safer than to have a target painted on her back, for the world to know Eris would have done exactly as his mother had if it were Arina beneath Amarantha’s hold. He would have schemed and plotted and killed to keep her safe.

He only wanted her to know that. 

He was relieved when they were dismissed for the evening and he could reach for the small of her back. Her touch was grounding, was like pressing her bare feet against the cool earth. The horror of the night was bouncing through him, rattling in his ribs like a ball caught in a grate. Eris was not the only one—every Vanserra was dead-eyed as they made their way through the winding halls. Back to the relative safety of their chambers. 

Eris expected his father to say something, not sweep his mother up off her feet, whispering something softly against her hair while she sobbed against his chest. Eris understood his father warred between his love and his hatred of Amera—he loved her so much it was edged and ugly, and hated her for not loving him the same way. Lucien dying at the hands of Amarantha might allow Beron Vanserra some long denied peace. He’d kept his youngest son alive to spare her pain and save face, but Eris knew he’d always wished they could go back to a time before Helion had fucked it all up.

And Arina….fuck, Arina had figured out in seconds what had been staring Helion in the face for centuries. He’d been so afraid she’d make a show of it and Amarantha would realize. Would out his mother when Beron had half forgiven her for it. 

He couldn’t think about it, not when he was locking Arina in their bedroom. She whirled to face him, hand reaching out to strike him roughly against the cheek. 

“Go,” she demanded, unaware of how he was fighting to keep his whole body upright. “Go join her, Eri—” 

He crossed the room, sinking to his knees and reaching for her dress. Eris buried his face into the fabric, inhaling her familiar, comforting scent. Mate, he thought as salt water slid down his stinging cheek. She was safe, so he was safe. 

He drew in a ragged breath. “I’m sorry,” he managed. How could she think he’d ever fuck that roach of a creature? When his mate was the personification of sunlight, was so beautiful and warm and lovely? Eris would have rather carved out his own heart. 

Arina carded her fingers through his hair. “I…” she was suddenly uncertain. Eris was back on his feet in an instant, reaching for her neck to pull her into a messy, inelegant kiss. Still crying over his family, their circumstances—his fear. Gods, but Eris was so afraid. She could see it. He would yield to his mate and only his mate. 

The crashed against that bed in a tangle of limbs, teeth gnashing as he tugged at her clothes. He’d been denied a frenzy with her and even if he was given the night to indulge, it wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough. 

If they made it out alive, Eris meant to take her to the estate in the mountains and fuck her senseless for an entire year. No one would see or hear from them to the point they’d wonder if he and her died. That thought satisfied him, but only barely. 

“There is only you,” Eris snarled against her throat, nipping at the skin but he’d left bruising bite marks trailing over her naked collarbone and breasts. “Just you. My mate, my wife—” He almost told her she was his everything. He couldn’t lay himself bare that way, not when his jaw still ached from her slapping condemnation. Not when Eris knew he’d have to make a million more concessions like that to keep his family alive. 

“I can’t stand to see her touch you,” Arina replied viciously, yanking his shirt up over his head. “To see any of them touch you like they do.”

To punctuate her point, Arina’s fingers slid over his nearly healed back. There would be minimal scarring this go around and still, knowing it made her just as angry soothed something wild in his chest. He tore at the rest of her dress just as Arina desperately worked to get him out of his pants, kicking all of it to the floor inelegantly. Only the flickering light of the fireplace illuminated their otherwise shadowy bodies—her pinned beneath him, writhing as he rolled his hips, trying so hard to line his cock against her entrance without having to take his hands off her face. 

She widened her legs, arching up to meet him and all at once, Eris felt settled again. Cock buried in her achingly wet cunt, Eris held himself still so he could kiss her, adjusting to the feel of her heat branded against him.

Warming him. He’d spent centuries burning from the cold, practically frigid inside and out. She was thawing him, was softening him. The prospect both terrified and thrilled him.

Never more so than when she tightened her thighs around his waist and pushed him to his back so she could straddle him. Arina dug her nails into his chest, head thrown back in a cascade of blonde hair and parted lips. Eris was momentarily struck dumb, unable to do anything but stare. 

She rolled her hips, dragging him against her slick walls and Eris was back. He grabbed her hips, controlling her rocking even as she rode him. He craved that control, would take it however he could get it. 

Pleasure replaced his pain, emptying out every thought that wasn’t about her. The frenzy flared to life, urging him to claim her. To mark her, to fill her until she was so undeniably drenched in his scent and filled with his young that no male would dare. Eris couldn’t argue, didn’t care to. Not when each new wet drag of his cock through her cunt robbed him of his anguish. He’d never realized how carefully he held himself together, how each little broken piece was splintered and in danger of crumbling entirely. 

Arina was glue, her light and warmth puzzling him back together into something not as ugly and dark and cold as before. He dug his fingertips into her flesh, dragging them both higher and higher until they came apart in a messy, breathless moan. Neither of them were loud, unsure how their voices might carry. His magic was a mere ember banked in his chest, hardly enough to control a ward. 

She collapsed atop his chest, burying her face in his neck and peppering it with kisses. He stroked her hair over and over, letting the night wash back over him as he came down from his high. 

“Lucien will be okay,” he whispered into his hair, sending those words of affirmation skyward to the mother. Make it so. 

Arina kissed his cheek. “I hope so,” she agreed, sliding off him to fall beside his body on the bed. They said nothing for a moment, desperately trying to catch their breath. Arina, vulnerable, lovely Arina, was the first to speak again.

“I’ll keep your secrets if you ask me to.”

He turned his head to look at her. She didn’t say what secret it was she would hold inside, that she would take to her grave. She would have learned eventually if she’d spent enough time in Autumn. Lucien would have come on business from Tamlin and she would have seen him then. Court would have talked, his father would have taken his rage out on his mother and Arina would have known anyway.

He kissed her knuckles. “Keep my secrets?”

She nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes.”

Eris ran a hand down her body, marveling as he always did in the silky softness of her skin. “I have centuries of secrets, Arina. Ugly things unlike anything you could imagine.”

All true, he reflected, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. She let him push her back, let him thread one of his legs through her own as he continued. 

“Things that would repulse you. Would fill you with revulsion. Things people would like to kill me for.”

Her eyes fluttered shut when he lapped at one her peaked nipples, sucking it into his mouth to tease with his teeth. He swapped after a moment, catching her arousal back in the air. 

“You’re better off not knowing,” he whispered, tongue sliding down her taut abdomen towards her parted legs. 

“Tell me anyway,” she gasped when he licked at her clit. “Let me see you, Eris.”

It was the way she spoke his name that made him look up, heart pounding not from arousal, but want. He wanted to be seen, for someone to see beyond his mask at whatever lurked beneath. He wasn’t sure he even knew what was down there. 

“You won’t like what you find,” he dismissed, returning to his licking.

“Eris–” she gasped, arching her hips into him even as she yanked at his hair to stop him. She tasted divine, their mingled release driving him brainlessly wild. “Eris, I want to see you anyway. Please. Eris…” she trailed off when he slid two of his fingers into her body, curling and fucking as he licked. He couldn’t stop, not because he was overcome by lust but because her words had unleashed something ancient and old and still so achingly tender and brand new. He felt chafed raw and vulnerable.

He felt seen.

She ground against him, making a mess of Eris’s face while he dragged her out, pulling her just to the precipice only to slow himself until she calmed. Over and over, until the flames in the fireplace banked to ash and Arina was writhing and begging him for mercy. Only then did Eris give it to her, pumping his fingers roughly, curled against that spongy soft flesh while he licked and sucked at her clit.

Arina came apart roughly, her whole body seizing and shaking. He took advantage of her orgasm, pushing his cock back into her body while she was so convulsing so he could feel it, could ride her through it.

“That’s it,” he whispered, wrapping his hand around her throat. “Milk my cock, Arina. Make me come with that tight cunt of yours.”

She whined, meeting his vicious thrust with a cry of pleasure. He was vicious, each thrust bordering on pain for them both. Eris didn’t care, tightening his hold against her throat until those pine colored eyes were pinned to his face, her golden face bright red. She took short, shallow breaths and when she came again, all she could do was suck down a precious gulp of air. No noise, no protest. 

Nothing unless he willed it. 

Eris pushed into her one last time, release stealing over him. He could feel familiar flames licking against his skin, leashed and unable to do anything but writhe. In a different time, he knew his magic would have exploded out of him, would have crowned them both High Lord and Lady of Autumn—future, just as soon as Beron was gone. 

It was Eris’s turn to collapse against her, his cock still throbbing, and Arina’s turn to caress his hair.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she told him, pressing a kiss to his sweaty shoulder.

He groaned. 

“Oh, but you should be,” he told her. Arina shook her head.

“Not me. Never me.”

And she was right. Everyone else ought to be. Eris would rip apart the world and lay it at her feet. His mate. Eris drew a ragged breath. The frenzy was on them both—there would be no quitting tonight, no matter how badly he wanted to just hold her. He had to force himself to pull out and gather her against his chest, to bury his face in her hair even as his cock raged.

Demanding he put her on her hands and knees and watch her tits bounce while he fucked her again. 

“Tell me what you want from me,” she pleaded, twisting in his arms only to be silenced by a kiss.

He could tell her. 

Eris wanted her trust.

[wri0thesley]

Nat. NAT. I just saw your concept about naoya "training" his wife by just throwing her in the room and just watching her struggle to defend herself... Until she ofc breaks and begs him to protect her🙈 you have a MASSIVE brain, the biggest and horniest brain nat can you please write this concept for the event😭😭 maybe w 45 and any other dark or spicy add ons that you see fit!

traditional discipline - naoya x fem!reader (3.3k)

naoya has had enough of you, and resorts to an unusual method of discipline.

warnings: not sfw/minors dni. DARK CONTENT. unhealthy relationship/marriage. fearplay, dacryphilia, finger-sucking, cock-sucking, punishment, threat of violence and death. dubious consent. afab reader with fem pronouns. 

[a/n: this concept literally wouldn’t leave me alone. i’m sorry to all of the readers who are naoya’s wife i’m always so horrible to them]

The room goes quiet as Naoya hauls you out of it by your upper arm.

It’s an easy mistake, a simple slip-up; accidentally talking over your husband. But it’s one in a slew you’ve been making recently, despite Naoya thinking that you were polite and well-bred and knew your place. He’s sick of it, to be quite frank; he doesn’t have time to be correcting you when you should already know how to behave.

You’ve done accidental, small things since the two of you were married. Denying him when he rolled you onto your back at night. Not standing quite as far behind him as you should. Pouring tea for other people before him. He’s given you swift reprimand with both his words and his hands, but . . . it’s clearly not sinking into your pretty little head, is it?

He warned you about this.

“Next time,” he’d growled to you, when you’d laughed too loud at a joke that one of his brothers had made and not laughed at one of his, “I’m going to teach you a real lesson.”

He tells you about the ‘training and discipline room’ on the Zenin estate later that night. A room that the family use for honing cursed techniques, both for practising and for learning purposes, when someone needs to be brought down a peg or two. It’s full of cursed spirits – all the way up to grade two, which makes your blood run cold.

Of course, you have cursed energy. You even have a careful little technique; one that would wrap your enemies up in vines, if you’d ever been allowed to train to use it for anything other than keeping your well-appointed garden neat and orderly. Naoya would not have married someone without either of those things, lest they not bear him fruitful children--

But you have never been allowed to use it for anything more.

The women of your clan are pretty decoration, with no need to learn anything other than how to behave and how to please their masters-and-husbands. You would be useless, thrown into the den of the wolves like that.

“Please don’t,” you’d said to him, your voice all soft and gentle, trying to be appeasing. “Please. I promise I’ll try harder.”

Naoya had taken your chin between thumb and forefinger, the grin across his face very sharp as his light eyes took in the pleading in your own gaze. You remember how the light had hit his earrings, the look of satisfaction at your begging and having you utterly and completely under his thumb.

“Be good,” he’d breathed, all slow and drawling. “And I won’t have to, will I?”

And he’d bid you to get on your knees for him and show you just how good you could be. Starting with your mouth.

So you know where he’s dragging you, down the labyrinthine halls of the estate. You try and pull back, feet sliding on the tatami mat, your voice pitching as you say;

“Naoya, please, I’m sorry--”

“Women should be seen and not heard,” he says to you. “Don’t make a fuss like that. You earned this.”

Your eyes are filling with tears, hot fear clawing its way up your throat.

“I’ll do anything,” you say to him, despite knowing that it’s a dangerous bargain to give him. He almost considers it for a moment, pausing – but then, his fingers just dig harder into the softness of your bicep (you’re going to bruise), and he tugs you.

“You’re making a scene,” he says. “If you don’t stop, I’ll leave you in there even longer.” You try to wrench your arm out of his grip, all of your self-defense mechanisms going into overdrive as you recognise the door he’s leading to you too. You’re breathless, so frightened you think that your heart might stop.

Naoya opens the door and pulls you in. You almost stumble at the flight of stairs, but he clicks his tongue at you in annoyance.

“So clumsy,” he drawls. “And here I was, under the impression I was marrying a graceful, lovely, credit to her family--” More steps, until he’s gotten you in the middle of the floor. He gazes around him, and you hear the low hum of a hundred cursed spirit’s voices murmuring the same things, over and over again. “The only time you’re a credit to them is with your legs spread.”

“Naoya,” you whimper, torn between pushing yourself into him for the comfort and protection that you know he can offer, or trying to tear away from him and escape the room yourself. You know the second option won’t work – he’s far faster, far stronger than you – but it’s hard to think of anything when you feel like your very survival is teetering impossibly over your head.

“If you run,” he says, still in that cold, uninterested drawl, “I’ll break one of your ankles.”

You don’t think he’s bluffing. Naoya says a lot of things, yes – but he’s also reckless and proud enough to mean them. You stand there, next to him, feeling yourself begin to tremble.

“W-why aren’t they attacking yet?” You ask him, voice very small. He looks at you pityingly.

“They’re afraid of me, obviously,” he says to you, very slowly, like he’s explaining it to somebody very stupid. “I didn’t get this good at everything by not training myself, darling.” He lets go of you, finally, a whistle escaping his pursed mouth as he rocks on the balls of his feet. He’s supremely unconcerned by your fear. “When I’m gone, they’ll come out for you.”

Your eyes fill with tears.

“What am I supposed to do?” You ask him, desperation leaking into your cracked voice. “I can’t—I can’t protect myself--”

Naoya narrows his eyes.

“You should have thought about that before you were such a pain,” he replies. And, without further ado, he turns around and begins to ascend the stairs again. You turn with him, moving forward, stumbling in your haste and ending up sprawled at the bottom of the stairs with your hand pathetically fisted into the hem of his hakama.

He looks down at you with a disgusted sneer on his face, and you hate that even with that expression his features are still unmistakably handsome.

“Let go,” he says. “Have some dignity.”

“Please,” you repeat. You can feel a fat tear spilling from the corner of your eye down the curve of your cheeks. You know the ‘dignity’ statement is a dig; the fact that you’ve heard his family members calling your clan power-hungry undignified gold-digging whores, but you can’t bring yourself to care when you can see the beginning of shadows spilling out too far into the main floor of the room. “Naoya. Please.”

He kicks out at your wrist, face twisted in distaste, and you let go to avoid it being stood on and crushed under his strength. You cradle it against your chest, looking up at him still all desperate and afraid.

“If I helped,” he said to you, “you’d never learn your lesson.” He takes a step up and turns away completely from you, as if you’re nothing more than an ignored child on the street. “It will be good for you, beloved wife. Character-building.” You hear the smirk in his voice and you hate him.

You want to strangle him. You want to beg him to protect you. You want to tear him limb from limb, but you want him to let you bury your head in his chest as he dispels the spirits with ease. You want--

The door slams shut behind him. He’s too cheerful as he throws behind him;

“Good luck!”

And you are left alone.

It takes a moment before anything slithers out from the shadows, and you clap your hand over your mouth to stop yourself screaming. The first cursed spirit is a hunched over creature with the face of a Pierrot clown, mouth stretched impossibly wide with gaping black abyss where eyes ought to be. It’s whispering something over and over to itself, but the wide mouth is so crowded with teeth that it comes out as an incomprehensible noise, dripping drool as it begins to move horrifically slowly towards you.

Oh, God. You’re not supposed to look at them, are you? You dimly recall something about many sorcerers wearing glasses so the creatures can’t tell where their gazes are, but this one has already got the scent of you; those dark pits staring at your crumpled form.

Everything you’ve ever been told in passing about jujutsu and cursed spirits and cursed technique just seems to flow out of your mind to be replaced by mind-numbing fear. You’ve not been trained for this; when your clan had arranged your marriage with Naoya, you know that they’d expected fine silken kimonos and traditional food and you being a pretty trophy on the arm of the future leader of their clan. You know they’d be horrified if they saw what was happening.

More of them are melting from the shadows, the whispering and moaning reaching a terrifying crescendo. You’re trembling. Your heart is beating so fast inside of your chest you think it might break free of your ribcage and sputter out onto the floor.

The Pierrot monster is close enough that you can see the six hands it drags on the floor are all tipped with claws that are sharp as blades. You scramble up the stairs on your ass, too afraid to turn your back on the creatures. You realise you’re shouting, but it seems just as blurred as anything that the cursed spirits are saying. You’re crying, too – howling, whimpering, so scared you’re surprised any noise is able to come out at all.

You’re going to die.

It hits you with cruel certainty as you reach the top and throw your weight at the door, only for it to not give an inch. You scramble at the heavy wood, not caring about your careful manicure (Naoya wants you to be a credit to him, and that means manicures and facial treatments and a fancy bathroom full of soaps and creams that he expects you to use and that he slathers, too, on himself). You hear a nail break but you can’t bring yourself to worry about that when the Pierrot monster is dragging itself up the flight of stairs, one step at a time. It makes a hideous sliding thump, like it’s both wet and heavy – and you notice, too, the scent of blood invading your senses.

Your tear-blurred eyes can see all of the other monsters, too – not quite as close, but still too close for comfort. Too many eyes and not enough eyes, too many legs, claws and teeth and misshapen bones and blood leaking from holes. What are you supposed to do?

Naoya has left you here, alone, to teach you a lesson. You hadn’t realised the lesson would culminate in your death, but with all of the spirits so close to you, you cannot see any other way.

All of the fight goes out of you and you sag against the door, a broken sob escaping your lips. Your throat is dry from hoarse screaming.

You are going to die. You hope it will come quick; you hope the Pierrot monster will tear you limb from limb and you’ll die in instants from the shock. Your voice whispers Naoya’s name one last, hopeless time.

Will he find another wife? Will they even bother covering up your death, or will they spin some rumour or lie to your family and the whole of jujutsu society that you brought it upon yourself?

You would do anything to be rescued right now. You would crawl on your hands and knees behind Naoya for the rest of your life, refer to him only as ‘Master’, fulfil every single thing he ever asked you with no more than a meek nod of your head. Pull out your tongue so you couldn’t make any more mistakes.

But the time for pleading seems to have gone entirely, and you are useless and stupid and weak as you run out of tears, eyes burning. All you can do, you think, is wait for death.

The door swings open behind you and you’re dragged backwards, onto tatami, by powerful hands gripping your shoulders as it closes once more with a massive clunk that echoes in your ears--

And you find yourself strewn out on the floor, face caked with dried tear-tracks, a trembling, pathetic mess looking up at your husband’s face.

He leans against the door, listening to you scream. He can hear his name mixed in with sobs and screams and pleading; saying that you’ll do anything, you’re sorry, you’ll never disobey him again you’ll take any punishment he metes out with a smile on your face, if he just helps you. He hears you call yourself weak and pathetic and useless around the tears clogging your throat; he hears the thump of you hitting the door and the sound of your nails scratching down the wood, uncaring of anything other than getting away from them.

Yes, he thinks as he opens the door for you and you fall, shivering and sobbing, in front of him. Yes, he thinks you’ve learnt your lesson.

You’re so pretty, he thinks, closing it once more (he sees the cursed spirits begin to creep back to where they came from at the very sight of him, now their preferred victim is protected), with your eyes all glassy and wet. You’re extra pretty looking at him like he’s a conquering hero who’s saved you from certain death – which he supposes he is.

You cling to his arm, pulling yourself up, burying your face in his chest as your hands cling to him like you’ve been lost and he’s the first familiar thing you’ve seen in months. Your tears soak his kimono, but . . . he finds himself not really minding, as big, lean hands pet you gently on the back.

“It’s alright now,” he soothes you, murmuring low. “Your husband has you.”

“Please, please, ‘m so sorry--” You’re mumbling into him, whimpering, your shoulders shaking. “Please never m-make me, again--”

“Shhh,” he continues, gently beginning to move towards his chambers. You cling to him, adrift in a sea of your own fears. “It’s better now. You’ll be better now, won’t you?”

He receives a fierce nod for that, your fingers twisting into his clothing. It’s nice, having you so wrapped around him; seeing him as the strong protector that he knows he is but you needed reminding of. You’re still mewling little pleas into him even as he unlocks the door to his bedroom and gently pushes you in. Letting go of him even for a moment seems to cause you physical pain--

Good. You should feel like that. You should feel incomplete without him at your side. Naoya rewards you with a rare, soft smile.

“You know why you had to be punished like that, don’t you?” He purrs to you, petting your hair and carefully drawing back so he can look at your face. Your lips are all swollen from crying and biting; he thinks you’ve never looked quite so kissable as you do right now.

“Yes,” you nod, fiercely. “I’m sorry. I’ll do a-anything, I promise. I . . .” You swallow, your eyes filling with tears again. Naoya has been hard since the moment he heard you call out his name from inside the training room, your voice filled with choked tears, and watching them well up again does nothing for the stricture against the fabric. “I needed you.”

“And I saved you,” he says, arching an elegant brow – to which you nod again, and your hands drift towards him like you’re aimless without him in front of you to serve. “I’ll protect you, darling, as long as you learn your place.”

“I will!” That’s said with such conviction that he can’t help the smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I will. N-Naoya . . .” Your voice trembles a little. “’m willing to do anything for you. J-just please . . . not again.”

“Shh,” he reaches out and deigns to touch you, to gently and soothingly rub his thumb over your cheek, where the tears have dried. “If you’re really going to be so good for me, I won’t have to, will I?” You stumble forward onto your knees and Naoya’s brows shoot up in surprise as your hands tug at his hakama.

“Please let me show you how grateful I am,” you whisper, your eyes wide and bright and desperate. “Naoya, please, please, please--”

Oh, there’s something so gratifying about you like this, begging to suck his cock. It stirs between his thighs again, reminding him that he’s painfully stiff; and you are here, a willing mouth, scared out of your skull and desperate to please him. He’s smirking at you but you do not register it as such; all you see is the smile of your rescuer.

Your protector.

Your husband.

“Say what you want to do to me, darling,” he tells you, keeping his voice as sweet as he can make it. “You’re a big girl. You can use your words. What do you want to do, to show me how grateful you are that I saved your paltry life?”

You’re pouting; your mouth is sweet, pretty. He wants to pry your jaw open and fuck the back of your throat, and his body roars as your fingers tug on the hakama again and your meek, soft voice whispers;

“Please let me suck your cock.”

“You have a dirty mouth,” he coos to you, leaning forward to brush a finger over your lower lip. “Not befitting of a woman of your station. I suppose that means that it’s up to me to keep you quiet, hmm?”

