#flippant tags to distract from emotions

[stoppit-keepout]

when nobody is listening

Kissing prompt 8. Laying a gentle kiss to the back of the other’s hand. (I realise most of the prompts are v romantic, but I listened to some Mountain Goats and couldn’t stop myself from writing sad things, oops. Title from Long Neck’s Rosy)

Heads-up: this is about Nile Freeman’s family dealing with death--hers and her father’s.

Tony has a few memories of Dad’s funeral. They have hard edges, and they shine through tears, crystalline.

Auntie Kai singing Amazing Grace, a red flower on her black dress. Mom pressing a kiss to his praying hands. “Come here,” collecting him roughly into her arms with Nile, God, Nile.

He’s not going to remember Nile’s funeral. He’s not going to go.

He tells Mom while she’s making a salad to go with dinner on Thursday. Auntie Kai dropped off lasagna and tried to stay, but Mom wasn’t ready to see her, see anyone yet, so it’s just the two of them.

“What do you mean ‘I can’t go,’ you got plans?” The retort comes fast, before she’s looked at him.

Mom’s always on the move--ADD, Nile calls it, though who knows for sure--and it’s only gotten worse since they got the news. Since Tuesday.

There’s a lot to do, she says when Tony asks if she wants breakfast, and she can see the TV from where I’m ironing, thanks, baby, you just watch your show, and she’s just going to call Father Willem to make sure everything’s set, but she’ll go to bed soon, she promises.

“I can’t,” he says. His grief presses a greedy hand across his throat, strangles the rest of what he’d wanted to say.

Mom knocks over the salad dressing. The plastic thunks when it hits the counter. “Baby,” she says, and she’s there.

Tony pushes his face into her shoulder, and her hands push against the back of his head too, hiding his twisting sobs in her at-home sweater. “I can’t, Mom, she’s gotta come back,” the words lurching out around his crying.

“Shh,” Mom says, and holds him tighter. “I’ve got you.” Her voice trembles so hard that it shakes the bones in Tony’s legs, and they’re folding, Mom slowing his fall, but both going down together.

“Who’s gonna keep me out of trouble now?” Tony doesn’t know if anyone but Mom would be able to understand the words, they’re so clawed-up from tears; he doesn’t know if they really make sense, but it was what they always said. Mom and Nile, keeping their boys out of trouble, but Dad’s dead, and then Nile enlisted, and now, and now--

Mom’s crying just as hard as Tony, now, but he can still hear her say, “She’s still watching out for you, baby, she always will.”

The lasagna doesn’t taste like anything, but at least the lid was on the salad dressing when it fell. Nothing spills.

Tony goes to the funeral and stares so hard at that stupid flag that it shows up, inverted, when he blinks.

-

Tony’s heart churns in pain that whole first month. It’s somehow even worse than when Dad died, because at least then, he and Nile had been a team. Mom took care of them, and they’d make sure she didn’t stay up alone. Nile always made their cousins take Tony, too, when they go out for bike rides, always let him tag along and play his music. Tony made sure that when Nile got mad, she didn’t get mad alone.

Mom’s not mad now. The closest she gets is when Tony gets detention for getting in a fight with some guy trying to get him to join JROTC--she descends upon his principal like an ice storm, and Tony doesn’t get a mark on his permanent record from the incident.

But mostly she’s sad, and Tony’s sad, and it’s new enough that he doesn’t have a clue what to do.

His friends start coming over to hang out. The Sunday after the funeral, they just show up, and from that point on it seems like someone’s always around--he can’t complain about it. They teach Mom to play Breath of the Wild on Jalen’s Switch, and they pull a jagged laugh from him when Mom tries to catch the giant horse.

When Auntie Kai finds out that Mom’s letting Tony’s friends come over and play video games, she practically moves in. “Let me take care of you,” Tony overhears her telling Mom one night, and the echo of Nile hits him so hard that he has to sit down right there in the hall.

Auntie Kai’s able to be around