You obediently open it, letting his finger gently rest on your tongue for a moment.

Desperate to please, your mouth closes about it, your tongue gently swiping over the pad, your cheeks hollowing a little as you suck on the digit inside of them. Naoya’s smiling again, the victorious grin of someone who’s gotten exactly what they wanted. He pulls his finger out and thrusts back in with two, whispering to you;

“Do you think you deserve my cock, after what you put me through today?”

You shake your head, but you don’t stop lavishing attention on the fingers in your mouth, a string of drool falling from the corner of your mouth as he presses his third finger inside of it. So warm, and wet. He needs his cock to be inside of you or he thinks he may embarrass himself.

The fingers are pulled out, wiped on the hakama fabric, before he says (the carefully adopted tone almost disinterested);

“Take them off, then. Don’t make your promises empty words. I wouldn’t appreciate such thoughtlessness in a wife.”

You’re eager, stripping off his clothes. Your mouth practically waters at the sight of his cock; elegant, flushed, hard and straining with a light upwards curve that he knows will hit you in the right place at the back of your throat to make you gag.

“Wait,” he says, as you lean in to bring him to your lips. “What do you say, darling?”

Your eyes (still brimming with tears, he notices – and fuck, he loves how you look teary-eyed and pouting. He has to make you cry more often) meet his, but the look in yours is worshipful so he doesn’t chide you for having the insolence to meet his gaze directly.

“Thank you,” you breathe. “For saving me. For letting me suck your cock. For everything.”

Naoya is smiling.

“Good girl,” he says, placidly, as you place a delicate kiss on the head of his cock and slowly envelope it in the warmth of your mouth. “Very good.”

[robininthelabyrinth]

I really like your takes on the Nie brothers! Could you maybe do something with NHS being a sneaky little badass (not that he isn't always) and NMJ being all "wait, you thought I was the brother you should be afraid of? I'll be over here laughing while NHS wrecks you in all ways but physically". I know that's not a lot to go off of so I understand if this doesn't click with you

In Here, With Me - ao3 (chapter 3/3)

People never seemed to understand, and Nie Mingjue was honestly tired of trying to explain it to them.

He’d never been especially good with words, or at least he wasn’t on a personal level. He apparently had a talent for speeches, especially wartime speeches made to soldiers in order to buck up their courage and build up their morale; that was easy enough, standing up in front of them and telling them the same sorts of things he’d been telling himself for years whenever the dreary endless sludge of politics and other people’s unwillingness to move themselves even in their own best interest started getting him down. He could use his height to his advantage there, towering over people, and couple that the strength of his voice – he suspected that half the time people didn’t even really listen to him, just looked at him and made conjectures for the rest, and that was just fine by him. Whatever worked.

But when it came to explaining complicated things like his brother…

Yeah, he had nothing.

Nie Huaisang had never been good at the things the Nie sect usually prized – he was a weak cultivator and bad at fighting, and at some point Nie Mingjue had more or less entirely given up on trying to teach him the fundamentals of saber fighting in favor of teaching him a much more narrowly targeted set of skills, designed to help keep him alive in a pinch. Even with that, he’d whined and complained, dragged his feet and resisted…he didn’t even have significant scholarly talents to make up for it, not really. Nie Mingjue had no taste for art, but those who did suggested (in however polite terms they could manage) that Nie Huaisang’s poetry was wretched, his composition barely serviceable, his attempts at philosophy convoluted and contraindicated, and as for his painting skills…

Well, he could draw birds pretty well.

But he could play a mean game of weiqi, even against Nie Mingjue, and he was lively and personable - nobody ever disliked him, assuming they bothered to pay him attention at all. He liked to barter with merchants whenever he went shopping, and shopping was the one thing he really did do with a passion; he could make the most grim-faced cynic on the street break out into a smile, and collected half a dozen or more free treats every time he went to the marketplace despite them all knowing he could afford their wares if he so wished.

Nie Huaisang, in short, was good for nothing, but he was fun to be around.

He was also – and this was the part Nie Mingjue could never explain to people – one of the most persistent and vindictive sonofabitches to have ever been born.

One would think, wrongly, that Nie Huaisang would have learned to be more forgiving on account of his personal weakness, but in fact, it just seemed to make him even more inclined to get vengeance on those who had wronged him. He bore grudges without ever feeling the weight, as immovable as the mountains – there would be times when something would blow up spectacularly in Nie Mingjue’s face and he’d turn around only to find Nie Huaisang there, smiling at him and reminding him of some grievance from years before.

And that was if he were lucky – if he were unlucky, he’d find himself in some blissful situation, given everything he’d ever wanted, and find Nie Huaisang patting himself on the back for arranging it.

When Nie Mingjue had been forced by the Wen sect’s overweening arrogance to send Nie Huaisang to them for reeducation and indoctrination, about nine-tenths of what he’d felt had been terror, thinking about all the things that the Wen sect could do to his weak little brother who had nothing but good humor to defend himself with. The last tenth, though, had been the lingering thought that he’d been unable to fully banish: I don’t think they know what they’re getting themselves into here.

Sure enough, they hadn’t.

Now, Nie Huaisang hadn’t personally delivered any of the finishing blows there, but then, he never did, preferring to use other people to do it for him - even in vengeance and spying, he was lazy as always. Wen Chao, who had mocked him, had been left to the vengeance of Wei Wuxian with his brand new demonic cultivation; it’d been an ugly sort of death. Wen Zhuliu, who’d threatened him, had ‘accidentally’ gotten his hand broken when Nie Huaisang’s saber had temporarily ‘gone out of control’ and pierced the key meridian of his wrist – those few months of forcing Nie Huaisang to take classes on medicine had clearly not gone to waste – and then been executed by Jiang Cheng with his steely-eyed hatred. Wen Ruohan, who had murdered their father and made Nie Mingjue’s life a living hell for years, had seen his sons murdered, his empire destroyed, his war lost, and in the end had been stabbed in the back by a trusted subordinate.

Throughout, no one had paid any attention to poor little Nie Huaisang, preserved only through the Wen sect's desire to humiliate the Nie sect by using him as a clown.

Even Lan Xichen, who ought to know better, had persisted in comforting Nie Mingjue throughout the war regarding Nie Huaisang’s health, as if Baxia wasn’t full up on all the complaints Nie Huaisang could possibly fit in given the size of his saber and the quantity of his qi. Meng Yao knew, Nie Mingjue supposed, but that was because he was himself another object of Nie Huaisang’s vengeance – he’d find himself with everything he’d ever wanted, the poor man, and in Nie Huaisang’s eternal debt to boot.

Poor, poor man.

It was a good thing for everyone, Nie Mingjue reflected, that he was too virtuous to sic Nie Huaisang on people.

Usually.

“You promised me that Jiang Cheng would be made Chief Cultivator instead of me,” he reminded Nie Huaisang, who sighed dramatically. “Huaisang. You promised.”

“I promised I’d try, da-ge!”

Nie Mingjue crossed his arms and glared.

“It’s a work in progress, all right? I’m going to have er-ge suggest it.”

Nie Mingjue’s eyebrows went up. “Xichen? How?”

“As a wedding present to his new in-law –”

Nie Mingjue held up a hand. “Stop right there. Who’s getting married?”

“Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji,” Nie Huaisang said obediently.

Nie Mingjue thought about their respective personalities and started to detect the start of a headache. “Which one are you punishing for some unremembered petty slight, this time?”

“Neither!”

Nie Mingjue gave him a look.

“…Wei-xiong screwed up helping me cheat on a test, and Lan Zhan bit me.”

“He bit you? How old was he, five?”

“Six! Old enough to know better!”

Nie Mingjue rolled his eyes. “And which one is going to think that they owe you their lives for arranging this?”

“Lan Zhan knows I’m working on it,” Nie Huaisang said promptly, and Nie Mingjue nodded. That made sense: Lan Wangji was honorable and dependable, and would be easy to extract things out of in the future if things went the way he wanted. “Also, Mistress Wen promised to give me anything I want if I can make Wei-xiong stop pining.”

“Mistress Wen? You mean Wen Qing?” Nie Mingjue’s eyes narrowed. “She’s a doctor, isn’t she?”

“Her brother Wen Ning helped poison a whole bunch of Wen sect soldiers one time, very impressive, you’ll like him,” Nie Huaisang said, not answering the question. “It’s the least I can do, really!”

“Huaisang…”

“Listen, if Wei-xiong and Lan Zhan are going to start their own sect up, they’re going to need some support first,” Nie Huaisang said with great dignity. “We’re not taking in the Wen sect, we’ll just be housing them for a little while, that’s all!”

“Huaisang…”

Nie Huaisang grinned at him.

Nie Mingjue threw his hands into the air. There was really no point in worrying any more about Nie Huaisang, he decided – ever since he’d found his talent for spying, and for managing other spies, Nie Huaisang had decided that he was going to rearrange the entire cultivation world to his liking in just the same way he’d rearranged the furniture in his quarters in the Unclean Realm.

No, really, there was no point in worrying for Nie Huaisang.

Now it was time to worry for everyone else.

[angelkurenai]

Beautifully reckless - Dean Winchester x Reader

Title: Beautifully reckless

Pairing: Michael!Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: None

Prompt: lately i just felt like reading a michael!dean fic, and since you're an amazing writer, I'd love to see you write a one shot/imagine with him. so here you go, reader is sam's and dean's friend who is a psychic, and after michael possesses dean, he starts feeling something for her that he never felt before? just some soft michael!dean, please? i love ur fics, they are truly unique and awesome to read

“Took you long enough, you bastard.”

The voice tone, to some extent, took Michael by surprise, to the point he jumped on the spot. Though he would never admit to that. He was used to respect, well, fear actually and he was used to hearing calculated and careful words. It wasn't like he had not been called that many more times before, but that was mostly in his face, and not behind his back (literally) and in such a tone. Not when everyone around him knew better than to push their luck. The fact that he really wasn't still around the people who used to tremble in fear when he was facing them, or not actually, and that he, Michael himself, wasn't entirely the same person as when he was in the Apocalypse world.

“I- Excuse me?” he couldn't stop the words from leaving his lips before he stopped in his steps and turned around to face the source of the voice that was so bold.

Within barely the span of a minute, he found himself being stunned twice... or maybe thrice, but there was barely any time to duel on that. Not in those first few seconds. Not when the sudden giddiness overwhelmed him and his breath came out shakily, as if somebody had just knocked it out of him. What was it that had just happened to him made him frown but his attention was instantly back on you.

The smile on the face of the person standing before him was not a surprise on it's own, seeing how much the sparkling and warm eyes told him that smiling was not a rare occurrence, but rather the fact that he had not expected such a friendly and caring, if the words were even enough to explain it, smile on your face after the way the words had sounded. Or perhaps it had indeed been all him and there had not been a real threat behind those words. He, after all, still kept forgetting that things had changed drastically.

“Let me guess-” the smile turned into a smirk, the teasing kind, the friendly and familiar kind of teasing he had truthfully never been on the receiving end and that sent him off balance “This is payback for those three weeks I stood you up in a row huh? Fair enough, fair enough. You had the right to not show up today either so I suppose I should be grateful you're here. And we're perfectly timed too.”

“Perfectly timed?” he repeated “I actually-” but before he could get to complete his sentence, he felt a pair of arms wrapping around him in what could clearly and very easily be described as a quick hug. It wasn't the long, tight and longing one he might have expected, probably because it hadn't been long since you had last been in touch, however that was not what he really dueled on at that moment. Not something he could duel on that is, not when he had to stop himself from returning the hug himself.

It was an impulse which he could again easily recognize, and even more easily blame on you. Because you had to be the one to blame, there was no other explanation. There was no other way to describe the way his body had just straight up frozen, not in shock but rather eager no less than a puppy (he could never admit to that) to turn to face you, eager to close the distance and eager to take everything in, whether it be by just getting to look at you or by, hopefully (why really?), getting to have you melt in his arms. Though shockingly enough he found himself doing the latter, feelings his muscles relax and a soft breath leave his lips when you were wrapped around him. It was strange, in a frightening way, and he had to push back all those feelings despite how he realized that it was easier to breathe with you there, without any weight resting on his chest. It was you who was responsible, that was easy to understand. What wasn't easy was the why. Why all of a sudden he felt this way with you?

“Gosh, Winchester-” ah yes, how did he not realize it? He was indeed the reason why and Michael hadn't even given his vessel a second thought, not until your eyes locked with his and his heart skipped a beat or two “I'll be able to see an angel's true form before you ever get rid of the green plaid huh?”

“I-” he looked down at himself, well aware that he hadn't had the chance to change Dean's clothes just yet “Funny enough, it was exactly what I had in mind too. Was actually planning on it.”

“Oh finally ready to dress to impress? Hm I wonder how I will be able to spot you next in the crowd. Was lucky this time I suppose.” you pulled away, playful smile ever present.

His eyes narrowed slightly in a way that must have scared his enemies in the past but that held no real threat this time, and maybe that was the most scary part: that he didn't meant it to be, especially to you “And... what makes you think I was actually heading this way?”

“Oh I see.” you placed your hand on your hips, nodding your head with a growing smirk “Feeling bold today. We haven't seen each other in quiet some time and here you come, ready to take me by surprise. I must warn you, though you already know, so I better say remind you-” you took a step closer to him and although he didn't let it show on his face, well, on Dean's face (or so he hoped) that didn't mean he didn't feel the flutter in his chest and the sudden weakness of his knees “You-” you poked his chest with your pointer and he could swear he felt the skin of his vessel start burning there, as if a fire was there that was only spreading “Would find it hard to surprise me, Dean. Not many people can, it's a tough challenge.”

“Well, you might have just done it there. It's time you finally found the right person because I was never one to say no to a challenge.” he felt his own lips form into a smirk, even though he was unable to believe how much he enjoyed seeing the sparkle of excitement in your eyes. Soon followed by the very familiar playfulness he could grow used to. And why shouldn't he? He had his sword, his perfect vessel, and nobody could take that away. He was in full control over Deans body and you clearly had not realized any difference, because apparently for what it mattered, maybe he was a lot like Dean after all- or at least could be, and that was more than enough.

“Bold of you to assume-” you pulled away and he had to stop himself- his vessel from taking a step forward to still be close with you “That it's a game with only one player. Let's see just how easily surprise you can be, Winchester. Feels like after years of friendship I might still be able to learn something new about you.”

“Then it would only be right to warn you I am not that easily taken by su-”

His words would have certainly held more value and determination, if not a chance at convincing you, if his voice had not wavered and, halfway through the sentence, they hadn't been cut off by a far-from-manly yelp that broke through his lips.

Well, if that wasn't a first. Again.

“Yeah, I get it. I get it. You macho man.” you scoffed, but the smirk on your lips was so playful that it almost made him forget what had just happened. Almost. Or maybe just for the moment, because he was sure he had a lot of thinking to do afterwards and maybe a much-needed conversation with his vessel about it.

“I- I didn't-” he blinked, more stunned with himself for reacting this way than anything else.

“'S alright-” you grinned at him in the end “Just, enough talking. Come on, this is no place for that kind of stuff.” you giggled and he got the impression that this wasn't a first for you, so really he ought to be prepared to be surprised in more ways than he could ever imagine.

“Wha- what a-are you-” it was so unlike him but everything about this situation was unlike anything he'd experienced before, he didn't really know what he should consider a normal reaction at this point.

“Wha- what?” you teased, mimicking him “Cat got your tongue, Winchester? Come on, move your pretty ass before they give our table away if we keep talking here.”

And just because he was such a fool for you already, or perhaps out of some inexplicable fear that your table would indeed be given away and you would have to part ways before he got enough of it, he didn't need to be told twice. He followed after you no better than a lost puppy, even if he'd deny it for the rest of his existence, not paying an ounce of attention as he should to the rest of his surroundings. And so, he didn't know what should alarm him more out of the two. The fact that it was easy to let go and relax so easily around you or the fact that he couldn't bring himself to be too far away from you.

Michael was confused. And whenever he was confused, as with anything in his entire existence ever since he was in heaven, he was intrigued. And whenever he was intrigued, he followed the one that interested him. Admittedly it had been centuries, if not ever before in his life, since the one to interest him in this way had been a person, and no less a woman like you.

“Feels like forever, doesn't it?” you breathed out as you both settled into your seats “I shouldn't tell you this but gosh... You're making me so sentimental and weak, Winchester, I'll have to change that somehow. But I have no idea how you do it in the first place, so...” you huffed with, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Good to know.” the easy smile on his lips felt both like his own and not “So I have to keep it up then.” and when he realized he too too much pleasure in your being playful with him, rolling your eyes, he didn't feel like questioning whose pleasure it was.

Your lips parted, and truth was he would have loved nothing more than to hear you tease him again, but he was also thankful for the interruption from the waitress and the moment of silence that followed afterwards, because at least then he had some time to gather his own thoughts, replay any moments that should have struck more than how beautiful your smile was or the way you looked at him.

Well, not him, Dean. But maybe-

“You said...” he started just as you'd given your orders, though he had barely cared about that when the thought crossed his mind “See an angel's true form?”

“Wha- Oh that.” you laughed, shaking your head “I'm not even close to that yet, I'm afraid. Not as much as I'd like but that's only because you're to blame, Winchester. I'm being as careful as I can so as expected things are going slow.”

“You've been... trying?” the confusion, if not the worry, was evident on his face much as he tried to hide it.

“If you say one more time that us psychics are too curious for our own good then I will kick you.” you said and proceeded to do just that under the table with your foot, managing to earn a small groan followed by a warm laugh from Dean.

“You said if. But I didn't say a damn thing!” he protested, still laughing and enjoying (far too much) the innocent shrug you gave him.

“Just taking precautions.” you grinned before you paused for a second too long and looked back up at him again with a softer smile, if he could even call it that, because it didn't reach your eyes not the way it should as he had observed the past couple minutes “I just...” you let a soft sigh “I'm sorry. I've- I know I've made you worry far too many times in the past. Scared you even. And well, you're no better sure, but I'm supposed to be the friend who has the functioning brain cells here and I haven't really lived up to that. I know-” another sigh and he was really starting to feel bothered by how much this seemed to stress you out, more than it stressed him out to keep up the act “I know how much you worry you. I really do. So I promise, even if it's hard for me, that I will hold back if I see things getting out of hand and I'm in danger again.”

The words rang in his ears louder than actual sirens ever could.

“Again?” he repeated with a raised eyebrow. He knew he probably looking more accusing than concerned, if not what he felt even more deep down: terrified. And he didn't even know what was more alarming anymore. The way his heart squeezed inside his chest or his palms clenched in order for his body to cope with the fact that his blood had ran cold and the shivers were far too unpleasant.

He didn't like it, he didn't like it one bit and he knew something had to be done about it.

“Figure of speech, I promise. There haven't been any close calls. At least- You know, ever since we last saw each other that is. But that too has been quiet some time. Speaking of which-” the smile returned on your lips and he had almost not realized it was not there until he understood how the uneasiness in his chest was also due to how you looked so distraught “How have things been for you hm? I haven't the slightest idea about what my two idiots have been up to lately. Is Sam alright?”

“Well, he's been... keeping busy, to say the least. Same goes for me. I wouldn't even know where to begin. Think of it as... a multiverse of madness being out there that needs the Winchesters to deal with.” he forced a small smile on his lips but he barely felt it to begin with, even if you were trying to stir the conversation away from any dangerous endeavors you might's recently had. And, truth be told, he couldn't even begin to think of all the times you might've gotten in trouble that weren't because of your own actions. The mere realization of that fact brought another unpleasant shiver down his spine.

“Ah, makes sense. We've been meeting up in this place at least once every week. 'S good though, I suppose, to take a break once in a while.” you gave a soft shrug, resting your chin on your palm and looked at him through your lashes “I am afraid we were both turning into two very sentimental fools, after all. Coming here, in the place we first met, after all these years.” a small laugh escaped your lips but he could hear the nervousness behind it, see how shy you were about it and deep down he loved seeing this side of you as well, if not wonder what else he could possibly do to evoke it “What are we anyway?”

The question did something to him and he soon realized it wasn't really him, but Dean. He couldn't always tell the difference, what with the Winchester being his perfect vessel, but in that moment he could, crystal clear. And once again it piqued his interest.

“Well, I don't know about you but I for one-” he paused to look into your eyes, to try and read some sort of emotion on your eyes that he might miss otherwise “Don't think I mind so much. Hell, I'll take pride in being always a fool for you.”

To see the way your eyes widened and your back straightened in surprise. Surprise that the words were said out loud or that they were said and were straight to the point, he couldn't tell. What he could tell was that you were not used to this and it was a good thing because things were changing and in a way this should too.

“Ah Dean, whatever happened to you these past months?” you looked away from him when you snapped out of the shock you were in, not that the small forced laugh was any indicator but the fact that you still felt stunned if not shy. You shook your head “Have some mercy on my poor heart, will you? Don't say things like that so carelessly.”

“I'm not being careless. If anything... I'm being honest.” and doing an incredible job at not showing how much that scares me but he couldn't really say that out loud and he knew “Besides, you were the one who started it.”

“Well, yes but actually no. This is what we do, Dean, you can't just go and- and be so... open about it. We-” a nervous laugh that he found too adorable for his poor heart's sake, well Dean's actually but it felt all the same at that moment “What was it that Sam called it? Uh yes, we're both too emotionally constipated to function like proper humans.”

“We don't talk about it remember?” you added in almost a whisper voice, making Michael wonder what was really there more than your playful banter and the way his vessel's heart couldn't rest for a minute “Besides, I know you're not as cool about it as you'd like to think. I can see it all over your face, so stop pretending Winchester.” you huffed, leaning back in your seat with your arms crossed over your chest, and he realized maybe he had underestimated you.

“And that is supposed to mean... what exactly?” he couldn't help the edge his voice took, too many years, centuries that felt an eternity, had taken their toll on him.

“Well, many things actually. But what matters most right now is one...” you tilted your head to the side, a soft expression on your face which stunned him momentarily “There's something on your mind.” it was a statement the left no room for debate “Wanna talk about it?”

The mere sincerity and care in your words were too much to believe in this entirely unprecedented event, and so it was no surprise when the words got stuck in his throat and his mind went entirely bank. Despite the lump that was stuck in his throat, despite how hard it was to swallow it over, the words in the very end formed before he could even comprehend it. And they were some of the most honest ones he'd spoke in a long time “Do I?” he questioned, mostly himself without any expectations for an answer “Funny...”

“What's funny about it?” naturally, though, you didn't hold back. It was clear that no matter how well you could read him, no matter how he was an open book to you, you wanted to know more of him. But which him was the real question.

Michael couldn't even remember when it was the last time that someone cared to know about him. Him, and not whoever had granted him access to wear around. Him, and not whatever face he had. Him, and how he felt. Him, and how he he thought. Him, and why he had done everything he did, what had led him to it and how he felt about it. It was a scary thought and feeling. Scary to hope there could be someone that would look past all of those layers, all that the eyes could see, and try to understand him. Scary that he wanted it, even more. Scary that after all this time, at the most tumultuous time and as he was in the right path to his goals, he felt the need for something so deep. Scary that it could lead him away from said path.

Who was even that reckless to try any of it though? Who could so carelessly approach him and-

“Nothing.” the question answered itself “It's just amusing how... strange it sounds to hear someone ask me if I wanna talk about what troubles me, after all this time. But-” he said as fast as he could, the second he saw you frown in worry “We have plenty of time to talk about that and I promise we will. Later. For now-” he grinned, leaning back in his seat “Seeing an angel's true form huh? That's quiet reckless, you know. If not stupid and careless...”

“Yeah, I know, I was just throwing out the idea that I might-”

“But also fun.” he added before you could get to complete your sentence, enjoying the way that after your frown a smile light up your face once he added with a smirk “Want any help with that?”

[thefanficmonster]

Phone Call Anxiety

Corpse Husband x Reader (Female)

Warnings: None

Genre: FLUFF, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: When wanting to make quality merch, one needs a quality team there to produce and work on quality ideas. Great minds think alike. Great eyes see alike and great hands make alike - the three keys to the formula of creating a clothing line that will be fashionable and up to his brand. Luckily, Corpse knows just who to call.

Requested by Anon. Hi hun! Thank you so much for your wonderful request, I absolutely loved the idea! Sorry you’ve had to wait for it to be turned into a fic for so long, but I still hope you come across it and give it a read in which case I hope you enjoy it! Love, Vy ❤

He’s not a fan of phone calls. Anyone who knows him even remotely is very well informed on Corpse’s distaste for phone calls and upholding a conversation over the phone. He’d even go as far as to say talking to a person face to face is less stressful for him than that previous option.

But still, seeing as how the person he’s trying to reach lives in a different state and is rather busy all the time, arranging an IRL meeting is basically impossible at the moment, and sending her a text results in running the risk of having the text overlooked or completely lost in the sea of notifications she probably gets on the daily.

Therefore, a phone call was his only proper way of reaching her. And it’s what’s got him pacing the room with his nervousness peaking.  He doesn’t know anything about this girl, nothing concrete at least. He was referred to her by Jack who brought her up in their passing conversation when Corpse mentioned how paranoid he was regarding his upcoming merch project. He specifically stated he doesn’t want anything basic and he wants the clothes to be fashionable, suitable for anyone no matter the age or gender and to be endurable. With all the love he has for his fans, he doesn’t want to give them anything less than what they deserve - the best.

“My friend’s the person you’re looking for.“ Jack said enthusiastically and confidently, “She helped me design the latest merch line I put out and I’ve never been more satisfied with my own merch. I’m planning on offering her a position in Cloak for her birthday. Make sure not to let that one slip out if you give her a call though.“ He warned half-jokingly. 

Bottom line, with that kind of intro, Corpse couldn’t help but let his interest be piqued. And so, he asked for this girl - Y/N’s contact info from Jack before he went to surf through her social media where she thankfully posted plenty of pictures of her creations, never failing to mention specifications in the caption of each picture so the viewers would get the perfect and most detailed idea of how high the standard for her work is.

And so he’s finally managed to talk himself into dialing her number that’s been sitting in his phone for weeks now. As he paces his living room, his nerves chewing him out like a dog would with a toy, listening to the ear piercing ring of the dial waiting to get picked up by the girl he’s trying to reach. 

Just then, Corpse’s head turns so that his eyes meet the glowing red numbers on his digital clock on his desk and he damn near hangs up the call right away - it’s half an hour past midnight. Fast as lightning, he removes the phone from his ear, his thumb flying over to press the red ‘end call’ button. Just then, a faint ‘hello’ reaches his ears, coming from the phone’s speaker. She’s answered the call.

He hurries to put the phone back up to his ear.

“Hey, sorry for taking so long to pick up, I ought to clean my desk eventually cause my phone was literally BURIED under a pile of papers.“ A cheerful sing-song voice rattles his stale and sleep deprived consciousness, as if awakening him from a half-dream state. “You’re either a wrong number caller or a last minute client, aren’t you? Need something done urgently?“

Corpse is taken the hell aback by her strong and downright awing first impression. Not to mention her energy at an hour unsuitable for calls. Lord knows he wouldn’t have picked up if her were in her spot. With the intention of not wasting any more of her time than necessary, he hurries to explain his situation. “Y/N, right? Um no, I’m neither actually. I was told about you by a friend, he said you were a real miracle-doer with fashion design.” He trails off for a second, not completely sure of how to hold this conversation, “Uh, sorry for the odd timed call, I lost track of time. I’ve been meaning to call you for hours now but I...I was nervous.” He cringes the second the word leaves his lips, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He doesn’t know why he wants to leave her with a great, better than realistic impression of himself but he does and as of now he deems his attempts as ultimate failures.

He hears her giggle from her end, rifling through what sounds to be papers, “Yeah, I’m her. And boy is it refreshing to get someone who’s calling with an actual purpose.” She sighs as if a weight’s been lifted off her shoulders, “And don’t worry about the phone call anxiety. Makes two of us, to be honest.”

This catches him off-guard. The last thing he’d expect is for this girl to have phone call anxiety. In fact, she appears to be a natural, God-given talent at carrying conversations and upholding chit-chat with people. Maybe he’s a little too quick to judge - probably, considering he’s ‘known’ her for less than five minutes and knows nothing but her occupation, her name and the state she lives in - but that bubbly persona she greeted him with gave off the impression that it’s immune to any and all kinds of social anxiety - or anxiety in general. To hear such an honest and counter-to-assumptions confession on her part rattles him a tiny bit. In a good way though.

“How does that work for you? Isn’t your whole job depending on your phone conversational skills?“ He doesn’t mind that he didn’t phrase that too perfectly or that he straight up blurted it out. He knows he’ll be understood. She’s obviously a person who understands. Not just something specific, but everything. She simply understands. How he drew this conclusion and how accurate it is, he may not know until further notice.

“Well...“ she sighs as if genuinely looking to give him a proper answer, “You see, after doing it for so long and having been caught off guard quite a few times with some absolutely absurd orders, I’ve grown prepared of literally ANYTHING and I have a line prepared for anything the caller has to say. I just no longer let them catch me off guard and it’s fine. Helps avoid any possible awkward silences.“

Corpse’s eyebrows shoot up, her explanation only raising more questions rather than providing answers. But he’s not gonna be the annoying dumbass asking those questions at close to 1AM and bugging her. After all, if she agrees to this partnership, they’ll be hearing and potentially seeing a lot more of each other soon. “Impressive, honestly. You’re gonna need to teach me sometime.“ He’s unaware he’s smiling until he catches his reflection in the window. However, he doesn’t bother hiding it. This conversation is actually making him feel good, serving as a reminder that he’s not the only one who periodically goes through turmoil over small things. 

She giggles again, this time the sound manages to draw a blush out of him, coating his cheeks, “I’d typically stray for revealing my secrets to professional success, but I’m willing to make an exception for you...” she pauses for a second as though she’s just now remembered something, “Oh shoot, I don’t even know your name.”

He wheezes out a nervous laugh, realizing he never introduced him, “Oh yeah, sorry, that’s my bad. My name’s Corpse, nice to meet ya.”

“Nice to meet you too, Corpse.“ Y/N replies, sounding pleased but teasing simultaneously, “Now tell me, you didn’t call me about my phone call secrets, did you? What may be the real purpose of your call?“

Oh shoot, he himself almost forgot what he was calling for. Luckily, the reference designs displayed on his computer screen remind him. “Right, well, I’ve been thinking of launching a new merch line either this month or the next, depending on how long the procedure will take, and I needed someone great on my team to make some merch actually worth the money people are paying for it. And, as I said, I was told you were in that ‘someone great’ category.”

“Told by who, if you don’t mind me asking?“ She briefly cuts him off, her voice now giving away the fact that she’s half-absent-minded in this conversation, added evidence be the ruffling of more papers on her end.

“Jack. I mean, Sean. You know, Jacksepticeye.“ Corpse explains, contemplating whether he should’ve ratted Jack out like that. Hearing the sound of delight Y/N lets out eases his worries ASAP though.

“Oh Gosh, I haven’t seen that cutie in so long! He’s like a brother to me so a friend of Jack’s is a friend of min-“ this time she cuts herself off so abruptly Corpse thought the line was cut or she hung up on him. She doesn’t let him wonder for long though, “Wait, wait, wait....Merch? And you’re friends with Jack?“ She pauses for a second once again, once again not a long enough second for Corpse to speak up. “You’re a famous YouTuber, aren’t you?“

He was completely unaware of the fact Y/N hadn’t realized he was someone famous yet. In fact, he didn’t think of it because he thought it wouldn’t be a big deal to her considering she’s friends with Jack-fucking-septiceye! In his mind, his ranking is far lower than Jack’s - despite that mindset being absurd - so the last thing he expected was for her to have some sort of impressed reaction to have been talking to him on the phone this whole time. Hell, she doesn’t even know his full YouTube name or what kind of content he produces.

“WAIT!“ She shouts urgently, startling him a tiny bit, “You’re Corpse Husband, aren’t you? Oh my God, yes you are, how didn’t I put it together sooner? Ah crap, I really need more coffee for this.“

“No! No, you need more sleep.“ Corpse hurries to correct her but is very clearly ignored or overlapped with the many sounds that are coming from her end, “What are you doing?“

“You’re getting the first rough sketch of a design by tomorrow morning.“ She says, taking a sip of whatever beverage she’s acquired for the purpose of keeping her awake, “You go ahead and get some sleep, I know exactly what I’m doing. Don’t worry about it.“

“I’m not worried about the design.“ He hurries to say before she, God forbid, hangs up on him, “It’s 1AM, woman, you need sleep! I don’t need those designs done by tomorrow. Hell, I don’t even need them this week!“

“You don’t, but I do.“ Y/N says, sounding almost breathless because of what seems to be overwhelming excitement, “You don’t get it - I’m designing merch for Corpse fucking Husband! You have any idea how crazy that is?“

“I personally would say it’s underwhelming. I mean, I’m no Pewdiepie, after all.“ He says, now sat at his desk with his free hand rubbing his temple as he stares at the designs he’s pulled up on his screen, ones he probably won’t need given that he’s now working with a professional.

“Oh, shut it.“ She chuckles, “Shut it and get some sleep, ok? I’ll talk to you in the morning.“

“Noooo...“ He leisurely stretches the word, “Tell me, Y/N, do you have Discord?” She clicks her tongue instantly, giving him a signal that the question he’s asked is bordering into the territory of ridiculous. He playfully rolls his eyes, “Alright then, lemme find you. If we’re partnering up on this, we’re both staying up.”

“You know you can just straight up tell me you don’t fully trust me with this? Like, I won’t be offended, I get it.“ She murmurs in-thought, the sound of clicking evident on her end. 

“You know you can just straight up tell me you don’t want me bothering you and want me to leave you alone?“ He mimics her statement, smirking to himself as he pulls up Discord, knowing he’s already won.

She huffs and tells him her Discord info, quickly adding a small comment, “...but only because great minds think alike. I know we’ll be getting along on this design pretty nicely.”

“Yeah, yeah, right, sure, whatever you say.“ He laughs, “Accept my friend request and let’s drop this phone call.“

“Hey! - um, before we do that, I just wanna say a quick thank you.“ Y/N murmurs quietly, as if half-hoping he doesn’t hear her.

“For what?“ Corpse asks, his brows furrowing, unsure if they’re on the same page about this gratitude.

“For never once triggering my phone call anxiety.“ She admits, “I mean, I know I said I have lines prepared for every conversation scenario possible, but you totally caught me off-guard.“ She giggles a tiny bit, now sounding dangerously close to nervous, “But, not in a bad way, if that makes sense. Sorry if it doesn’t, I need more coffee.“

“No, no, it does!“ He hurries to reassure her, “It really does. And thank you too. Thank you for, you know, tolerating my BS at this hour. God knows I would’ve ignored your call if our roles were reversed.“

He hears her scoff and can’t help but laugh, “Huh ok, I see.“ She says, sounding greatly triggered and mock-pissed at his confession, “I’ll make sure to think of that next time you call me after midnight. Or at all, ever.“

Laughing his butt off, the only thing Corpse can think of in this moment is:

Damn, this girl and I are gonna get along

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[just2bubbly]

Sometimes Love Stays

Masterlist

TLC Ship Week 2021!

*written for tlcshipweek2021- kaider for the prompt 'In another life'

@kaiderforever

Summary

"Hmm.."

"Do you?"

"Wish you happiness? Yeah, Kai, I do- with all my heart."

"I wish you were happiness!"

Sometimes love becomes stronger overcoming the obstacles thrown along your path, but when the obstacles never end and you become tired enough to want to stop, will 'Love' help overcome the new problem or would it be succumbed to obstacle?

When their future doesn't play out as they want to, will they dare to take a chance or lose everything without trying?

Reading an article, Cinder is thrown back into the past, trying to figure out if the choices she made were right.

A look at Kai and Cinder's relationship through newspaper article fragments.

--

Ship: Kaider

Words: 3.2k

Genre: Angst

Prompt: 'In Another Life'

Note: A Canon Divergence AU from Winter- major character/ relationship reflection. Bold contexts are newspaper articles!

Cinder's Perspective:

"Sometimes love stays."

The article read and Cinder could not bring it upon herself to understand the implications of those three words. She considered it was the most preposterous sentence to start a piece of news informing about a break-up. Her mind could only fathom that a hopeless romantic had written this article, one who most certainly believed in unrequited love and stuff- That she could be sure from the very first line. "Many times love seems to not reside in a relationship as the lovers struggle to continue to live together after years of togetherness, but this does not appear to be the case in the infamous royal courtship that lasted for over 10 years but was suddenly called off 2 years ago- Yes, we are talking about no one but The Emperor of Eastern Commonwealth and The Queen of Luna- " Cinder seemed to convince herself that she was only reading it because it was the most trending news on Earth. Yet it was no new news to her or even anyone on Earth and the saint forsaken rock Luna as well. The article had become famous only for its illustrating language and artistic words that seemed to give the entire ordeal a new look. Hence, after having ignored, overlooked and unseen the article, its rumours and the stink eye that her aristocrats sent along her way. She finally decided to read it and fucking get over it- just like she got over him. It was fucking simple until it was not. "The infamous break-up of The Emperor of EC and the Queen of Luna happens to be no news to us. It has been two years since the two royals called off their relationship in the name of diplomatic and personal reasons. However, it appears that the years apart have done no good to their awkward and unresolved heartfelt tension." She wondered which newbie journalist had decided to write about this- about them, the two lovers madly in love with each other, stubborn enough to put others above themselves and naive enough to let it all go. She could feel her body going stiff as she tried to muster up the courage to continue reading. Her mind going numb just like it always did when thoughts of Kai resurfaced. The memories and the murmurs, their banters, his adoration all seemed to drown her with misery- one where she could not shed a single tear but only carry the overwhelming weight of the past of what they had- of what they had lost. It had been good- going at first with the frequent comms in their free time, flying kisses from literally two different worlds, exchanging gifts thanks to the Rampion, jumping at the first chance to meet each other. They were happy and yet they were not. With near to 10 years into being the Queen of Luna, she had thought that maybe she had given her bit to the moon, and now she could step down from her role and convert Luna into a republican state. She had planned her future, their future, the future of thousands of people and had acted accordingly to liberate Luna from the clutches of a single person, forgetting about what the people would have to say about it? Apparently, Lunars loved royalty more than equal representation! Consequently, when she had put the matters of 'abolition of monarchy' to vote she had been made a fool in her own court with the outcome - her vote against all of them. When she had demanded an explanation out of Iko for such a bizarre scenario. She had acknowledged, "They seem to like you as their Queen. It is clear they don't want you to step down!?" "But what about equal representation?" "Cinder you are already giving it to them!" "And what about the aristocrats- Don't they want more say in the administration?" "They do want it but not with the responsibility. Thus they have started preaching about royalty and stuff..." she trailed. Dumbstruck, she had thought how can one gift someone freedom when they don't want it? That's where things started looking down. This made all her plans go downhill. Because hadn't she planned that she would step down, abolish the monarchy and turn it into a Republican government? Hadn't she decided she would be free to live her own life on Earth?

Hadn't she wondered how she would travel with Thorne on Rampion- be truly free for once in her life before having to settle down? Before having to go to New Beijing.

Hadn't they planned that they would stay together- and with every passing day weren't they coming near to achieving their intention to constantly stay together and make up for all the physical affection they had been deprived of over the years? Wasn't it what their future was going to be off? With this new hurdle, plans had to be changed and when she had mentioned this to Kai, he was grief-stricken. Even then, they came up with alternatives, for at that time it was clear- they wanted to spend the rest of their together. They had discussed spending their time between Earth and Luna, tackling the barriers of distance and royalty. It's not like they did not try, it's just that every time they strived harder to stay together- fate made it impossible to. A year later, the realization dawned upon her. It had really taken a long time but it had finally crashed- the full reality of their long-distance engagement relationship, that maybe it was taking a toll on them. That maybe they would not survive through all the distance separating them. She had been avoiding thinking about it lately but she knew even if they tried it was not going to work out, that sooner or later they would have to call it off. 'Call what off?' She had asked herself, wondering how things were going to change. 'All of it' a tiny voice in her mind replied. The engagement, the relationship. Everything. That night she decided against comming Kai, instead, she confronted Iko speaking of her troubling thoughts aloud and from the dark blue, somewhat grey colours of her eyes, Cinder understood how truly sorry she was.

She sat in the arms of Iko, wanting to whine, yell and cry. However, the cruel fate left her with a throbbing sensation in her head and an itchy feeling in the throat. She wanted to see Kai, but she had not the heart to tell him the truth. She presumed he already knew what was troubling her- troubling them. She had not the courage to see the sorrow on his face, so she pretended that everything was fine even when it was not. She smiled and teased him at all the opportunities she could possibly get knowing very well that one day that they would have to stop. One day he would have someone else do that to him. Therefore the next time she had gone on Earth she had confessed it to him. He had listened patiently without a word and had calmly accepted it. The unforgettable silence that followed would haunt Cinder forever. She thought they had fooled themselves enough trying to make the impossible happen, justifying their actions as a result of love. In the end, he had sighed, tears reflecting in his copper-brown orbs and croaked, "I guess this is the end?" She had nodded failing to meet his eyes. "Sorry, Kai", she had uttered, feeling every ounce guilty and sorrowful. They had stood like that for a long time, feet shuffling- gazes never meeting each other until he was called. He did not shed a single tear before her. On her last night at the Palace, she felt a sort of Deja-Vu for all the things around her. Her thoughts roamed around only a single thing- 'After today, this place would no longer be home'. He had come to her room that night and once they had gotten over the awkward small talk of the breakup, he had launched at her and hugged her till her bones crushed. "I love you," he whimpered. "Don't forget it- don't forget it, Cinder. Even when you go to that fucking rock in the sky." And Cinder could feel something warm- not inside her but on her shoulders.

Kai's tears had been falling on her shoulders and she had chanted sorry all the time they stayed like that.

'What do you do to calm two heartbroken souls?'

He was in her arms hearing her speak, though her words were not soothing, they did not reduce his grief like they ought to. They were bitter truth of their future, their fate. They were apologies for what they had lost. Her words were not comforting. She was not going to tell him how they will be fine when she knew they would not. There was no point lying- telling him nicely painted lies of their future when their present was broken like that. She had no idea how but they fell asleep together, a mess of tumbled limbs on the carpet for the last time. And when the streaks of sunlight fell over their sleeping forms, it was not out of hope.

"It seems that it's over for the two royals, one of them the Queen of Luna and the other The Emperor of Eastern Commonwealth. Queen Selene, 26 and Emperor Kaito, 28 called off their relationship yesterday. Emperor Kaito in his latest press speech stated that "Myself and Queen Selene are no longer together- we have parted ways on good terms. However, we are no longer involved," when one of the reporters asked if there was any wedding to be expected soon. The Queen of Luna also addressed this in one of her official posts, saying "It's been great 10 years with Kai but we can no longer stay together," with a bittersweet smile. The two refuse to brief about this. It just seems like just yesterday they were THE happier and attractive couple dancing at the Annual Peace Ball and -well now they are not, we are sure their fans all around must be heartbroken but worry not you can catch up on their relationship through the years-" Two months later, they formally announced their break-up. They called off everything- all of it just like she had thought. The world did not know- they did not know how Kai had gone down on his knees and she had said yes before he could even ask. How she had pieces of her never- going to happen wedding vows drafted somewhere in her brain. It was only them, Torin, Iko and their friends who knew the disaster of grief they had unrolled in their life. He had refused to take the ring back, "Keep it to remember me by." He had insisted and she had not-so jokingly replied, "I don't need jewels to remember you by." Returning to Luna had been the harder task, She-They had cut off all ties except maybe friendship (?) but things were going to be different- they are different.

It felt hollow for months later, she drowned herself in work to forget about the messy-haired boy, to forget that there was no one waiting for her comms now, that she did not have someone to whisper 'I love you's too', to kiss him and be found by someone, no reason for Thorne to shout 'Get a room.'

She had for the first few days been hopeless- locking herself up, both metaphorically and literally only to realize that Kai had been an integral part of her daily schedule and world even from thousands of miles away. The breaks that she once looked forward too, taunted her of what she had lost- so she was hell-bent on working the day without breaks. She forced her mind to not stray around to the boy on Earth. The only moment she had let her guard down was when Thorne was visiting- because he was her BFF and wasn't he the one who teased her all along about Kai and his heavenly copper-brown eyes? Wasn't he going to be her rock where she had lost her anchor? At the sight of his friend's dark circles, thinner than the usual frame, Thorne and Cress had bear-hugged her and the only thing that she felt was it felt good to be embraced by someone other than Iko. 'I'm so sorry, Cinder', Thorne had said and she had croaked, "Don't be sorry." She had cracked that day.

"I DON'T WANT PITY THORNE, I DON'T WANT TO HEAR HOW PEOPLE THOUGHT WE WOULD GET MARRIED AND LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER. I DON'T WANT THE MEDIA TO TELL ME HOW WE LOOKED GOOD TOGETHER. I FUCKING HATE LUNARS TELLING ME THAT THEY HOPE I FEEL BETTER. AM I NOT IN THIS CONDITION BECAUSE THEY CHOOSE TO BE SELFISH? THORNE, I WANT TO CRY AND MY STUPID CYBERNETICS WOULD NOT EVEN ALLOW BE TO CRY FOR MY EX-FIANCEE." She might have been a bit tipsy to blow up like that but she was past caring. She had been pretending that everything was fine while she was falling apart inside. "What sort of cruel joke is this? Haven't I already endured enough? I don't want anyone's fucking apologies. I don't want that crap, I- I want K-Kai."

She yelled as her face echoed pain. "Do I not deserve love, Thorne?" She had demanded, looking very vulnerable. She never said a word after that. The next big blow came when she had attended the world leader summit. Thankfully, it was a virtual thing or she could not have gone through the entire ceremony without a mental breakdown. She had felt the air knock out of her lungs at the sight of Kai after six whole months. He looked paler than normal, his always messed up hair looked neatly fixed in place with layers of hair gel. And his ever blinding grin present at even stupid meetings like this was now merely his lips pressed together in a thin line.

How was Kai who was her joy in human form suddenly became the picture of grief? She wondered how she looked to him if even he was out of breath at the sight of her- realizing how she was drifting away from the main reason she was attending the summit, she forced herself to look at anywhere but him. That night she slept thinking about how she was not the only one suffering. "-The Emperor of EC starts a new journey in his life at 30. However, there are no wedding bells in the air as of now, making the world and the EC anticipate the future of their Emperor and their nation. At 30, the Emperor not committed to anyone nor having any living heir had caused multiple questions to be unanswered about the legacy after him. Hopefully, he will find his partner to secure their future until then we wish him a Very Happy Birthday!" Marriage. Wedding. Love. Hadn't it been what they had lost? She knew this was going to happen. Then why did she feel like drowning all over again? Why did her heart shatter yet again? He was no longer hers to worry about...Was he even part of her world anymore? She knew it very well that he was supposed to marry someone. He must marry someone and have an heir to the Commonwealth. Cinder was asked to do the very same thing. They were monarchs who had to keep their legacies alive. The next time she was invited for the Annual Peace Ball, Kai had cornered and said, "They want me to get married." "Tell me you are saying this because you want the ring back." She had jokingly said, swallowing the sadness and jealously that threatened to submerge her. Her mind asked if he would go down on his knees at the Ball just like he had done for Levana. But that was just her stupidity, misery and desperation mixed together. How was her tyrant aunt going to manage her marriage with Kai by living on Luna along with her sinister motives?! "Cinder" "Kai", she pleaded, underlying the please without saying it. She averted her eyes and nonchalantly asked," Have someone in mind?" "No", he replied without a beat, making her at ease but what he said next crushed her healing heart again. "But I have someone in my heart." She could not stand around him without wanting to kiss him senseless. Therefore, she said, "I wish you happiness, Kai." And tried to walk away until he questioned, "Do you?" "Hmm.." she replied, looking back at him. "Do you?" He repeated. "Wish you happiness? Yeah, Kai, I do- with all my heart." "I wish you were happiness!" Looking at his lean frame dressed in the colours of EC she dared to speak, "I wish that too." She had not returned after that episode but maybe she would have to. Soon. "The Emperor has been sighted with Chen Daiyu, daughter of Chen Zian, the Chief Commandant of Light Chariot, she is an activist working towards the liberation of perils faced by cyborgs in modern society, along with being a psychotherapist by service. It's not the first time that they have been seen together making people hope that it's not the last. There are rumours about their courting with no confirmation from any one of the two-It appears the Emperor has finally moved on from his last date with Queen Selene. Only time will tell if the Emperor has found his Empress or not." She could not blame anyone. They were just pressing time trying to avoid some inescapable future- yet why did her mind ask if he had learned Chen Daiyu's favourite flowers? or Did he hold her as he had held her once? Wondered if he explained to her why there was a cyborg's foot in his room? She was cursing goddamn every star because it was not just him but even she was looking into suitors!? She had gone on dates with a few, noticing how one of them grinned like Kai with a dimple on his left cheek, how someone scratched their necks when they were flustered or how some of them had a struggle keeping their hair in place- without wanting to she was searching for Kai everywhere in them. None of the two was married yet. It was okay to imagine about him for a while. It was okay for grief to overwhelm her. Maybe that's what she needed to

move on from her past.

Had they moved on? Had they stopped loving each other? 'NO!'- she shook her head violently to no one in particular.

She loved him even now. There will always be some part of her mind that will love him. Maybe it was treasuring their memories while making new ones. Two years later reading an article about them, she thought if maybe she had tried harder, would they be together? Alas, there was no point fantasizing when both time and distance had separated them? Could they start from where they had left? Or would they be two broken pieces no longer fitting?

"Sometimes love stays," The article read again. "But lover's don't." Maybe if distance, time and qualms of royalty were not preventing them then things could have been different, their lives could have been different. Perhaps in a life with different circumstances, they would have been together unlike this one- where they had briefly touched, in another life possibly their tale could have had a happy ending. Maybe if she was Cinder and not Queen Selene Channary Jannali Blackburn of Luna, and if he was just Kai and not Emperor Kaito of the Eastern Commonwealth then they would have made it till the end.

But they were not and that's what mattered. __

A/N: We are done! :)

I know you would likely want to hit me right now since I promised certain someone that there would be no angsty fics for at least a few months and yet HERE I AM!

I have kinda portrayed Iko in this really bad, so sorry about that! And you have no idea how much frustrated I was that Cinder could not cry, like crying is such a essential part of human behavior and having to describe her grief without tears was certainly a challenge. I hope I did her character well- You guys have no idea how much break-up articles I have read just to get the news articles right. I might as well do a course on journalism later ;)

Was that a bit too much angst? and yeah in this fic they are secretly engaged!

This was written for the TLC Ship Week, the word prompt for this one was 'In Another Life'. However, I had already planned it beforehand with no idea of  how the ship-week was going to give me the perfect opportunity to post this. I know I'm cruel right?

This idea had been going a lot in my mind since I made @salt-warrior write her fic 'Anyone Else', and read the fic 'After' on AO3, along with 'Once' by @/betaluz. I just thought that maybe Cinder failed to get past the boundaries of royalty on Luna and converting it into a Republican, wondering if that happened what would happen to her relationship with Kai. Hence, this sudden angsty take.

Tell me which is your favorite part from this?

And don't worry I have more angst lined up for you! <3

Taglist: @cinderswrench @gingerale2017 @linhcinder686 @shellyseashell @ladyvesuvia @shelbylmkaider @levanariddle @cindersassasin @kaider-is-my-otp (Tell me if you wanna be added/removed)

[today-only-happens-once]

clarity

Word count: 5463

Summary:  Hakoda had been hearing rumors about the Fire Lord's son for years. That doesn't mean he is ready when the truth finally comes to light... especially when the truth only confirms the worst. Companion piece to “out of focus” but can be read separately. 

Warnings: injury/burns, angst, some mentions of trauma and PTSD, canonical child abuse/mutilation, Sokka gets angry protective and yells a little, blink-and-you-miss-it mention of nausea, please let me know if I missed anything. 

A/N: Turns out, I really wanted to explore Hakoda’s POV of the events in “out of focus”. So much so that not only did I write this, but’s longer than the original. Woops. Hope you enjoy it!

Read on AO3.

...

His son is good at many things, Hakoda thinks, but his poker face is not one of them. 

He’d had never been particularly good at it, if Hakoda is being honest. He’d usually been able to tell with one glance when Sokka was at fault for something breaking and would blame Katara, and Kya had been even better at reading the micro-expressions of their son. Sokka is older now—and in more ways that Hakoda is comfortable with, he carries those extra years around like a weight on his shoulders—but he still hasn’t quite mastered the art of subtlety. It was something he’d need to work on if he wanted to be chief of the Southern Water Tribe one day. 

Sokka shifts in his seat across from him, his brows pinched slightly in evident annoyance. Hakoda sees the shared glance between his son and the Fire Lord. Zuko’s mouth twitches in something like amusement. 

“I want immediate release of all war prisoners,” the Earth Kingdom ambassador, Bashi, beside Sokka demands.

Hakoda inclines his head. “I second that. I have men in those prisons that haven’t seen their family in a decade.”

Hakoda couldn’t imagine what that would be like. Two years apart from his children had caused him to feel like he’d already missed out on so much of their lives. The idea of going five times that without any news from the outside… Suffice it to say that Hakoda did not envy those men.

“Of course,” the Fire Lord says, but his voice is nearly swallowed by the loud demand down the table, “Absolutely not!”

The hard glare that Fire Lord Zuko sends down the table at the Fire Nation Admiral makes Hakoda grateful that he is not on the receiving end of it. “Admiral, people who were arrested as prisoners of war have no need to remain so after the war has ended.” Zuko meets Hakoda’s gaze, the heat in his glare lifting at the redirection of attention. “I’ll draft that mandate tonight and will ensure its circulation as soon as possible.”

The Fire Lord—dressed in the traditional royal robes and his hair pulled into a top knot—is a stark contrast to the first time Hakoda had met him back in Boiling Rock. At the time, Zuko had been Fire Nation public enemy number 2 behind Aang. The tattered red tunic of Fire Nation prison uniforms had hung off his thin, borderline-malnourished frame. He looks better now, a little. Zuko is still lean, but not quite as gaunt as he’d looked in the Fire Nation prison. Hakoda’s biggest concern when it came to the Fire Lord’s well-being these days was the dark circles around his eyes that, though he tries to hide it, indicate too many sleepless nights.

“This is an outrage!” The admiral slams his fist against the table, leaping to his feet.

Hakoda feels his jaw clench in frustration. He has little patience for men who try to assert themselves through aggression and yelling rather than calm rationality. Even so, it doesn’t surprise him, exactly. Hakoda had been around long enough to know that Fire Nation men had long been taught there was power through anger, and to wield it as they see fit.

Zuko rises to meet his feet, slowly and deliberately. “Admiral--”

“Where is the justice for the Fire Nation families whose sons and daughters were slaughtered by those criminals?”

Hakoda presses his hands together to keep them from curling into fists. Did the Admiral not realize just how many Fire Nation soldiers walked free after slaughtering  innocent people, let alone soldiers? Even the person who killed Kya--

“Admiral.”

“I remember a time when you cared about Fire Nation soldiers! And it’s hard to believe you’ve forgotten, seeing as you ought to be reminded every time you so much as look in the mirror--”

Hakoda frowns. The comment rings vague bells in his head, though he can’t remember why…

“Enough!” Zuko snaps sharply. “You will watch your tongue or you will be escorted out. You approach insubordination.”

“You are a child,” the admiral says, spitting the word child like it disgusts him, “though one that ought to know a thing or two about insubordination, given your father’s attempts to brand you with a permanent reminder of its consequences--”

“Warriors!”

“Then again, he always was twice the leader you never will be. Long live the Phoenix King!” 

Sokka is suddenly on his feet. “Zuko—!”

“Sokka—!”

Hakoda leaps up just as the admiral punches a fireball at the space between his son and the Fire Lord. His heart jumps to his throat, but Zuko is fast. He shoves Sokka’s shoulder down with one hand and dispels the fireball with the other. Hakoda leaps over his chair as he sees the glint of his son’s boomerang hook through the air. 

The admiral’s gaze locks onto him for a moment and Hakoda instinctively ducks, diving underneath a bolt of scorching flames. He feels the ground tremble, hears the roar of dying flames above him. Hakoda risks a glance towards his son just in time to see Zuko step in front of him, bending the burst of flames to split on either side of them, rather than hit Sokka straight on. 

The door ricochets open. Two Kyoshi Warriors spill into the room, and in a flurry of quick strikes, the admiral drops to the floor. Limp.

Bashi unbinds his feet with the bending from earlier—it’s only now that Hakoda realizes that tremble in the ground a moment ago had been earthbending—and the admiral hurls insults at Zuko as he’s dragged unceremoniously through the doors. 

The silence that follows echoes in the room. 

Hakoda takes a quick, calculating sweep of the room. Kovrik, the Northern Water Tribe ambassador, is wide-eyed but appears unharmed. Bashi is panting but standing upright. Sokka is hidden behind Zuko who shifts awkwardly in the silence.

He clears his throat. “Apologies for the, uh, disruption. It won’t happen again.” He looks, for all the world, genuinely apologetic. Embarrassed, even.

Which is foolish, Hakoda thinks. Zuko couldn’t reasonably be expected to have weeded out all of the Ozai sympathizers in a month. Ozai may have been one person but there was an entire ideology and system that allowed his tyranny in the first place. A sixteen-year-old couldn’t be asked to single-handedly dismantle it all, and certainly not so quickly. 

“It’s not your fault, Fire Lord Zuko,” he tells him. 

“I appreciate that, Chief Hakoda,” Zuko says. Behind him, Sokka sucks in a breath through his teeth and Hakoda feels his chest twinge in concern. He had fought in a war long enough to hear the pain laced through the noise. Zuko turns around to look at him, then turns back around sharply to address the room. “We will adjourn the meeting for today. We will reconvene tomorrow.”

Zuko hides it well, Hakoda thinks, but there’s an urgency to his words hidden behind a carefully constructed mask of stoicism that leaves no room for doubt in Hakoda’s mind. Sokka is hurt.

“But Fire Lord Zuko—”

“I think we could all use a breather, Kovrik,” Hakoda jumps in, not eager for another argument to break out. “Coming back tomorrow with a clear head is a good decision.” Besides, the sooner he can clear the room of other people, the sooner he could check on Sokka who Zuko was—almost protectively—keeping from view. 

“Yes,” Kovrick acquiesces, though Hakoda can tell he’s still not pleased. “Yes, I suppose that’s fair.”

Zuko nods his appreciation. Kovrik, Bashi, and the few other dignitaries that had been in the room bustle out the door. Hakoda waits until it’s latched shut behind them before he turns his full attention towards his son. Zuko has already turned his full attention to him, saying something in a low voice. 

Hakoda can sees the clench of his son’s jaw and the slight wince as he places his hand in Zuko’s. Hakoda steps up behind the Fire Lord, peering over his shoulder. His chest tightens a little in sympathy when he sees the blistering, angry red skin on the back of his son’s hand.

“Do you have anything that can help?” he asks of the Fire Lord, frowning. He thinks briefly of calling Kovrik back in before he remembers that the Northern Water Tribe’s men, even when benders, didn’t typically learn its healing abilities. 

“Yes, sir,” Zuko replies, not taking his gaze from Sokka’s hand as if he could heal it by staring at it hard enough. “Though it’s not quite as immediate as waterbending healers. But it should help with the pain and prevent infection. Follow me.”

Hakoda follows as Zuko guides Sokka by the elbow out the door of the meeting room and through a network of hallways. There’s something almost jarring about it to Hakoda. The image of the Fire Lord leading his Water Tribe son through the palace to get him help, rather than as a prisoner, has a part of Hakoda’s mind reeling. Sokka’s blue clothing stands out against the dark reds and blacks that adorn the walls and pillars around them.

How quickly times had changed.

Hakoda thinks back to the conversation in the meeting a few moments ago as he watches the back of Zuko’s head, moving quickly down the corridor with Sokka in tow. Rumors and propaganda about the Fire Nation, and especially about its leader, flew quickly amongst the ranks of soldiers in the war. It had been difficult to know fact from fiction, especially as it related to the royal family. 

A year ago—the memory comes crystal clear to Hakoda now—one of the men on his crew named Horrak had told him what he’d been certain was an exaggerated, hyperbolic story. Something about the Fire Lord and his thirteen-year-old son. On Tui and La, I swear it’s true. Heard it from the mouth of a Fire Nation soldier myself who was actually there.

He’s a tyrant and cruel, Hakoda had said, rolling his eyes because the idea was just… incomprehensible, but there’s no way Ozai would do that to his own flesh and blood. He’s too proud of his bloodline anyway. 

Zuko glances over his shoulder at Sokka, and Hakoda sees the angry scar across half of his face. The words of the admiral in the meeting whisper in the back of Hakoda’s mind in a way that makes his stomach turn. Your father’s attempts to brand you… Hakoda had thought that surely, surely, even Ozai had a line in the sand when it came to his own family. 

He’s less confident of that now.

Zuko says something to two of the guards stationed at the set of double doors that Hakoda doesn’t quite catch, and then slips through the door. Hakoda follows close behind. 

“Wait here,” Zuko says, and then vanishes through a door on the far side of the room.

Hakoda glances around the room. It was a bedroom, but Hakoda had a hard time believing it was Zuko’s. It seemed too simple of a room to belong to the Fire Lord. Then again, Zuko had been full of surprises from the very first time Hakoda had met him. 

He looks to his son, noticing the tight grimace to his face and the very slight sway and grabs the chair beside the bed to get his son to sit before he falls face first into the floor. 

“You had good reflexes in there,” Hakoda says. He’d dealt enough with injured Water Tribesmen to know that distraction was usually the best way to help them deal with the pain of a burn. He had no doubt that his son was no exception to that. 

“Lots of practice,” Sokka replies, obediently taking a seat. He hisses out another breath as his grip around the arms of the chair stretches the skin across the back of his hand. He swears under his breath.

“Easy,” Hakoda says softly, bracing a hand on his son’s back. 

The comment from his son makes his chest twist, but he can’t very well deny it. His son had seen more combat in the past year than he’d hoped he’d have to in his lifetime. Hakoda knows that it was an unreasonable expectation for his son to somehow be the exception to generations of pain. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Sokka would be able to handle the fight—Sokka always been able to hold his own—but could you blame a father for wanting to spare his son the experience of waking up from nightmares, haunted by the people he couldn’t save?

Hakoda dealt with that enough for the both of them.

“Wish Katara was here,” Sokka says. 

“I know,” Hakoda tells him. “Unfortunately, I don’t think she’s coming to Caldera for a while. She’s still in Ba Sing Se with Aang.” She and Aang were working on their own negotiations of reparations and treatises. Caldera was only one location of many that were in the middle of such conversations.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Sokka sighs. “Her magic water comes in handy, though… Get it? Hand-y?”

Hakoda snorts. That’s the kind of joke he used to make to get Kya to smile.

The door across the room opens again. Zuko emerges with his arms wrapped around a giant tub of water, several vials and rags gripped in his hands. He’d also pulled his hair out of the top knot so that it falls into his face, shaggy and unbrushed. It makes him look younger somehow. 

Spirits, he really is only sixteen, isn’t he?

The Fire Lord seems to be studiously avoiding both his and his son’s gaze as he crosses back to him and sets the washbasin at Sokka’s feet. The realization twists uncomfortably in Hakoda’s stomach. 

“Can I see your hand?” Zuko says in what is perhaps the softest voice Hakoda has ever heard come from the teen’s mouth. 

Sokka blinks. “Yeah. Sure.” 

Hakoda crosses his arms over his chest and watches as Zuko examines his son’s hand. The Fire Lord handles it with care, mindful of the injury even as he inspects closely. His brow is furrowed in concentration and there’s a long beat of silence. Sokka is almost uncharacteristically quiet, but Hakoda doesn’t miss the very slight way his shoulders seem to ease. There’s a familiarity between them, Hakoda realizes, and it makes him wonder in the back of his mind if maybe this wasn’t the first time they helped each other. 

“I don’t think it’ll have permanent damage,” Zuko says eventually. “But I still need to treat it so it doesn’t get infected. It… might hurt a little. But then it should feel better.”

Hakoda sees his son swallow. “No permanent damage. That’s good.” He nods, evidently steeling himself. “Okay.”

Zuko looks for a moment like he’s about to say something else, but seems to change his mind. Instead, he busies himself with wringing a cloth in the basin of water, into which he had emptied the contents of the vials. Hakoda’s gaze flickers again to the scar on his face and wonders if he might be so intimately familiar with the care of burns from his own experience. 

Hakoda wonders if there was someone else to help him and teach him. Perhaps that uncle that he and Sokka had mentioned. Iroh, Hakoda thinks his name is, though that would mean the uncle was General Iroh, as in the Dragon of the West. That seemed unlikely to the chief. No way this “wise old guy” who apparently spent his free time giving advice and making tea was also the same person who laid siege to Ba Sing Se for six-hundred days.

He watches Zuko press the rag gingerly to the back of Sokka’s hand and Sokka yelps, yanking his hand back. 

“I’m sorry,” Zuko says immediately with a bit of a grimace. “This part is painful, but it’ll stop hurting in a minute.”

Hakoda listens to the strained breathing of his son, taking a step towards him before Sokka manages, “Right. Right, sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Zuko tells him. “I know it hurts.”

Hakoda watches from behind Sokka as his son places his hand back in Zuko’s, who slowly but gingerly presses the rag back to his hand. There’s a casual intimacy to the way that Sokka willingly gives over his injury to the Fire Lord. An assured immediacy to Sokka’s movement combined with the extraordinarily careful way in which Zuko handles it that surprises him. He’d known, intellectually, that his children had become close with the Fire Lord. But the moments in which Hakoda got to be witness to that friendship sometimes still caught him off guard, even all these months later. 

It even folded into the way they fought beside each other. Hakoda had gotten very fleeting glimpses of it back in Boiling Rock, but he’d seen it more clearly in the meeting room a few minutes ago. They watched each other’s back, protecting one another without getting in each other’s way, like it was a rehearsed dance. Hakoda had watched the way Zuko stepped in front of flames to protect his son and had seen the way Sokka had timed his boomerang through to ensure the next fireball directed at Zuko would be kicked wide. 

For a long moment, the only sound heard in the room is the quiet splash of water as Zuko submerges the rag again and wrings it out. Hakoda glances at the Fire Lord’s face and wonders if Zuko had always had a habit of facing flames head-on. 

“What did the admiral mean,” Sokka blurts out suddenly, breaking the silence, “when he talked about insubordination?”

Hakoda’s lips press into a thin line, his gaze flickering briefly to his son before flitting back to Zuko. Zuko’s eyes had gone wide, the rag in his hand frozen half-out of the bowl. He blinks. “What--uh. I, uh.” Hakoda sees his hand clench around the rag and the way he takes a careful, intentional breath. “When I was younger, I spoke out at a meeting.”

Zuko busies himself back to tending to Sokka’s hand. Hakoda, however, feels something sink like an anchor in his stomach. He goes very, very still.

“After the stuff at Ba Sing Se? When you went home?” Sokka asks, and Hakoda realizes that he hasn’t heard the same rumors he had. Rumors that were at least a little bit true, but surely not all of it. Surely--

“No, I uh.” Zuko coughs a bit. “Before that. Before… yeah. Earlier.” 

“What happened?”

Hakoda stays quiet but he keeps his eyes on Zuko, who looks for all the world like a wild snow leopard caribou that had been cornered. His shoulders tense and Hakoda wonders, very briefly, if he might make a run for it. His jaw clenches, and he shifts to the balls of his feet.

Zuko doesn’t run.

Instead, he seems to focus even more on the administrations he’s giving to Sokka’s injury, as if healing something else might be able to protect him from his own old wounds coming under scrutiny.

“My uncle allowed me to attend a war meeting,” Zuko begins after a long beat as he wraps a fresh bandage around Sokka’s hand, “where they were talking about some battle strategies to use against an Earth Kingdom battalion. There was a general that wanted our newest fleet to serve as a distraction while we mounted an attack from the rear.”

Hakoda feels for a moment like he’s standing on cracking ice. He heard about that attack. The few members of that battalion spoke of how victorious they’d felt, decimating an entire fleet of rookie Fire Nation soldiers only to be attacked from the rear. Hakoda had spoken two years ago with one of the Earth Kingdom soldiers that had escaped, had listened as she recounted the bloodbath it had been. 

They must have known, she’d been saying with a haunted, far-away look to her eyes, that we’d win against a bunch of newbie soldiers. It was like they were served up as goat-dogs for slaughter. Just a… distraction. Ozai doesn’t even care about his own people. 

That conversation had been two years ago. Which meant—

“That’s not fair,” Sokka says. “Your newest recruits? They’d be slaughtered by an experienced battalion like that.” Hakoda feels a brief flicker of pride through the growing tightness in his chest. His son is far smarter than he gave himself credit for. 

“Exactly,” Zuko sighs, bitterness dripping from his voice like venom. “And that’s what I told them. I wasn’t thinking. I just… yelled at him.” Zuko secures the end of the bandage to Sokka’s palm slowly, as if reluctant to be done with the process. “My father didn’t… take it well. I was challenged to an Agni Kai, and I thought I would be facing the general in it, so I accepted.”

The steadily growing tightness in Hakoda’s chest snaps around his lungs like a steel band. So even the worst rumors—the ones he’d been certain couldn’t possibly be true, not about that, not even Ozai—had been true. And it was all because he tried to save people’s lives. 

Hakoda does not have a weak stomach, but it rolls with the lead weight of realization. 

Zuko still doesn’t look at either one of them. Unable to keep his attention on helping Sokka’s injury, he turns his attention instead to gathering the basin of water and the empty vials and used rags. Something to keep his hands—his attention—busy. Hakoda had seen some of the men he fought with do the same thing when talking about stories they mostly tried to forget. 

“No…” Sokka says in a low voice, and Hakoda knows from the horror in his voice that his son is starting to put the pieces together too.

“It wasn’t the general,” Zuko confirms, his voice quiet and heavy in the silence around them. “It was my father.”

“You faced your father in an Agni Kai?” Sokka asks.

“Not exactly. I…” Zuko stares down at the bowl, his gold gaze looking a thousand miles away. “I couldn’t fight my own father. Instead, I begged him for forgiveness. I was met with a fist full of flames.” Zuko waves a hand towards his face. 

I begged him for forgiveness. 

Hakoda thinks of the version Horrack had told him. I heard the kid was kneeling in front of him when it happened—

“He--” Sokka also sounds at a loss of words, his voice choking off. 

“I was banished after that,” Zuko continues and his voice is hollow in a way that ricochets like shrapnel. Hakoda watches him meet his son’s gaze. “I was told to bring the Avatar back and all would be forgiven, or to not come back at all. That was before you and your sister woke Aang up from the iceberg.”

He hears what Zuko won’t say.  It was before there’d been confirmation that the Avatar was still around at all. He’d been banished from his home and told to chase a ghost. It was an impossible task. Ozai didn’t want his son to come home at all, Hakoda realizes. And from the tight way Zuko swallows, he’s pretty sure Zuko knows it too. 

Hakoda clenches his grip into a fist to mask the tremble to his hands. Zuko had done the right thing at that meeting—had tried to spare lives—and had still asked for forgiveness. Begged for it. And Ozai had lit his hand on fire and… and… painfully mutilated his own son and then kicked him out, telling him to chase a legend. In some ways, Hakoda thinks, it was crueler than telling him not to come back at all. 

Zuko is sixteen. But he is still a child, though saddled with the weight of righting a century of conflict on his back. And Hakoda knows that the Agni Kai had been three years ago. 

“How old were you?” Sokka asks tightly. 

Spirits above, he was only—

“Thirteen,” Zuko says, and Hakoda sighs, shutting his eyes against the confirmation. 

“Thir--” Sokka cuts himself off, his voice strained. “Thirteen. Tui and La, when I was thirteen--” he breaks off again.

Hakoda knows what Sokka is thinking about. Sokka was thirteen when he’d left to join the war effort. He’d tried so hard to keep Sokka as safe as he could. Protect his childhood from being stolen more than the war and the loss of his mother already had. He’d seen the stubborn set to Sokka’s jaw when he’d chased after him onto the ship gangplank, and Hakoda knew that Sokka was just as protective as he was. He’d asked him to look out for the village, for Katara. 

Hakoda would have done anything in the world to keep Sokka safe. He still felt that way, despite all the ways that Sokka had proven he could hold his own. He couldn’t help it. He wouldn’t want to. Sokka was his boy. Not so little anymore, not so innocent. He’d seen and been through too much, and Hakoda had missed most of it. But he’d tried. He’d tried to keep him safe for as long as he could manage. 

At thirteen, Zuko had been hurt by a person he’d loved and then thrown out into the world with barely a second thought. The Fire Nation had robbed him, too, of so much. Too much. 

Sokka takes a sudden step towards him and Zuko visibly tenses as if expecting a blow. Sokka freezes in place. “Zuko…”

Zuko shakes his head quickly, and there’s a small part of Hakoda that uncoils when he sees the way Zuko’s gaze doesn’t look quite so distant anymore. “Anyway. That’s--that’s what the admiral was talking about.”

“You…” Sokka sounds close to tears. “You were his kid.”

“Yeah, well.” Zuko looks at Sokka again. “He spent most of my life wishing I wasn’t.”

Hakoda’s jaw tenses. He looks at Zuko who looks, for all the world, like a sixteen-year-old kid, with his shaggy hair falling into his face and in Fire Lord clothes that are maybe just a touch too big for him. At thirteen—barely a teenager—he’d spoken up out of an intense desire to keep more people safe. To save lives. In Hakoda’s eyes, Zuko was a hero. Just for that. 

How anyone could look at him and not be proud was far beyond Hakoda. 

“Zuko,” he says, and Zuko’s gaze flashes over to him almost like he’d forgotten Hakoda was there in the first place. “I… hope you understand that you didn’t deserve that.” 

The words fall short of what he wants to say, of what he means. But they feel important to him. Zuko deserved better from his nation and especially from his own father. Hakoda doesn’t know very much about the former royal family, but he doesn’t get the impression that Zuko heard that a lot. And if nobody else was going to make sure Zuko knows that he deserves better, Hakoda will at least try. 

Something softens a little in Zuko’s gaze. “I know, sir,” he says. “It… I didn’t at first. It took me a long time to understand that it was wrong of my father to do that. But I know that now.”

Hakoda inclines his head. It is a small mercy against the tremendous pain the kid carries on his back, but it’s something. And as far as Hakoda is concerned, it’s not a small thing, either.

“Where is he?” Sokka demands in a near growl.

Zuko blinks, looking far more surprised by Sokka’s outrage than Hakoda is. “Where’s who?”

“Ozai.”

“Sokka, what are you going to do? Fight him?” Zuko looks completely bewildered. “He already lost.”

“Against Aang, not against—did Aang even know?”

“Um, I guess I don’t know. I never told him. I… never told any of you.”

“Yeah--and what’s that about, huh?” Sokka takes a step forward. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Hakoda takes a step towards his son. “Sokka,” he warns. 

He wants to explain to him that sometimes things are hard to talk about. Spirits know there were things Hakoda had seen in his days involved in the war that he didn’t want to talk about and hoped he never would have to. He wanted to explain that events like that, things that linger on the edges of your nightmares and follow in lock-step with your shadow, had a nasty habit of strangling in your throat so that the words don’t come. That it is easier to carry those things close to your chest rather than lay them bare for the world to see. 

But Sokka is fuming and cuts his father off. “What, did you think we wouldn’t care? That it wouldn’t matter?”

“It doesn’t matter!” Zuko hurls back at him, waving a hand towards the bedroom window. “My father already lost to the Avatar, Sokka. The war is over. The fighting is over. Aang took his bending. And that—I don’t know about you, but that’s the best, most justified end to his legacy I can think of.” 

There’s a long, heavy moment of silence. Hakoda watches the way his son’s shoulders heave with angry breaths, his non-injured hand curled into a fist. Sokka had always been fiercely, desperately protective. It runs in the family, Hakoda thinks idly. But this wasn’t something Sokka could protect Zuko from. The damage had already been done. 

Hakoda thinks, perhaps, that such a truth only makes it harder for his son to deal with. 

“Wherever he is,” Sokka growls, “I hope he rots. He deserves worse.” 

Zuko blinks, his eyes wide. Hakoda wonders briefly if Zuko has ever had someone be angry on his behalf, rather than angry with him. 

Sokka evidently doesn’t understand his surprise. “Don’t tell me you disagree—”

“No,” Zuko says quickly. “I just… nothing.” He offers the barest hint of a smile at Sokka. The reminder of the familiarity between them relaxes some of the tightness in Hakoda’s chest just a fraction. 

There’s a long beat as Hakoda hears his son suck in a deep, slow breath. Zuko’s gaze falls from Sokka’s, drifting back to the basin of water beside him. Zuko’s fingers twitch at his side. He looks suddenly uncomfortable, Hakoda thinks. Nervous, almost. 

“Thank you for helping Sokka’s hand, Firelord Zuko,” Hakoda says suddenly, and maybe it’s a foolish way to convey to him that this didn’t change their opinion of him. At least, not for Hakoda… and from his surge of protective anger, he’s pretty sure the same goes for his son. Zuko was still Zuko. And if maybe he made sure to call him Fire Lord as a quiet reminder that Hakoda did not think him less of a leader either, then maybe that was okay too.

Hakoda sees the slightly pink tinge to Zuko’s cheeks as he meets Hakoda’s gaze. But he reads the understanding in those gold eyes as well. “Oh. Uh, of course, sir. And… just Zuko is fine.” Thank you, is the unspoken words that flit across the teen’s gold eyes.

Hakoda smiles a little, inclining his head. “Understood.” He turns his attention then to his son. ”I should draft a letter to Bato tonight to update him on the treaty. Will you be okay without me?”

Sokka rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth is tilted up in a half-smile. “Yeah, dad. I think I can manage.”

Hakoda gives Sokka’s shoulder one last squeeze and a nod to Zuko before he ducks out of the room to give them both a moment to talk more. He closes the door behind him, pausing long enough to take a breath. 

Generations of conflict had been ended a few months ago by a bunch of kids with too much weight on their shoulders and too many shadows clinging to their edges. But at their heart, they were good people trying to do good things. Spirits know they all had plenty of reasons to be otherwise. War had a nasty habit of bringing out the worst in people, of demanding sacrifices to who you are. It could latch onto the darkest parts of you and pull until it was all that remained. He’s grateful that the group of kids that ended the Hundred Year War managed to keep the best of themselves despite everything, and that they continued to do so.

Hakoda had learned a long time ago that goodness is a choice. And he’s grateful that the world was in the hands of people like his kids, like Aang, like Zuko. Kids who, despite everything and all the ways people tried to pull their darkness out of them, continued to make that choice.

[roonilwazlibimagines]

Some Quotes

I re read the Harry Potter books and here are some quotes I felt I wanted to remember

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

There are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them. Page 192

‘And you’re not sitting with the Prefects today, either,’ said George. ‘Christmas is a time for family.’ Page 218

(Dumbledore) It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Page 230

(Neville) ‘I’m worth twelve of you, Malfoy,’ he stammered. Page 240

(Hermione) ‘Flitwick told me in secret that I got a hundred and twelve percent on his exam. They’re not throwing me out after that.’ Page 291

(Hermione) ‘Books! And cleverness! There are more important things - friendship and bravery.’ Page 308

(Dumbledore) ‘It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends.’ Page 329

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

In the end, he chose the same new subjects as Ron, feeling that if he was rubbish at them, at least he’d have someone friendly to help him. Page 267

‘Because that’s what Hermione does,’ says Ron, shrugging. ‘When in doubt, go to the library.’ Page 269

(Dumbledore) It is out choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, for more than our abilities. Page 352

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

(Hermione) ‘Poor Crookshanks, that witch said he’d been in there for ages: no one wanted him.’ Page 64

‘We - shall I make a cup of tea?’ said Ron. Harry stared at him.   ‘It’s what my mum does whenever someone’s upset,’ Ron muttered, shrugging. Page 232

Even without Divination, she was taking more subjects than anybody else. Page 319

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Yes, that would be Hermione’s advice: go straight to the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and in the meantime, consult the book. Page 18

Hermione, who had turned rather pink again, seemed to be trying not to look too pleased with herself. Page 196

But Harry didn’t care, he wouldn’t have cared if Karkaroff had given him a zero; Ron’s indignation on his behalf was worth about a hundred points to him. He didn’t tell Ron this, of course, but his heart felt lighter than air as he turned to leave the enclosure. Page 304

He was not going to die kneeling at Voldemort’s feet...he was going to die upright like his father, and he was going to die trying to defend himself, even if no defence was possible... Page 558

(Dumbledore) ‘Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right, and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good, and kind, and brave, because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Cedric Diggory.’ Page 608

As Hagrid had said, what would come, would come...and he would have to meet it when it did. Page 617

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix 

‘Bill doesn’t like him either, said Ginny, as though that settled the matter. Page 64

‘Yeah, size is no guarantee of power,’ said George. ‘Look at Ginny.’ Page 92

‘The witch spoke in a fluttery, girlish, high-pitched voice that took harry aback; he had been expecting a croak. Page 135

‘Well, congratulations,’ said Moody, still glaring at Ron with his normal eye, ‘authority figures always attract trouble, but I suppose Dumbledore thinks you can withstand most major jinxes or he wouldn’t have appointed you...’ Page 156

Harry’s mood suddenly lifted. His father had not been a prefect either. Page 157

Seeing Hagrid again was one of the things he’d been looking forward to most. Page 181

Harry could not remember Hermione ever neglecting to read when instructed to, or indeed resisting the temptation to open any book that came under her nose. Page 223

Hermione drew herself up to her full height; her eyes were narrowed and her bushy hair seemed to crackle with electricity. Page 236

‘Wow, I wonder what it’d be like to have a difficult life?’ said Harry sarcastically. Page 242

Who cared about a stupid flying horse; Cho thought he had been really brave. For a moment, he considered accidentally-on-purpose showing her his cut hand as he helped her tie her parcel on to the owl... Page 263

She (Hermione) looked up at Ron and her frostiness seemed to melt. Page 272

(Luna) ‘Just because you’re so narrow-minded you need to have everything shoved under your nose before you-’ Page 319

‘Haven’t e got a counter-jinx or this?’ Fudge asked Umbridge impatiently, gesturing at Marietta’s face. ‘So she can speak freely?’  ‘I have not yet managed to find one,’ Umbridge admitted grudgingly, and Harry felt a surge of pride in Hermione’s jinxing ability. Page 566

‘Well usually when a person shakes their head,’ said McGonagall coldly, ‘ they mean “no”. So unless Miss Edgecombe is using a form of sign-language as yet unknown to humans -’ Page 569

Harry struggled around to see who was half strangling him and saw Professor McGonagall crouched beside him; she had forced both him and Marietta out of harms way. Page 573

(Dumbledore) ‘On the contrary...the fact that you can feel pain like this is your greatest strength.’ Page 758

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

(Snape) ‘You think he is mistaken? Or that I have somehow hoodwinked him? Fooled the Dark Lord, the greatest wizard, the most accomplished Legilimens the world has ever seen?’ Page 23

‘I enjoyed the meetings, too,’ said Luna serenely. ‘It was like having friends.’ Page 115

...and watched Pansy stroke the sleek blond hair off Malfoy’s forehead, smirking as she did so, as though anyone would have loved to have been in her place. Page 125

It was a mark of the strength of their friendship that Ron did not laugh. Page 141

‘Humph,’ snorted Professor McGonagall. ‘It’s high time your (Neville’s) grandmother learned to be proud of the grandson she’s got, rather than the one she thinks she ought to have - particularly after what happened at the Ministry.’ Page 145

He did not usually lie in bed reading his textbooks; that sort of behaviour, as Ron rightly said, was indecent in anybody except Hermione, who was simply weird that way. Page 198

On the other hand, the Prince had proved a much more effective teacher than Snape so far. Page 199

‘I like really good Quidditch players,’ Hermione corrected her, still smiling. Page 260

She (Hermione) looked too fierce to argue with at that moment, so Harry dropped the subject of Ron and recounted all that he had overheard between Malfoy and Snape. Page 294

(Slughorn) ‘Had a house-elf taste every bottle after what happened to your poor friend Rupert.’ Page 403

It was important, Dumbledore said, to fight, and fight again, and keep fighting, for only then could evil be kept at bay, though never quite eradicated. Page 536

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

(Yaxley) ‘He always did himself well, Lucius. Peacocks...’ Page 2

‘This isn’t your average book,’ said Ron. ‘It’s pure gold: Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches... You’d be surprised, it’s not all about wandwork, either.’ Page 90

Kreacher’s thin arms trembled with the weight of the pan, still held aloft. ‘Perhaps just one more, Master Harry, for luck?’ Page 178

The empty words could not disguise the fact that his parents’ mouldering remains lay beneath snow and stone, indifferent and unknowing. Page 267

(Hermione) ‘Imagine losing fingernails, Harry! That really puts our sufferings into perspective, doesn’t it?’ Page 312

(Hermione) I mean, you could claim that anything’s real if the only basis for believing in it is that nobody’s proved it doesn’t exist!’ Page 335

The three of them spoke at the same time; Hermione said, ‘the Clock,’ Ron said, ‘the wand,’ and Harry said, ‘the stone.’ Page 337

Luna had decorated her bedroom ceiling with five beautiful painted faces: Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Neville. They were not moving as the portraits of Hogwarts moved, but there was a certain magic about them all the same: Harry thought they breathed. What appeared to be fine golden chains wove around the pictures, linking them together, but after examining them for a minute or so, Harry realised that the chains were actually one word, repeated a thousand times in golden ink: friends ... friends ... friends ... Page 340

(Neville) ‘The thing is, it helps when people stand up to them, it gives everyone hope. I used to notice that when you did it, Harry.’ Page 467

His eyes feasted on her (Lily), and he thought that he would like to stand and look at her forever, and that would be enough. Page 571

[commander-diomika]

Fear and Faith

WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT MY FIRST FIC IN FIVE (???) YEARS! Fandom: Good Omens Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale Rating: Explicit Word Count: ~6000 Additional Tags: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Trans Male Character, Trans Crowley, Spanking, Restraints, Service Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley, Established Relationship, Pining .

(YES it’s true, they’re established, yes they’re banging, but also somehow still pining at the same time! Read on to find out how I managed that mess.) Summary: Aziraphale gives Crowley a little payback for his outburst at the convent. This is a “deleted scene” fic where we pretend that Aziraphale doesn’t spot the book in the backseat, and instead they flow nicely from business to pleasure that evening. "Aziraphale looked into Crowley’s eyes. The posture was still full of attitude but the eyes… the eyes told a different story. This was the beginning of a change in mood, stepping from one role to another.

They played a different game in private. Aziraphale liked it that way. He liked people thinking he was a perfect gentleman, liked being on the arm of his tall demon in public. It was only Crowley who he allowed to see the bastard in him. Probably because it was Crowley who encouraged the bastard in him, through near-constant needling and teasing. It was, after all, something only a friend and lover of thousands of years could do." Read on Ao3

Or

“Not one single person would say bebop.” Crowley draped himself over the Bentley in what he thought of as an enticing manner. He dangled the topic change like bait.

Aziraphale took it, though in an unexpected direction. “I don’t think that’s really what we ought to be discussing, you know.” Crowley’s eyebrows arched up over the frames of his glasses as Aziraphale came round the car, heading for the door to the bookshop and opening it. With a tiny motion of his head he indicated after you. “Do come in.” There was flat fall at the end of the cadence, almost like an order.

“What ought we be discussing then?” Crowley asked, heading inside, hearing the order and unable to resist biting back. “We can’t contact anyone til the morning, angel, I don’t think there’s anything else we can do about it tonight.”

“No, I completely agree on that front.” They both automatically headed to the back room, treading a well-worn path with both their feet and their words. Crowley took off his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair, before finding a perch on the edge of the couch. There was something expectant in his posture, as though he wasn’t planning on getting comfortable there.

“I think what we ought to be discussing,” Aziraphale said as he hung up his jacket, smoothing creases out of it, “is your little… outburst at the convent today.” He turned and fixed Crowley with a pointed stare.

“Oh,” Crowley said, and despite his lanky frame, he suddenly looked a little smaller under the heat of Aziraphale’s stare. He was in trouble… which meant things were going exactly to plan. He felt a smug throb of self satisfaction.

It was not that angels and demons didn’t have genitalia, as such. It was more than, unless they were thinking of it, the bodies beneath the clothes simply didn’t exist. In the same way that their wings waited, just off this plane, so too did anything not immediately needed to give the appearance of a human. The clothes were the body, for Crowley, willed into existence so that other beings could perceive him.

So until a stimuli brought what was under the clothes into this reality, it usually didn’t exist.

Usually.

That day, Crowley had been painfully, achingly aware of the juncture between his thighs, and the way Aziraphale now looked at him with a dangerous, thrilling intent only intensified that feeling. Perhaps the looming end of the world was playing its part in the heat that Crowley felt dripping from his heart, to stomach, to crotch.

“You seemed so upset for me to have called you nice, my dear boy, and the way you behaved was simply atrocious.”

“Yeah?” Crowley asked, tilting his head back to reveal the line of his throat, almost daring his angel to go for it.

Aziraphale still hadn’t sat down, and he took a single step closer to the couch, chin drawn slightly down, gaze dark and indulging. He understood perfectly what Crowley was playing at.

“Stand up,” he said, breath popping slightly on the end of the word. This had not so much the air of a command as the earth, fire and water of one.

A taut moment passed, where Crowley deliberated. He could continue being generally insufferable, or he could lean into the energy building in the room, and obey the command given by his oldest friend.

Crowley decided he’d been bratty enough for one day. He swallowed. Unfolding a seemingly endless amount of leg from his perch on the couch, he stood.

“Forward a few steps, there’s a dear,” and Aziraphale’s voice never lost that buttery sweet quality, even though Crowley could hear the knife’s edge of desire underneath.

Aziraphale, unlike Crowley, had brought his body, and the ability to feel sexual desire, fully into this reality centuries ago. It had happened in Rome, when he had sat across from Crowley and watched him eat oysters for the first time. Since then, he had inhabited his earthly body to the fullest, draping it with cloth the same way as humans did, hiding his sexuality as Adam and Eve had once learnt to do.

Crowley’s heeled boots gave a series of dull clicks on the wooden floor of the shop, and he stood for Aziraphale’s inspection. He had the air of a naughty schoolboy awaiting a telling off, one hand in a pocket, the other hanging loosely, weight on one foot and hip slightly popped. He licked his lips with a tongue that was looking slightly more split than usual.

Aziraphale took deliberate steps forward, and asking permission with his eyes, reached for Crowley’s glasses. He folded them with care and placed them aside. He might as well have stripped Crowley naked. Well, plenty of time for that later.

Aziraphale looked into Crowley’s eyes. The posture was still full of attitude but the eyes… the eyes told a different story. This was the beginning of a change in mood, stepping from one role to another. They played a different game in private.

Aziraphale liked it that way. He liked people thinking he was a perfect gentleman, liked being on the arm of his tall demon in public. It was only Crowley who he allowed to see the bastard in him. Probably because it was Crowley who encouraged the bastard in him, through near-constant needling and teasing. It was, after all, something only a friend and lover of thousands of years could do.

Aziraphale nodded, a wordless acknowledgement of the shift in the air. He began a scrutinizing walk around Crowley, a mockery of the what the demon usually subjected him to in public

“Yes. Very… nice.” Now Aziraphale was the one dangling bait. Crowley made a noise like he’d be punched but didn’t move an inch.

“What, no protestations? No manhandling me against a wall in a most undignified fashion?” Aziraphale teased. Crowley shook his head. “It’s almost like you were trying to get a rise out of me in the convent today.” Aziraphale watched, delighted, fascinated, as Crowley ducked his head, mouth twitching one way and then the other, as though the sly smile was trying to fight its way to the surface.

“You truly are an awful man, aren’t you, accosting me in public when you know I’m far too nice to do anything in retribution.” He wasn’t too nice by half, but he did have an image to upkeep.

Crowley glared down his nose at Aziraphale. “Pfft, don’t you try that with me, angel.” Aziraphale simply stared back with mild reproach, then continued to pace around him slowly.

“What have we here?” Aziraphale said, as he reached the empty space behind Crowley. Though he had his back to him, Crowley could still see Aziraphale, every atom of the angel clear and singing in Crowley’s perception of the world, as it always was.

Aziraphale pressed in, front suddenly flush to Crowley’s back, threading his arms around Crowley’s waist in a possessive gesture. The sudden physical contact was agonisingly intimate. Outside of moments like this, they rarely touched. Crowley’s little stunt at the convent had flouted an unspoken part of the Agreement.

They lived with the fear of being watched from all sides. But the shop was specially warded against such prying eyes. Customers and angels alike could enter the open shop, but once that sign flicked to “Closed”, they were safe. Safe to close that gap, for Aziraphale to hug Crowley to his chest, to turn his cheek and press his face into one lean shoulder.

One hand slid up to curl into the satin of Crowley’s shirt over where his human heart sat, brought into this reality by his aching need to feel the pulse of his own blood.

Aziraphale’s blunt nails scraped Crowley’s chest through the deliciously thin black satin shirt. The other hand moved in a firm slide from Crowley’s navel and down, stuttering slightly over the belt buckle on the too-tight jeans and stopping over Crowley’s fly. Where one might expect to find a bulge.

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s single syllable was all feigned surprise and dark delight. “My dear boy,” he began, emphasizing by sliding the hand a little lower, to dip into the vee of Crowley’s thighs. “Does this mean you’re in the mood to be had?”

Crowley made a noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a gulp and grunt, that if it had to be given form sounded like “Urnghk.” To Aziraphale’s ears, well-practised in translating such noises, it sounded like a cavalcade of words, like yes and please and fuck me, Angel.

“Take off your boots, please.” Aziraphale said as he let go.

Crowley obeyed. This was part of it, the orders, the undressing, the vulnerability of standing in front of his angel, eyes bare and feet resting on the warm wooden floor. “And your shirt and trousers, too.” Aziraphale felt his cheeks redden at this request, but his gaze remained steady.

Crowley raised one hand to click away the offending items of clothing, a hurried, twitchy energy burning off him, but before he could complete the action Aziraphale caught the hand, firmly.

“The old fashioned way, if you please.”

“Oh come on,” Later, Crowley would deny that this was, undeniably, whiny.

“Plenty of time for that later,” Aziraphale was warming up to it now, something wicked in his eyes. “You know I like to watch this part.”

Crowley, denied instant gratification, undressed speedily, clothes flung in all directions.

Aziraphale folded his hands, perfectly composed as he watched Crowley’s little display, expression indulgent as a sock hit him square in the face. With a gesture from Aziraphale, all the scattered clothes, the black shirt, the inside-out jeans, socks and tie appeared draped over the back of the couch. Something in their folds seemed apologetic for the mess.

“So you’re allowed to do that and I’m not, is that it?” Crowley challenged, bold despite the fact he was wearing nothing but a pair of black briefs. His belligerent tone was betrayed by his naked eyes. His longing was clear in the warm lighting of the bookshop.

Seemingly without taking a single step, suddenly Aziraphale was standing very close to Crowley, almost nose to nose. The small height difference between them was eaten up by the fact that the demon was barefoot, semi naked, and Aziraphale was still dressed, standing tall in his soft leather boots. “That, my dear, is exactly it.” They stared at each other, breath mingling for half a second.

Aziraphale took half a step back and his face softened, something so tender writ clear in the lines between his eyes. “Before we go any further, do you remember the safe word?” he asked.

“It has been awhile, hasn’t it.” Crowley murmured. It had been almost five years. Crowley remembered every second of their last tryst, back when he was still fond of playing the role of Nanny Ashtoreth, even in her off hours. He had worn her, but she wasn’t a costume. The only thing Aziraphale had said on Crowley’s presentation was an uncharacteristic enjoyment of the easy access allowed by skirts with no panties.

Time had a way of slipping by when you were 6000 years old.

“Crowley.” There was a soft reprimand in the way he said it. A pleading, a need for them both to be safe

Crowley sighed, acquiescing. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than for Aziraphale to feel safe. “Eden.”

Aziraphale didn’t reply, simply reaching out to run his hand gently through Crowley’s hair, letting his hand come to rest on the back of his neck. The skin there felt cool to touch, and unbearably soft. The provocative energy the demon had been radiating moments ago shifted to something slow and fervent. He blinked, eyes closed for a whole second as if rocked by the intensity of Aziraphale’s gaze.

“Now, my dear, what is it that you want?”

The question was asked so that Aziraphale could be certain he did not misstep, but he already knew what Crowley wanted. He just liked to hear him say it.

“Want you topunifhshd.” Crowley trailed off to something unintelligible.

“What was that?” Aziraphale asked cheerfully.

“Want you to punish me.” Crowley’s eyes were anywhere but on the angel’s face.

“Why?” Aziraphale lifted a hand, and with a firmness belied by his soft fingers, caught Crowley’s chin. With gentle but inexorable pressure, he turned Crowley’s head until their eyes met.

“Because I’m bad,” he admitted hoarsely.

“Now… we both know that’s not true.” Aziraphale released his grip to slide his hands firmly down Crowley’s arms, and without thinking about it too much, took both of Crowley’s hands in his. “But I will give you want you want, because I am the giving sort.” And because I love you, he thought. It was yet unsaid between them. One didn’t simply go around saying these things to their hereditary enemy. Besides, Aziraphale thought, as he drew Crowley over to the leather ottoman at the foot of the couch… surely he already knew.

“Kneel, please.”

Crowley knelt, quiet and obedient for the moment. Aziraphale knew it wouldn’t last.

Aziraphale settled on the couch as Crowley draped himself over the lavish footstool, acquired sometime around 1855 for this exact purpose. A plush rug, previously elsewhere in the shop, had understood where it was needed without being asked and appeared beneath their feet, giving Crowley’s knees some protection against the wooden floor.

As Crowley settled, he turned his head to face the other way, but Aziraphale had other ideas. With a tug at the hair on the nape of Crowley’s neck, he guided the demon to turn and face Aziraphale. Without breaking eye contact, he pulled the legs of Crowley’s briefs up a little, bunching fabric into the demon’s crotch and revealing the sweet spots of curved buttocks.

Crowley shifted, wiggling a little at the sudden pressure of fabric against his cunt. “You really are a bastard, you know,” he said, half-mumbled into the leather of the ottoman.

“What was that?” Aziraphale asked innocently. “Didn’t hear you, my dear.”

“I said, you’re a basta-AHrd!” He yelped into the latter half of the word as Aziraphale planted a firm smack on Crowley’s behind.

“Well, yes.” Aziraphale admitted, a little breathlessly. “I suppose I am.”

One hand resting firmly in the dip of Crowley’s lower back, Aziraphale set about spanking him with the other, relaxed and rhythmic. Crowley turned his head to press his damp forehead directly into the firm leather, breathing deeply. He relished each impact, stinging at first then settling into something deeper. A beautiful, slow-growing ache.

Aziraphale savoured it. Each muttered pant, each slight whine, he responded. They barely needed words after all this time, but they still used them, because what was the point of having these amusing human forms if not to wring every possible pleasure out of them?

“You look so perfect, my dear,” he murmured, massaging warm buttocks in his hands. Crowley whined and pressed his head against the leather, each sound saying need and want as clearly as if he were shouting it.

“Not nice,” was all he managed to choke out, arching his back up, begging for the blows to continue. He felt sweaty, and annoyed, and deeply in love.

Aziraphale smiled fondly, and resumed.

Angels and demons don’t get tired. They don’t get interrupted by hunger or full bladders or cramped knees, so when they are properly engaged, they can sink into that activity. Time becomes secondary.

Their bodies might not get tired, or interrupted with mere mortal concerns, but they can bruise, especially when their human bodies feel so present and raw. They can feel red welts begin to raise on sensitive skin, or they can see and marvel at the slow rise of blood, deep mottled purple under fair skin.

Aziraphale was murmuring steady praise now, my beautiful demon, my dear, you horrible, wonderful creature. He felt warm from exertion, so lost in the flow that he barely noticed his own arousal, his erection pressed into his trousers. He paused to run gentle hands up Crowley’s spine (which was still blessedly cool to the touch), and was overcome with his own desire.

“My dear,” He spoke more clearly, breaking the spell.

Crowley acknowledged with a wordless mewl, sounding dazed and a little pissed off.

“Would you mind if we took these off?” Aziraphale tapped a finger on the waistband of the black briefs. Crowley gave another muffled grunt and turned to stare up at Aziraphale. His eyes were glassy, the dusky yellow leaking outwards, pupils huge and dark.

Sudden worry seized Aziraphale. Perhaps he’d gone too far. “What is the safe word?”

No reply but for a long, slow groan, and more alarmingly, Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut as though to hide from Aziraphale’s concerned gaze.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale spoke sternly.

As if dragged up from a great depth, he opened his eyes and finally replied. “Eden. C’mon angel, I can handle it.”

“Be that as it may, I asked you a question.”

Crowley lifted his head slightly and stared, surprised. He looked flushed, not dissimilar to how he would look after an evening of wine and whiskey. “Eh?”

“Your pants.” Aziraphale repeated, shifting. His worry assuaged, the distraction of taking care of Crowley briefly paused, he shifted part of his awareness back to how hard he was. “May I take them off?”

Crowley gave a lopsided grin, showing all his teeth. If they looked a little more pointed than they might in public, it was not a worry. If his eyes were blown fully wide, now golden right into the corners, it meant only that he felt safe. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Is that a yes?” Aziraphale knew the answer, knew the dance well enough by now, but he still had moments like this, where he felt uncertain that it was right to take what Crowley so wantonly gave.

“Yes angel, please, you can do whatever you want with me right now.”

Aziraphale felt his breath catch in his throat. It was right, and it was hot, and it was sacred. His friend and lover knelt at his feet and offered himself up, this time the same as ever and somehow different.

Aziraphale found his way to the floor, kneeling to one side, running hands delicately down Crowley’s flanks, curling his fingers beneath the waistband and tugging them down over narrow hips. Aziraphale’s hands felt sensitive and tender; even the soft fabric sang against his skin. He deliberately dragged the bunched briefs across the raw flesh of Crowley’s behind, his mouth twitching with the edge of a wicked smile as Crowley gave a soft yelp.

It was awkward to pull the underwear down thighs, helping his demon lift one knee then the other to remove them completely. Ungraceful, but Crowley’s body was so painfully real now, brought so fully into this world by desire and impact. In this moment, to miracle clothes away would have felt sinful.

Crowley settled his naked form heavily back onto the ottoman, sighing. In the soft light of the bookshop, Aziraphale admired the lines and angles of the demon, the hollow dip of his spine leading tantalisingly down to tenderised buttocks, to the wet slit between. The sun would yet rise on one of the last days on this blessed earth, and they would have to deal with what that meant in the light of that penultimate sunrise, but for now, there was this. There was them.

Aziraphale started on his own buttons; Crowley in this state would wait for a time, the impatience literally spanked out of him. So Aziraphale savoured the undressing like he savoured everything, wanting this moment to last forever. It felt like it would, and that time would continue the way it always had. If not for the unpleasant knowledge, looming in the distance, that the clock was ticking for all of them.

Aziraphale swallowed, brushing away the tickle in the back of his mind that this may well be the last time. They would find a way through this. They would.

He let his movements be slow and considered, pausing between each item of clothing to run warm hands over Crowley reverently, across shoulders, down his neck, fanning out over angled shoulder blades to the places where Aziraphale could feel the wings sprouting into the plane just next to them, unreal but ever-present.

Once he was naked, he carefully moved Crowley’s ankles apart, kneeling between them but keeping a polite distance. Massaging the tender, bruise-flecked skin of Crowley’s backside with one hand, he touched himself properly for the first time that evening, relishing the feeling of the hot skin of his cock on a tenderised palm. “My dear, you are beautiful.” Aziraphale sighed, taking a hold of himself and stroking.

Crowley’s response was to exhale through his teeth argumentatively. The rippling arc of his back muscles and slight press back of his hips, cunt needily pressing toward Aziraphale, spoke his true feelings.

Aziraphale smiled with that same fondness. He let his massaging hand stray, thumb slipping between wet lips. “Was this what you wanted, dearest?”

Crowley’s response could only be described as a hiss

Flipping his hand to let four fingers dip between Crowley’s legs, cupping his whole sex, Aziraphale let the full length of his thumb slip inside.

Crowley keened, jamming his hips back hard. If there was a flash of dark wings, spread wide to fill the room, or a ripple of scales down his back, no human eyes could have perceived it.

Aziraphale felt winded for a moment, to feel the wet heat on his hand, to feel the way Crowley consumed the single digit and pressed back for more, looking so perfect, divinely his. Normally never an issue, he felt lost for words and uttered a simple, breathless, “Oh.”

But as much as he enjoyed giving Crowley what he wanted, somehow a little denial first made it all the sweeter. Aziraphale squeezed his hand gently, momentarily, pressing down into the sweet spot and rubbing teasing fingers across Crowley’s clit, before drawing the hand back.

“Oh no you bloody don’t-” Crowley lifted one hand from its resting place on the floor and planted it on the ottoman, lifting and twisting his body as if to reach back, movements desperate and unrefined.

Before he could achieve anything with this quick movement, Aziraphale responded. He surged forward and flattened Crowley back down against the leather, strong enough to knock the wind out of the demon. The same amount of measured force Crowley had used to slam Aziraphale into the wall that very afternoon.

There was a puff and a wheezing sound as the air in the cushioned footstool was pressed out. There was also a slight puff and wheezing sound from Crowley, but he was undoubtedly playing it up for dramatic effect.

Aziraphale knew exactly what Crowley could take. Knew exactly what Crowley would like. And he liked this very much, to be flattened down by Aziraphale’s solid weight, squashed from thighs to neck against the sticky leather. This was the closest they’d been physically in years, and Aziraphale felt all the tension and attitude melt away from the body beneath him.

“Now then,” Aziraphale panted into an ear. “I can’t have you writhing around like that, Crowley. Wouldn’t be proper.”

There was a breath, and two anchor points came into existence. Without taking his weight off Crowley, Aziraphale slid sure hands down Crowley’s arms and guided each wrist to the loops, cream silk ties appearing then binding wrists to the side of the footstool. Crowley was safely secured in this position, kneeling with his arms wrapped and bound to each side of the ottoman. Aziraphale straightened up.

“You absolute cocktease. Give me that right now or I’ll call the whole thing off.” The epithet, despite not being applicable right this very second, still made sense. Crowley did have a cock sometimes, after all. Aziraphale made him beg for it even then.

“Safe word?”

“EDEN!” he yelled, hammering hands on the side of the footstool with as much momentum as the slack would allow him

“Are you using it?”

“No! You- arrghbfr.”

“So, what you’re saying,” Aziraphale leant forward and laid the line of his chest against Crowley’s back again, cock pressed between his stomach and the crack of Crowley’s buttocks, “is that you like me teasing you.”

“For sata- for FUCK sake I- you,” Crowley started about three different sentences before giving up, though he still wiggled between the angel’s weight and the ottoman.

“Say it,” Aziraphale said. He felt dizzy with it, the joy of feeling Crowley’s skin pressed so close to him, their bodies salt-sticky and warm.

“You’re a TEASE.”

“No, say that you like it!” Aziraphale was lost in it now, “Say you like me teasing you.” He wound a hand into Crowley’s hair, pressing him with just enough firmness down into the cushioned leather.

Crowley resisted upwards into the grip. If he wanted to be free, he could be back in his own apartment in the blink of an eye. Or maybe… he couldn’t. They had never tested their powers against each other in this realm. They had never needed nor wanted to. There was a thought, momentary but bright, that maybe Crowley actually couldn’t escape. And that if he tried, he would find himself blocked not just by the heavy body across his back but by the full might of Aziraphale’s heavenly power. Such a concept sent a wave of arousal coursing through him. He was hot, achingly wet, and he couldn’t even rub his thighs together, so firm was he being held, neck down to his knees against the ottoman.

One moment passed in which Crowley pushed his body back up against Aziraphale, but with no way to gain purchase or momentum, he collapsed down in submission.

“Angel… I love you teasing me.”

“Good boy,” he murmured in Crowley’s ear, before moving his hips back just enough for the head of his cock, wet with precum, to skim deliciously first against Crowley’s asshole then finding its way to the entrance of his slick cunt, sliding in to the hilt in one fluid motion.

Aziraphale sighed, and without moving, pressed a kiss to the back of Crowley’s neck.

Crowley froze at the tender gesture. His breath, which had felt so present up until that moment, disappeared completely. The love he felt, unspoken and bright, seemed to replace the air in his lungs. If he didn’t say something right now the next words out of his mouth were going to be I love you. And that simply wouldn’t do.

“Angel, if you don’t start fucking, I’m going to discorporate,” he said instead. “I’m serious.”

The only response was a low chuckle. Without taking his weight from Crowley’s back, Aziraphale ground his hips down, eliciting a wet choke from Crowley. “Like that?”

“Sure, if that’s the best you’ve g-“ Crowley stopped at the sensation of another sensual grind, Aziraphale making sure that as much of his fleshy hips were pressed into where Crowley’s skin was most tender. The witty riposte died in his mouth, and he moaned instead, breath returned but that same dazzling feeling in his chest. If not now, when?

The issue of the end of the world and when would be the right time dissipated as Aziraphale straightened back up, to curl assured hands into Crowley’s hips, and start moving.

The pace he set was steady, eyes shut and lips parted. It was Crowley who forced the pace, rutting back. The enthusiasm with which he rocked back, wordlessly begging for more, harder, would have been strong enough to drag the footstool along the floor. But Aziraphale wanted it to remain immovable… so it stayed put like a good footstool would.

Crowley was desperate, little grunts of exertion escaping his lips as he pulled back on his bonds, trying to drive Aziraphale deeper. It was rough and urgent but he felt undeniably gleeful. If Aziraphale just gave him what he wanted, if he didn’t have to wrestle for it, it wouldn’t be nearly as fun.

Aziraphale was in control. Until he wasn’t.

Without being conscious of the moment he lost the tease, he started to meet Crowley’s needs. He plunged forward as Crowley pushed back, meeting in the middle with a growing urgency. To give Crowley what he wanted was the agreement, after all. When Crowley’s frantic motions slowed just enough to declare his satisfaction with the pace, Aziraphale leant forward to grip Crowley’s shoulder. His hand wrapped all the way round, fingertips brushing a clavicle, pulling Crowley back into each thrust, to give him more.

This was what it was, for an unknowable amount of time. When the moment was right, as was his decision to make, Aziraphale slowed, then paused, untying and guiding a sweaty, mussed demon to the couch. Aziraphale knelt between Crowley’s legs. They looked at each other for what felt like the first time in a long time. Sweat and exertion had ruined Crowley’s careful quiff. Aziraphale brushed a strand off his forehead.

“My dear,” Aziraphale’s voice was rough and low. “you look divine.”

Crowley gave a manic half-laugh, half-sob. Without Aziraphale’s cock to distract him, the fear that this was ending, that everything was ending, was about to overwhelm him. He took a shuddering breath to steady himself and came back to the moment. “More?”

Aziraphale huffed out a disbelieving laugh, and without speaking leaned forward and kissed him.

This was divine, thought Crowley, as he turned his face up into the kiss, not allowing Aziraphale to take his mouth away once it was given. Aziraphale navigated by feel and experience to slip his cock into Crowley again.

The energy had shifted. Crowley had taken his punishment, and now it was simply time for mutual reward. Aziraphale could have continued to tease and deny, but he didn’t even break the kiss as Crowley snaked a hand between their bodies to touch himself.

Aziraphale fucked Crowley steadily, body an anchor for Crowley to writhe and squirm against. The angel kept his body forward, letting his weight rest, firm but gentle, on Crowley’s chest.

Aziraphale buried his head in Crowley’s neck, and automatically long legs and arms came up to wrap around and pull Azirphale close, both panting with each stroke.

This is what Crowley had wanted all day, had been begging for it. The need had been spoken by twitchy energy and a violent shove and Aziraphale had heard it, had read Crowley like he always did and given it to him. Gave him everything he wanted, except for the words I love you.

For some reason, the sex and the games they played felt safe in a way the words didn’t. Both still held a fear in their otherworldly hearts. The fear that perhaps those words, like a prayer, would be heard above and below, and that the power in them would shatter the wards they had built to keep this space safe. Fucking and love weren’t the same thing after all; it has been clear for hundreds of years now, that this particular activity was no more visible or condemnable than all the eating, drinking, and doing each other’s damned or blessed chores had been.

Aziraphale paused and took a deep breath. They could truly stay in this rhythm forever, but all things had to have an end, didn’t they? Wasn’t that divine will?

Cupping one hand behind Crowley’s neck and winding the other around his waist, Aziraphale lifted and drew Crowley’s body forward on the couch, moving him so his hips practically hung off the edge. All this Aziraphale without separating their connection. This position curled Crowley’s head into the back of the couch, but he was a bendy creature, and quite pliable in his current state.

“Crowley, my dear?”

“Mmrf?”

“Would you like to come for me?” Technically, it should have been impossible for a demon to look so wrecked, but Crowley was unique in that. His only response to the question was to bring his hand back to his clit and let his eyes flutter shut. He ran fingers up and down his wet slit, dipping down to explore around the shaft of Aziraphale’s cock where it entered him, thick and full, stilled for the moment.

This time, Crowley’s wordless response was enough of an answer for Aziraphale. With Crowley more forward on the couch, Aziraphale was able to bring Crowley’s legs up. Delightfully flexible was his demon. From this position he could stroke into Crowley with the full length of his member, deeply, thoroughly. Aziraphale lost himself in giving, enraptured as he watched Crowley circle his fingers over his clit, eyes half closed, incoherent with it all. Together they brought him to an orgasm.

The sound he made was choked back, as it always was, some part of him still scared that somehow, someone would overhear them. Some part of him needed to hold that shining love safe, and protect it. At least in that moment, he was blissfully free of the fear that the world that they so dearly loved, the world that gave them these moments of hedonism and pleasure, was about to end.

Aziraphale ground his hips in Crowley, as deep as he could go. Aziraphale was breathless, delighted as ever to be the one to reduce Crowley, debonair, quiffed and elegant Crowley, to such a state. Aziraphale shuddered as Crowley came around his cock, but the angel was not yet spent. Crowley was floppy, fuck-drunk, pliable and warm on the other side of his orgasm. Aziraphale slid his hands up long thighs to hold the backs of Crowley’s knees, knowing exactly how much weight he could lean there as he finally allowed himself to get lost in the sensations of Crowley’s warmth around him. In his own blissful moment after he came, Aziraphale couldn’t escape the thought that truly, this felt sacred. Perhaps the thought was profane, but he had learned long ago that even the Almighty could not see inside his mind. Or if she did, she did not disapprove.

As they untangled themselves, unfolding Crowley’s long body, the sweat and ejaculate simply disappeared, without thought or action from either of them. The pleasure they shared was indescribable, and it was the marvel of the sweaty, sticky human bodies that made it all possible. But why worry about a clean-up if you didn’t have to? A cosy blanket knew it was needed nearby, and the two of them settled on the couch and pulled the tartan fabric over them, Aziraphale tucking his back against the seatback, and drawing Crowley close to his chest.

Crowley had regained just enough of his faculties to start to feel something akin to nausea as he settled his back to Aziraphale’s chest, firm arms drawing him close. If not now, then when? If he didn’t speak the words that gave shape to the luminescent glow inside him now, would he get another chance?

He knew what Aziraphale would say if he asked something like that. Hold fast, my dear, we’ll sort it out, there won’t be a war, you worry too much, I have faith in the Almighty, pip pip

Crowley felt ill with fear even as he felt all the tension melt out of his body, warm in Aziraphale’s arms. Their bodies somehow fit so perfectly together. Almost as though they had made these forms for each other. He was afraid that perhaps, despite everything, he hadn’t gone fast enough, and that they were both about to run out of time. Overwhelmed from the spanking, the sex, and the safety of the space the two of them created inside of the shop, he closed his eyes, feeling tears squeeze out.

Navigating by touch, Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s wrist to his mouth. He wished that he could draw a little of that faith into himself through the pulse there, so he kissed the inside of the wrist. Feeling the gentle throb of Aziraphale’s blood on his lips, he sent out a prayer he feared fell on uncaring, callous ears.

Please Lord… just give us a little more time.

 Notes:

*arrives two years late with starbucks* "Why are so many people determined to see Crowley as the top in this dynamic?" I ask my partner. They reply "It's because some people confuse brat energy with top energy. I can see where the mix up comes from."

Hope you enjoyed this piece, the first I've written in about five years. I may write a follow up where they actually DO get their love confessions out, but I couldn't resist the angst of it all.

[ieattaperecorders]

“What have you done?” for jmart prompts?

Canon divergent, 1.8k, set at the end of S2. Prompt from here.

---

The only good news was that Martin was too tired to think anymore. After the twisting maze of hallways, after the chaos that followed, the police and questioning, he'd gone numb. His emotions had settled until all he felt was a small, quiet weight in his chest. And it was a relief to think that soon he'd be asleep, unable to feel even that.

Two corpses in less than six months. He really didn't like the pattern that was forming.

As he approached the door to his flat -- debating whether to shower and change, or throw himself fully clothed onto the bed --he noticed movement coming from an alcove at the end of the hall. He froze, staring, and the figure stepped into the light.

“Martin. Hello. Um . . . glad I caught you at home.”

Jon’s voice was startlingly steady, as if he was just there to run over some files or something. His body language told the real story -- shifting from one foot to another, holding himself at the elbows and glancing uneasily around.

“J- Jon!?” Martin caught himself just in time, and what might have been a shout came out as a sharp, strained whisper instead. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I need to speak to you . . . I -- I’ve learned some things, and I have to tell you now because I might not be able to later. I think I’ve attracted some, ah, negative attention.”

“No shit!" he kept his voice down, putting the volume into his gestures. "I just spent an hour talking to the police . . . they're probably watching my flat to see if you come here. Which you did!" He waved his arms in Jon's direction. "Why would you come here?!"

"I'm fairly sure I wasn't seen . . . I got in through the fire escape, the window wasn't even locked," he frowned, gesturing back to the other end of the hall. "You really ought to speak with your landlord about making this building more secure."

"Jesus, Jon . . . ."

"And I'm here because you're in danger, Martin," he took a step closer, and Martin felt himself tense. "You and Tim both. But I couldn't . . . Tim wouldn't listen to me if I tried . . . " he glanced at the door to the flat. "May I come in?"

It occurred to Martin that he probably needed to make a decision now. He could call the police, and either coax Jon into staying until they arrived or let him flee into the night. Otherwise . . . well, doing anything besides that would probably land him in trouble if any of his neighbors saw them talking out here.

Jon looked like hell. Disheveled, visibly sweating, clothes smeared with streaks of grey dust. But no blood, Martin noticed. Not a drop.

He was probably going to regret this. Without another word, he opened the door.

Jon seemed to relax a little once inside, out of the semi-public space of the hall. Martin glanced at the windows, relieved to see he'd closed the blinds before leaving that day.

"If I'm making a really big mistake," Martin sighed, locking the door, "and you've come here to kill me or something, I'd appreciate you just getting on with it. It's been a long day."

"Wh--" Jon glared at him. "Of course I'm not . . . don't be ridiculous."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Is it upsetting to have someone imply you might be a murderer?" Martin was too tired to resist the mean little edge slipping into his voice. "I wouldn't know, personally."

Jon winced. "I . . . deserve that. I do. But I promise, I -- I'm not a danger to you. I wouldn't -- and I'm not even armed." He raised his hands above his head. "You can pat me down for weapons if you like."

For a moment Martin stared, then sighed and shook his head. "I'll pass."

He walked to the chair nearby and sank down into it. Whatever this was, Martin was at least going to be comfortable for it. Jon lowered his arms and briefly glanced around as if deciding whether he should sit as well, but remained standing.

"I didn't kill him . . . " Jon sighed. "But I don't have any proof, and I know I've been . . . erratic lately. I suppose I can't blame you if you don't believe me."

When he'd found the body, Martin hadn't known what to think. The horror of the scene had been too much, and yeah, he'd had the same thought as Tim -- the same thought as nearly everyone, it seemed. But it didn't feel right. Jon had been reclusive and paranoid, and maybe there was something deeper there that Martin wasn't qualified to guess at. But even if he was full-on delusional, that didn't mean he was violent.

Martin supposed that was what everyone said about killers, that they didn't seem capable of it, they weren't the type. But Jon was still a terrible liar. And there wasn't any blood on his clothes.

". . . I believe you. At least I believe you didn't kill anyone. But, Jon -- God, you've got to know how bad this looks. A body is found in your office, and you go missing. You're not the only one, either, no one can get a hold of Sasha, and it's not as if--"

A pained sound came from Jon, cutting Martin off.

"Sasha's dead," he whispered, and Martin felt his entire body go cold. "She's -- she's been dead for months, and we didn't know, none of us knew and we just kept going as if it was her . . . ."

The tremor in his body reached his voice, his words kept coming, less and less comprehensible. Martin stood and held out his hands, carefully.

"Okay. All right. Just . . . calm down and tell me what happened . . . from the beginning."

It was a little jumbled and twice Jon had to go back and fill in details, but he managed to get it across. What Melanie had seen, what had been on the tape. The thing that had chased him through the tunnels and how he'd been saved by Jurgen freaking Leitner of all people. What Leitner had told him about Gertrude and Elias, and the . . . stranger things he'd said about vast supernatural powers. By the time it was done, Martin's head was spinning.

"That's why I had to warn you . . . " Jon finished, now sat on the far end of Martin's couch, legs drawn up against himself. "Elias killed Gertrude, and I think he might have killed Leitner too, I don't know who else would have done it. And then there's what he said about the Institute. I don't know what it means, exactly, but . . . it isn't good, Martin."

"Okay . . . okay." The idea of dark gods in upper management was too much for Martin to deal with before a good night's sleep. The more tangible parts, that he could focus on. "Jon . . . you need to tell someone about this."

"Why do you think I'm--"

"I mean, like, the police! If you think Elias did this--"

"Who's going to believe me, Martin?" He tilted his head at him sadly. "Like you said . . . it looks bad. How do you imagine they'd react if I came in rambling about dopplegangers and magic books, then went on to accuse a man who can change security footage of murdering someone I've expressed hatred for on tape?"

"Fair point." Martin sighed. He could still picture the hostile, condescending looks he'd been given when he'd tried to explain about Michael.

"But . . . do you believe me?"

"I think I do, yeah," he said after a pause. "I think I saw the -- the Sasha-thing. In the tunnels. I believe you."

Jon let out a long, relieved breath. Martin continued.

"But Jon, you still can't be here. They're going to be watching all of us, it's honestly lucky they didn't see you already."

"I know. I wouldn't ask that, I just came to explain things to you," he sighed, getting to his feet. "I'll leave the way I got in. You should call the police after I go, tell them that you tried to convince me to turn myself in but that I refused. That way if anyone learns I was here, you won't be implicated."

". . . Right."

Martin felt a pull he knew was irrational, to tell him not to go, to at least stay the night here where it was safe. But he knew that was a bad idea. The longer Jon stayed, the more likely things would go badly for both of them. It looked like things would go badly for Jon either way.

It hit him very hard that this might be the last time they saw one another.

"Do you need anything?" Martin asked, reaching for his wallet. "I don't think I have much cash on me, but --"

"Oh . . . No, I . . . that's not necessary," Jon's voice had grown very quiet, and he had a strange look on his face. "I went to an ATM and took out everything as soon as I could. But thank you."

"Are you . . ." he cut himself off. He'd nearly asked Jon if he was going to be all right. Seemed foolish given the circumstances, less of an actual question and more of a plea. Instead, he took a breath and asked, "where are you going to go?"

"I think it's better if you don't know that. Plausible deniability and all."

"Right, let me rephrase that. If the police ask me where I think you're going, what's someplace where you won't be I can suggest?"

"Oh. Oh." Jon swallowed, and looked at him gratefully. "Outside London, I think. And . . . thank you."

Martin nodded. There was nothing more to say. No more excuses to keep him here.

"Be safe," he said, knowing he wouldn't.

Jon nodded. "You as well. Be careful . . . and don't trust Elias."

Then he was out the door, and gone again.

Martin sat in his apartment, alone, long enough to practice what he would say to the police, and long enough for Jon to get some distance away. Then he made the call. He wasn't going to get any sleep that night.

[robininthelabyrinth]

My prompt is just more trans au. Various people reacting to baobei. Just i love trans au so much thank u for this gift.

Baobai Pt 1 - on tumblr, on ao3

-

“Oh, hey, you have a kid,” Wei Wuxian said, out of lack of any other conversational topics that weren’t ‘so are you here to kill us all?’. Kids were usually a good, neural topic, especially when they were that small. “Look at her, she’s so tiny! Her parents know you brought her out here?”

“She’s da-ge’s,” Lan Xichen said with a smile and a nod towards Nie Mingjue, who as tall and terrifying as always. He was glowering at the half-grown radish fields as if he was personally offended by them.

“Congratulations, Chifeng-zun,” Wei Wuxian said to him, hoping to stave off any impending violence. The baby was young enough that the mom was probably still in isolation recovering, and maybe hadn’t consented to said baby being brought to the Burial Mounds of all places - certainly Wei Wuxian wouldn’t have agreed to cart a small infant all the way from Qinghe, and he’d thought mothers preferred to remain near their children in the few months after birth - but Wei Wuxian was not really in a position to object.

Certainly not after the quick work Nie Mingjue’s saber made of all of his defensive arrays. That man was scary.

“Thank you,” Nie Mingjue said, and it was awkward for a moment until he added, “Pain in the ass to acquire.”

That made everything better: Wei Wuxian knew how to deal with snark. “Oh yeah? Carried her yourself, did you?”

“Ten fucking months,” Nie Mingjue said, and Wei Wuxian laughed and shot Lan Xichen a wink, figuring that his stupid joke about having given birth to A-Yuan had made the rounds. Funny, he wouldn’t have pegged Lan Wangji to be the sort of person to pass on jokes…

At that point, Nie MIngjue twisted his head around to look at Wen Ning and Wen Qing, who were hovering nearby, trying to hide A-Yuan behind their legs, and said, “She’s your cousin three times removed, if I have my family tree down right, so stop being queasy and let the kid come see her.”

“Fuck,” Wen Qing said, and abruptly sat down. “I’m sorry.”

Wei Wuxian had the distinct feeling he was missing something, especially when Wen Ning’s expression shifted from equally puzzled to outright horrified.

“It’s not exactly your fault, you’re not soldiers,” Nie Mingjue said, and glared at the radish field again. “But in all seriousness: let the kid see her.”

Wen Qing waved a vague hand at A-Yuan, who correctly interpreted it as permission and zoomed over to the baby as fast as his little legs could carry him. He was in that another-kid-how-cool phase that all kids had, and babies were a particular fascination.

“You’re cousins?” Wei Wuxian asked Nie Mingjue, feeling a bit weird about. Three times removed wasn’t close, but still…of all people...“With the Wen sect? You?”

Nie Huaisang made a strangled noise that from anyone else Wei Wuxian would have said sounded a bit like he was going to imminently stab someone.

Nie Mingjue just gave Wei Wuxian a look like he was an idiot. 

“No,” he said very slowly. “I’m not.”

Wei Wuxian continued not to get it, right up until he glanced at Wen Ning who mouthed a name at him and – wait, but no, that’s impossible – but he’d have to be – wait, he was from Qinghe –

Wei Wuxian suddenly noticed that he had sat down on the ground as well at some point.

“Pain in the ass,” he said blankly. “Right.”

Nie Huaisang was glaring at him like he really was going to pull out his never-used saber to start chopping Wei Wuxian into bits, and honestly that might be a preferable option to the sheer awkwardness of having just put two and two together like that in front of so many people. Maybe he could use demonic cultivation to open the ground up beneath him? It’d never been done before, but then again, that was most things he did…

“Why are people so weird about babies?” Nie Mingjue complained, picking up the baby in one arm and a giggling and blissfully ignorant A-Yuan in the other, swinging them both around a bit. “They’re like – lumps of little people. We were all babies once. It’s not that weird.”

“You heard him,” Jin Guangyao said to Wei Wuxian with a smile that looked like it had daggers in it. “It’s not weird at all. Right?”

“Right!” Wei Wuxian said hastily.

Apparently scary people flocked together. Though, did that mean there something he was missing about Lan Xichen..?

-

Lan Xichen smiled at Jin Guangyao, who smiled back. That was really the only good thing about these discussion conferences, he thought – they were long and draining and he had to meet a lot of people he didn’t want to see (Sect Leader Yao ranked highly), but he got to spend a great deal of time with his sworn brothers, which he didn’t often manage. And, really, that made everything worth it.

“How are things going?” he asked in an undertone, scanning Jin Guangyao with his eyes. Madame Jin did not have the reputation for being a kind woman, especially not about her husband’s affairs, and he couldn’t help but worry.

“Manageable,” Jin Guangyao assured him, though it wasn’t really that comforting. “It helps that this conference isn’t at Jinlin Tower – less to arrange, less work to fall on my shoulders. It’s positively easy by comparison. When did you arrive? We’ve been here for a shichen already, setting up.”

“Just now. They’re still moving our things into our rooms –”

“Er-ge! San-ge!” Nie Huaisang’s voice rang out, sharp and clear and murderous; they both turned to look at him at once to try to determine if it was the sort of murderous that meant someone had bought out a painting he’d liked before he got there or if it someone had actually offended him. He had a fixed smile on his face, which boded no one any good. “I was just looking for you. I want to chat.”

“What happened?” Lan Xichen asked, looking around – they were more or less alone, and a quick hand-seal made it so that they wouldn’t be easily overheard. “Did someone do something to Baobei…?”

He couldn’t believe they still hadn’t named her, the poor thing.

(Jin Guangyao had briefly been lobbying for them to name her A-Shi, but then Nie Mingjue told him that if he wanted to have a girl named Nie Shi he ought to man up and sire her himself, and ever since then Jin Guangyao had been proposing different names entirely. Possibly he was concerned Nie Mingjue would take back the offer if he used up the name.)

“Surely not,” Jin Guangyao said. “In the middle of the Lotus Pier…?”

“Not Baobei,” Nie Huaisang said. “But your father just figured out who carried her, and he just – he put his hands – he said he had the right to check on account of da-ge having misled them –”

Lan Xichen observed, a little distantly, that he’d previously thought that the phrase ‘seeing red’ was an exaggeration, rather than a perfectly accurate description.

“Did da-ge rip him to pieces?” Jin Guangyao asked, sounding as if he was very much in favor of that result.

“He did not,” Nie Huaisang said. “You know how he is during these conferences; he’s far too reserved. Slapped his hands away but didn’t do anything else about it.”

“Surely that would put an end to it…?” Lan Xichen suggested, mildly hopeful, but the expression on Jin Guangyao and Nie Huaisang’s face did not fill him with much expectation.

“He’ll try something,” Jin Guangyao said flatly. His voice tremored briefly, full of rage even he couldn’t hide, and he gripped his hands together tightly. “He will try something.”

“Sect Leader Jiang will help us keep them separate for the conference,” Nie Huaisang said. “He still hasn’t figured out the details of Baobei’s parentage, I think he’s convinced himself that men just bear children – in some way that man is as dumb as a rock, same as when we were teenagers, I don’t know how anyone is that gullible – but he’s offended on da-ge’s behalf anyway. But when the conference is over for the evening…”

“It would be unfilial of me to plan my own father’s assassination,” Jin Guangyao said, and his eyes slide towards Lan Xichen, questioning. “But if you wanted to have a theoretical discussion regarding the security system at Jinlin Tower, and the weaknesses thereof…”

“Yes,” Lan Xichen said, putting aside all concerns regarding the morality of assassinations, and found that he didn’t regret the decision one bit. He’d barely tolerated that lecher when he had no choice, when he was Jin Guangyao’s father and a powerful sect leader. But putting his hands on da-ge – thinking of doing more – “Let’s have that...theoretical discussion.”

“I knew I could count on you two,” Nie Huaisang said with satisfaction. “So here’s what I was thinking –”

-

One of the worst days of Nie Huaisang’s life started quite normally – waking up when his brother lifted him bodily out of bed and slung him over his shoulder.

“Da-ge!” he yelped. “Da-ge, no – it’s too early –”

“If you stayed up late, that’s your own problem,” his brother said with the sort of purposeful cheerful sadism that only a person who actually enjoyed waking up with the sun to go train could employ. “I told you yesterday that we were going to be training this morning.”

“But da-ge –”

“You missed the last three days. You’re not missing today.”

But it’s so fucking early, Nie Huaisang thought despairingly, drooping into dead weight over his brother’s shoulder – not that that helped, of course. His brother was too damn strong.

“Are you sure you’re not taking out your feelings about getting fat on me?” he asked, poking at his brother’s somewhat-rounder-than-usual waist. “That peacetime bulge of yours hasn’t gotten any smaller, you know…”

In all honestly, Nie Huaisang was delighted by the small swell of his brother’s usually flat stomach. His brother wasn’t vain – his body was a tool shaped for purpose – and the idea that his brother had finally let go enough, whether by eating more or resting more, to actually gain some weight…

“Whatever you say, pork bun,” his brother said, and Nie Huaisang yelped and hit him because he was not a pork bun! No matter how pale or chubby he might become!

It was a hot day, which of course made going through the steps of training even more miserable than usual. His brother was patient as always, showing him the steps and then making him repeat them a few times before starting up his own morning training routine; after a while, they both got into a nice rhythm, swings and chops.

Training wasn’t that bad, especially when it meant he could spend more time with his always-busy brother. He still didn’t like it, and obviously he had a reputation to uphold, and yes, it was obnoxious to get up early...but it could be worst.

And then, just as Nie Huaisang was turning to tell his brother a joke he’d heard the day before, he saw his brother abruptly turn pale and fall over.

He even dropped Baxia.

“Da-ge!” Nie Huaisang screamed, a thousand ancient fears rearing their heads at once, and he rushed over at top speed. “Someone get a doctor! Quick!”

Not a qi deviation, not a qi deviation, don’t be a qi deviation, he prayed, dropping to his knees next to his brother, who was already waking up – eyes clear, not red, and looking more confused than anything else. He’s too young, I’m not ready, I can’t lose him, not him, not yet, please –

On Nie Huaisang’s instructions, some of the nearby retainers helped Nie Mingjue back inside, even though he was insisting that he was fine.

“You collapsed,” Nie Huaisang snapped at him. “In morning training. You are going to see a doctor, and that’s final.”

Nie Mingjue held up his hands in surrender, looking amused at Nie Huaisang’s uncharacteristic fierceness. His amusement faded into sympathy when he realized why Nie Huaisang was so tense – their father’s death had hit them both hard – and he pulled Nie Huaisang into his arms for a hug.

“It’s not that,” he said confidently. “Not yet. The doctor will tell you.”

The doctor’s face did something funny, though, when he listened to Nie Mingjue’s pulse. Not the oh-no-it-really-is-a-minor-qi-deviation sort of funny or even a nah-total-fluke-you’re-overreacting sort of funny, more of a what-the-fuck sort of funny.

“What is it?” Nie Huaisang demanded. He knew enough medicine – the entire Nie sect knew enough medicine – to understand most basic diagnoses, as well as what they might mean for future health. “What type of pulse?”

The doctor hesitated.

“Well?” Nie Mingjue said. “Spit it out.”

“…a joy pulse,” the doctor said. “About five months, I’d guess.”

For a moment Nie Huaisang didn’t understand. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what a joy pulse was – he did have female friends, some of whom were now mothers – nor that he didn’t know that his brother was capable of carrying, he’d known that forever.

It was just that his brother was an antisocial misanthrope. He didn’t have any lovers, as far as Nie Huaisang knew, which meant he shouldn’t have a joy pulse. 

Besides, five months ago they were still at war! His brother took his duties far too seriously to waste time on a battlefield dallying with someone, anyone, and especially not if there was a major battle around that time. Five months ago there must have been one – which one was it?

Five months…the main force of the army had gone up from Xingtai to Shijiazhuang six months ago, and then there would have been – Yangquan.

Yangquan.

When his brother had been duped by false information into leading an attack on what should have been a mostly abandoned outpost, but which turned out to be in the middle of being reinforced by Wen Ruohan personally – when his brother had been captured – tortured – and even -

“Shit,” his brother said, presumably realizing at that exact moment that Nie Huaisang was capable of math and also dates and possibly even logic. “Doctor, you can go, thank you.”

Nie Huaisang didn’t even hear the doctor leave.

“Huaisang…didi…” His brother was trying to pull him into a hug, but Nie Huaisang didn’t want one, struggling unsuccessfully to get away. He didn’t want to be any closer to – to that – to the creature sitting his brother’s stomach, weighing him down; to what he’d thought was a sign of peace and good times and what was actually nothing more than yet another scar left by the war.

He’d actually been happy about it, and the thought twisted his stomach.

“Can you get rid of it?” he asked, voice strangled. “You can, right? It’s still early…”

“Five months is pretty close to quickening,” his brother said, wincing. “After quickening, the medicines don’t work as well. It might not be that easy.”

“Do you know how dangerous childbirth is?!” Nie Huaisang demanded. His mouth was moving on automatic; he wasn’t even thinking about what he was saying. He wasn’t thinking of anything, anything at all, because if he was thinking he’d have to think – he’d have to – his brother – “What if it kills you? You can’t let them kill you! Not after everything we did to avenge A-die!”

“I’m not going to die,” Nie Mingjue said, holding him tightly, his chin on Nie Huaisang’s head the way they always where when they hugged. “I’m a very good cultivator, Huaisang. My golden core will keep me healthy, even if I start bleeding…it won’t be like your mother. I promise.”

Nie Huaisang started shaking. “Da-ge,” he whimpered, pressing his face into his brother’s shoulder. “Da-ge, tell me…”

“Anything,” his brother promised, and he’d regret that promise in another moment, Nie Huaisang knew, the question would only cause him pain, but he needed to know. The second they were out of this situation his brother would clam up, pretend that nothing had happened and that it was all fine, so if he had questions – and he did – then he needed to answer them now.

“Was it – who was it? Was it him?”

His brother stilled.

“You said you’d tell me,” Nie Huaisang reminded him.

“…I don’t know,” his brother said. “I don’t – it could be. But it might be – someone else.”

There had been more than one, then. Nie Huaisang swallowed back bile, wanting to be sick. His father’s murderer had forced himself on his brother, and he’d let others do the same, and now they had to deal with the fallout.

“I want to kill them,” he whispered. “I want – I want them dead – all of them –”

“If it’s anything, I’ve made a pretty good head start on that already?” his brother offered, and of course his brother was trying to find some levity in a terrible situation. “We broke them, Huaisang. Even if some individuals remain, there’s no Wen sect left. If I do end up keeping it, the child won’t have a paternal family to lay a claim – they’ll be surnamed Nie. Another Nie, like you and me. You’ll be their uncle; you have to forgive them, it wasn’t their fault...you have to spoil them rotten.”

His brother’s thumb wiped away some of Nie Huaisang’s tears.

“You’ll be a good uncle, didi,” he murmured, pressing his lips to Nie Huaisang’s brow. “If the child is surnamed Nie, that’s all that matters.”

“People will know,” Nie Huaisang pointed out. “About you, about…I’m not the only one who can do math. We won’t…it can’t be kept quiet, can it? People will know. About you, about - what happened.”

“Let people know,” his brother, brave as ever, said with an indifferent shrug. “What do I care? In the end, it’s just another way to show that even when they threw everything they had against me, I still won.”

-

“What a charming child you have,” the young man from the mountain – Xiao Xingchen, he said his name was, and he was already famous despite having only been around for a few months – said, smiling down at her. “She’s beautiful.”

Nie Mingjue was not currently feeling especially kindly disposed towards human reproduction at the moment, being currently heavy with his second – the world needed more Nies, he wanted more Nies, children to keep Nie Huaisang company if that qi deviation he was promised ever actually turned up, and he had a very good list of cultivators with various pros and cons willing to help him introduce some more diversity into the Nie bloodline to try to minimize the chance of future qi deviations for his descendants, but at the same time he hated waddling around like a stuffed hippo with a bunch of people insisting that he not even think of physical exertion – but he nodded his thanks regardless.

At least for once someone wasn’t going to comment about the child’s parentage, he reflected wryly. There was only so much purposeful playing dumb a man could do, and the first year or so of his little baobei’s life – by the time they’d finally gotten around to trying to name her, the nickname had stick so firmly that they’d succumbed to reality and made her given name A-Bao, though of course, it being Qinghe, no one actually called her that – had really strained his tolerance in that specific regard. 

It was the quickest way to avoid awkwardness, to pass along the information while avoiding conversations he didn’t want to have, but still…

Nobody brought up on a celestial mountain would know about Wen Ruohan, though. He was pretty sure of that.

“And I see you’re expecting another? Sometime soon..?”

“I am,” Nie Mingjue said. “Soon enough.”

Not soon enough. He wanted to go back to training – why did he keep getting high blood pressure no matter how much medicine he took?

“I see,” Xiao Xingchen said. “You’ll have to let me give you a gift of some sort. Do you have a favorite form of cloth?”

Nie MIngjue blinked at him. “Cloth?”

That was a strange gift. Did Xiao Xingchen think that his sect was so poor that he couldn’t cloth a child?

Xiao Xingchen – who was really quite young – blushed red, the color going all the way to his ears.

“I’m sorry for my presumption,” he said, then hesitated, before saying, very delicately, “Have you finished preparing the nest for the egg, then?”

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Fading Falsehoods (Part 18)

The princess goes completely pale. 

“I…” Suki starts. The princess’ abrupt admission hangs in the air with a crushing weight. She forces what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “Sure, I’ll stay. Just let me get some pillows, I wasn’t expecting you to let me stay.” And based on the look upon her face, Suki is damn sure that Azula wasn’t expecting to let her stay either. Color is returning to her face in a flush so bright it make up for having been lost at all.

She ought to scurry away and get those pillows and blankets. She certainly starts to get up again but she pauses an sits back down, “you’re not a failure, Azula, you’re pushing yourself way too hard, that’s all.” 

“I was given a mission. The mission was to find rogue spirits and vanquish them. How many spirits did I vanquish?”

Suki grimances. 

“How many?” She repeats. And when Suki still doesn’t reply, she answers for herself. “None. If the mission entailed vanquishing spirits and I managed to defeat an astounding none, would you call that a successful mission or a failed mission?”

“There were no rogue spirits to fight. Just one confused one.” Suki tries. 

“Fantastic, that would mean that I hadn’t even gotten to the actual target before failing.” 

“I…you…” Suki grits her teeth. Maybe she should get Mai. She thinks that Mai would know how to talk to Azula better than she. “We gave you a mission that we couldn’t even succeed at as a team. How were you supposed to do it alone?” 

Azula pulls the blanket up to her chin, wraps herself in it very tightly. “I should be able to do it alone. I would have been able to if Zuko hadn’t dumped me off at that institution.” There is the slightest tremble in her voice and for a moment it sounds as though she will cry. But she doesn’t, of course she doesn’t. Azula isn’t a cryer.

“Yeah, maybe that’s true.” She agrees. “Maybe you’d have completed the mission by now if you didn’t get locked up. But it happened, you did, and now you need to give yourself time to heal. You’d have probably been back in fighting shape already if you didn’t constantly go overboard during training.” She regrets speaking so freely even before a flicker of shock and anger flashes upon Azula’s face. It cools and Suki readies herself to sigh at one of the girl’s carefully articulated replies. 

Instead Azula answers with a rather childish, “I wouldn’t have had to go overboard if you didn’t show off.” Frankly, Suki finds it amazing that she was able to say it with as much poise and elegance as any of her more carefully chosen words. 

“I wasn’t showing off! You asked me not to hold back!”

“One armed push up…?” Azula quirks a brow. 

This time Suki flushes. “I wasn’t…I…that was. You started it!” Just like she’s starting it now. “I’m trying to help you and you’re being so difficult!” 

“Then why bother?” Azula asks. 

She almost tells her that she isn’t sure. But one look at the princess with her tired eyes, her split lip, and her bandaged ribs is reminder enough. And that’s without hearing soft echos of, ‘I’m a failure.’ Maybe she wouldn’t feel like one if she wasn’t surrounded by so many ridiculously successful people. Success that is, perhaps, built on the bones and rotting corpse of her former glory.  Suki sighs. “Do you still want me to stay with you? Because I can leave if you hate me that much.” 

The princess flashes her a vicious snarl. But her words don’t match it. “I don’t want you to leave.” 

She is angry but she still doesn’t want to be alone. 

“Alright, I’ll be back in a moment.” This time she doesn’t give the princess anytime to strike up another quarrel. 

.oOo.

Azula’s tummy is full of jitters and flutters, a nervous tingle that is branching out into her chest and head. She had very much meant to tell the Kyoshi Warrior to fuck off–in a more dignified manner, of course. Instead she had invited the Suki to come back and keep her company. 

Agni, she needs company. 

Good company. 

Company that doesn’t make her feel inadequate and foolish. 

She doesn’t think that she will get that here. 

She chances rolling onto her side only to wince and roll back onto her back. She lets her fingers brush against the scabbing split on her lower lip and then to graze over the bandages. For a while they linger there, resting against her aching ribs as if she can will the pain away. And then her fingers find that tender, swollen spot on her throat. The tingle is nearly unbearable now. She wonders how much more damage she can take before she finally succumbs and disintegrates into nothing at all.

She practically is nothing at all already. 

Decidedly, being confined to a bed is not much better than being stuck at the Golden Scale. Suki is practically as aggravating and patronizing as any of those nurses and doctors who like to pretend that they know what’s best for her. 

Suki makes her way into the room and drops her bedding onto the floor. “Here I got you some soup and some lycee berry juice. Aang wanted to give you more tea but I thought that maybe you’d like something different?” 

Begrudgingly, Azula takes the bowl. With any luck, the soup will soothe that itch. She makes a point of focusing on the noodles and vegetables swirling in the broth. “Don’t you dare tell Zuzu…” she grumbles more to the soup bowl than to Suki. 

“Don’t tell Zuko what?” Suki asks before almost immediately saying, “oh.” She takes a few mouthfuls of noodles. “I won’t mention our conversation to anyone else.” 

She doesn’t need any of them to realize just how weak she is. 

They eat in silence and when she is finished she is dismayed to find that the soup hadn’t helped with the tingling in the slightest. She places the bowl on the nightstand and stares at the ceiling. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Suki asks. 

“Talk about what?”

“Anything.”

There is a part of her that does and another part, equal in strength, that knows that she shouldn’t. That it is safer to keep her feelings where they belong–inside–until she can get a better handle on them. She will tell Suki that she’d like nothing more than for her to mind her own business and she will be done with this silly debate. Her voice betrays her again, “sort of.” And for just a moment the tingling seems to fade.

Suki smiles, “alright, what do you want to talk about.” 

“I don’t know.” 

Suki hums to herself. “What did they do to you in that institute? What was so bad…?”

“I don’t want to talk about that!” She cuts in. She doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to think about how one moment of weakness, the slightest touch of madness had ruined her completely. 

“Do you hate me?” Suki asks. 

To say yes should have come so naturally. It should have rolled prettily off her tongue.  “I’m not sure.”  The itching is almost bearable now.

“I guess I can work with that.” Suki shrugs. 

Azula’s face is beginning to flush again. Why can’t she get her words to match her thoughts? Her speech to match her intentions…? She touches her throat again and her stomach pluments. If this is what Dorotoko has done to her then she is a doomed woman.

“You didn’t mean that, did you? You have to know that you are a strong person.”

Azula tightens her grip on the blanket. She should run a little test, should see if she can still shake her head in a way that matches what she is thinking. But not with this question. So she holds herself rigidly saying nothing at all. The itching returns as a slight tingle. 

She wonders if this thing can kill her. Wonders if the seed will sprout and grow and choke her if she doesn’t speak. It will get her killed if she does speak. 

“What makes you think that?” Azula returns with a question. The itch doesn’t subside but it doesn’t worsen. 

Suki shrugs. “I don’t know. You’ve been through a lot. I think that most people would have given up by now. You haven’t though.”

Azula stares at her palms. 

“You’ll keep fighting, right?” 

She isn’t sure why the woman wants her to. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?” 

“You do.” Suki insists. “You could just give up. That’s not really like you though. And that’s why you’re a strong person. You’re a fighter.” 

She doesn’t like this circle talk. What she likes less is that the Kyoshi Warrior has the audacity to pretend to know anything about her at all. But one little glimpse and she thinks that she does. One little glimpse and she thinks that she has the right to get the full view. She’s just like them. Just like Kino with his needles and notepads. “Weak people keep fighting all the time, just look at Zuzu.” 

“You’re stronger than someone who doesn’t even have the courage to try.” 

“Bravery and strength aren’t the same.” Azula folds her arms across her chest. 

“Bravery is a type of strength.” Suki counters. 

“Perhaps. But it is the lowest tier.” Azula lays back down. “Such a low tier that it isn’t really important at all. What’s bravery if you can’t make anything of it? It’s useless.” She isn’t a brave person anyhow. She’s only here to get away from the institute. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but it flows like a stream. Rolls off of her tongue with the ease that telling Suki she hates her should have. 

At least the itching has dulled again.

But the sting that comes with seeing the pitying look on Suki’s face reaps any comfort. “Azula…” 

“You can leave now.” 

“But.” 

“Leave.”

[thesouthernpansy]

your hand, my hand (to hold it)

artemy burakh/daniil dankovsky

2,556 words

(here on ao3)

Dankovsky stands at the top of the staircase in his shirtsleeves. He's changed, again, from the last time you saw him, his eyes darker and his jaw weaker, but he takes your hands in his cool, gloved palms and tuts in that same distant, put-upon way he has.

“When was the last time you cleaned your fingernails?”

Even in pitch darkness, with your eyes closed, you could find your way back to him by his scolding.

“I think I have a few crumbs under there, I was saving them for later.”

Dankovsky tsks, not without humor. “I expect you'll try to convince me it's economical. Are you hungry? I have some bread and—well, I've been told it's trout, but who can tell these days. Some kind of smoked fish. It's yours if you'll wash up. Quid pro quo.”

Are you hungry? You wonder at his formality; you've been hungry for days.

His back is to you while he digs through his doctor's bag, the blades of his shoulders, the knife of his spine. Your fingers itch with the urge to touch, to run the pad of your thumb against his angles like it could draw blood.

“The townspeople are finally rubbing off on you, huh?”

Distracted thought creases a line between Dankovsky's brows. “Ah, the local bartering custom. You'll have to more fully explain the precise mechanics of the process to me at some point.”

It's heartening and unexpected progress, from him, the admission—the interest—though you refrain from saying as much.

True to his word, he sets out a generous heel of bread and paper-wrapped package bleeding fish-smelling oil. Leans his hip against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms across his narrow chest. The fine visible bones of his wrist, the pale exposed forearm, you could close your whole fist around them with space to spare.

“Where did all this come from, anyway? The Kains?”

Dankovsky stills, a sudden subtle tenseness, his gloves drawn tight across the knuckles.

“The doctor's fund,” he says shortly.

“Ah.” Guilt seeps through to tangle with the warmer sensation rising in your chest.

Dankovsky gestures dismissively, turning away. “Don't give me that martyred expression. You come to the hospital or you don't, all that's important is that progress is being made on the vaccine.”

“The panacea,” you correct him.

“Suum cuique. Do we have a deal or don't we?”

“The healer's hands are always bloodiest,” you say, half teasing.

Dankovsky satisfies it with a long-suffering sigh. “Don't you mean muddiest? By the looks of it you've been up to your elbows looking for your steppe herbs all morning.”

Always your herbs, an arrogant dismissal as if he doesn't by now have ample first-hand experience with the effectiveness of your painkillers, at least. It frustrates him doubly, you've gathered in time, that you insist on wasting your time with flowers rather than focus on the infinitely more practical and productive collection of infected human samples that Dankovsky continues to find himself unanimously denied.

Silence settles between you with gauzy tangibility, like the pest-thick air of the infected Bridge Square, grey-green and swimming-still.

An idea comes to you. Against the growing distance you lift your grime-streaked hands, palms open, up.

“With this I give you company. The road you walk is dangerous, but you don't walk it alone. I go with you, my help and my guidance.”

“Your guidance,” says Dankovsky, mostly to himself.

“What do you give me, oynon?”

Movement at the corner of his mouth. “Food. I had thought I made that clear.”

“A thing can be more than it is, more than an object to take up space in your hand. To give and take is to connect, a feeling or intention, or...” you falter, trying to remember. “Warmth. Kindness.”

Dankovsky bites out a laugh at that, harsh and short. “Kindness? In this town?”

“Comfort,” you persist. “Joy.”

“Nothing anyone has given me in this town has brought me joy.” He stops to look at you, then, though, to truly look. “I ought to give you rest, if I thought that you would take it.”

“You'd have to have it, first, to give it away.” Both of you well aware that this is the closest to rest you're likely to get today, and even that more than either of you can really afford.

Dankovsky turns towards the window, his jawline a taut cord of tension. His profile backlit with sickly light, casting him angular, severe, the unexpected stranger in the near-dark of Rubin's rooms. Near the hollow of his throat, the shadow of dark unshaven stubble, like a bruise.

“For all that it matters. What's the actual purpose of this asinine exercise?”

“I told you—” You reach out; his hair curls damply by his ear, the pulse quickening beneath your fingertips. “It's about connection.”

Prickling, “Warmth, yes, I remember. Here—”

He takes your wrist. Then, from the little shaving kit on the windowsill, a thin wedge of soap, soft from use. Presses it into your hand.

“Take...care.”

You have held human hearts in your hands, before—hot, and with the echo of beating still in them. Maybe this is nothing like that, but it echoes all the same.

“Thank you, oynon.”

“You're welcome...emshen.” At your smirk, “What? Didn't I pronounce it correctly?”

You shake your head, laughter on your tongue. “It's the vowels. They're tricky, if you didn't grow up with the language.”

“Don't you patronize me.” He swats you away and goes, muttering the word under his breath, to collect a washbasin and pitcher from beneath the bed. They're a matched set, not poor quality but plainly in disrepair, the enamel pattern chipped and cloudy. Dankovsky sloshes the basin half-full, notices your watching.

“Concerns, Burakh?”

“No, it looks clean.”

“Of course it's clean. I saw to its collection personally. Eva has been surprisingly diligent about boiling all the water she can gets her hands on, as well, for whatever good it does.”

“Cholera dies in boiled water,” you say absently. For a brief, suspended moment in Dankovsky's place you see the frightened woman in the Flank, her flat terrified eyes, her trembling fists.

Dankovsky frowns in dim recognition. “Someone else told me that recently. I can't recall who it was.”

“Maybe it was a dream.” Quick, careful efficiency as you strip away enough of your soiled smock to bare your arms.

“I have been having the strangest dreams,” he admits, voice soft. “Ever since I arrived here. I dream about walking, mostly, out across the steppe. I'm up to my knees in water and trying to reach something on the very edge of the horizon, or perhaps it's the horizon itself? And the sky is always red, dark red like blood, and I can feel in my bones that something is missing, as though the moon might not be there if I could think to look for it.”

Frown deepening, he shakes his head as if to clear the image. “In any case, perhaps it was a dream, then. I've been experiencing a great deal of déjàvu lately.”

The basin water murkies like a pre-storm dawn, greying lather sloughed away with the days' mud and blood and sweat. Like peeling back dead skin to see something fresh and pink underneath, new nerve endings, raw and receptive. It feels wrong, somehow. Dark water, clean hands.

“How do you imagine the Town will think of you when this is all over, after you're gone?”

“I don't,” says Dankovsky, clipped. “There are far more consequential matters that call for my attention. Who has time to worry about the opinions of small minds, with so much to do?”

Sanctimonious bastard.

“I do.” Gripping the edges of the washbasin like you could snap it in two, satisfying in the imagined sound of shattering, Dankovsky's startled expression, a rush of movement across the Stillwater's floorboards.

“Well, it's different for you, obviously. Being a local.”

You step away, scrubbing wet hands across your face. “I'm glad at least someone thinks that of me.”

Anger ebbs away in the ensuing silence. Then, the staccato click of Dankovsky's polished shoes accompanied by the faint sough of cloth. A towel, threadbare and yellowed, held like a surrender. You acquiesce, and Dankovsky pointedly avoids your gaze as he dries your hands with studious care.

“If you're...unsatisfied, here, you could always come to the Capital with me, when I return. Thanatica, or whatever's left of it, could benefit from your...unique perspective.”

His right hand in your left, points of articulation lined up—palm, wrist, knuckle, rib—and a warm thrum under your skin, heady and thick, like twyre bloom.

“That's a generous offer, oynon. You're right, though, I am a local. My place is here.”

“Yes,” he says. “well. I won't try to change your mind, if you're—”

“You could stay.”

Sudden, startled offense and dazed uncomprehending, Dankovsky's expression caught halfway between a sneer and something terrified. Defensive, cornered.

“I—here? No, what would I even—? No, no, I can't.”

“If you say so. I'll probably try to change your mind. Not right now. Later, when it matters.”

Dankovsky's eyes are sharp when they meet yours, lit with keen, unmasked curiosity. The full weight of his attention pierces like a pin punched through a beetle's jeweled carapace for display. A bright spot of pain in your chest, velvet at your back.

“You won't,” he says, weight in his words so you could almost see them falling out, bitten clean.

Fondness blooms in you at the thawing unease with which he holds himself, like a man who has forgotten how to be warm coming in from the cold. Reticent in a reluctant, guarded way you recognize, of all people, from Murky.

“I'll try anyway.”

A thin, unsteady laugh, reedy and nasal, and thenhe softens, all at once, deflating slightly, like a weight borne across his shoulders has been lifted free from him.

“Just so. Dum spiro, spero.”

“I don't know what that means.”

“I think you know,” he says carefully, “enough.”

Clearly, like a memory in your mind's eyes you see yourself kissing him, again and again, harsh and then tender, then tenderer still—the copper of blood on your teeth, the hazy, cooling steppe at dusk, the terrible sweet fever smell you know so well—a rush, like wind, like falling from a height, and here, constant, the place where the parallel nets of your lives snag and tangle.

Which is to say: what follows flows with the ease of the inevitable.

Dankovsky looks up, you look down.

The two of you meet in the middle.

The kiss starts slow, chaste and unsure and so nice; a pleased, helpless little sound escapes from you before you can think to stop it, and you feel Dankovsky's lips part slightly to form some wry response. You take it as an invitation, licking into the heat of his mouth, fingers threaded in the short hair at the nape of his neck. He shudders against you and moans, hitched breath and a deep, dreamy sigh that resonates like struck steel, pools low in your gut, molten and dark. Grasping, his hands find your waist, slide upwards to reel you close and keep you there.

Against your palm, the rabbit-pace of his pulse. Yours, sheltered against it. Dankovsky kisses you in the dim, stale Stillwater, and you think, the left and right hand. You think, yes.

Understanding: you are separate things like two hairs on a bull's back are separate, his heartbeat ending where yours begins without distinction. In the shared breaths caught between you, it's easy to believe that you could choose this—one vast, drumming heartbeat, one fast, endless line, strung through you soft and whole, tying indelibly together what you've feared would be inevitably torn apart. That after loss, losing, knowing what might still be lost, you could carve a harbor in the quiet and keep it shielded because you wanted it enough.

Behind you, the clock chimes the new hour. The adrenaline pumping in your blood start to sour.

“Fuck,” says Dankovsky, teeth scraping your lip.

You swallow thickly. “Is it two already?”

“Three, I think.” Focused on a point past your shoulder, his hands still under your shirt and his eyes already terribly far away.

“Shudkher.”

“You have somewhere else need to be.”

“I—yes.”

He nods, stepping away. His warmth goes with him. Clearing his throat, righting his clothes, you watch his expression shutter closed and feel like a limb that has been too long in a cast, pallid and shriveled and weak. Regret twists its clammy thorns around your heart, but there's nothing you can apologize for, nothing that it would fix.

“I'm sorry,” you say anyway.

Dankovsky shakes his head. “What for? Unless you're responsible for this whole wretched plague I can't accept that from you. And if you are responsible I wouldn't accept it it anyway, my reaction would be the furthest thing from forgiveness. Besides, it isn't as though I don't have work of my own to do.”

He recovers your discarded smock from the floor, gives it a vigorous shake. You take it from him, and he promptly busies himself elsewhere while you redress, the conspicuous return to silence aching in your joints like the promise of rain.

Dankovsky breaks it first. “Here, can you carry this?”

A hastily-wrapped parcel of waxed canvas, secured with a pair of safety pins that recently-acquired instinct hones in on immediately—that girl by the Trammel had been looking for pins, and she'd had a fingernail coin she was willing to trade—so that full focus returns with the thing in your hands and a stiff, dour set to Dankovsky's shoulders, the pull of his mouth. Unreachable, resigned.

“What is it?”

“My side of our bargain.” Hesitant, almost amused. “You didn't think I'd try to rescind our deal just because you can't stay for tea. Tell me you'll remember to eat it before it spoils.”

“I'll do my best.” Shifting aside bundles of twyre to tuck the food into your bag, as if you won't be tearing it open again as soon as you're outside.

“See that you do. I...be careful out there, Burakh.”

“You too, oynon.”

A fluid moment, blood pulled through the chambers of a heart, singing and open like the bare vein of Mother Boddho at the base of a tree. Pregnant with the promise of movement, the exposed unspoken, a restlessness that settles, itching, into the red of your marrow.

You wonder if Dankovsky would let you kiss him goodbye.

“Did you need something else, or are you just going to stand there hulking behind me while I work?”

The skin of tension splits, relief trickling out in a thin line.

“I'm going, I'm going, no need to force me out.”

“As if I could.” The formality of irritation over unmistakable affection.

You reach out and take his hand. Dankovsky watches warily, frowning as you peel back the edge of the clean black glove, but makes no move to stop you. The bare cradle of his palm still smells faintly of leather when you curve towards it, pressing your lips against the skin.

Dankovsky's eyes don't leave you even after you release him, fingers curling closed.

“Warmth,” he says softly, “yes, I see.”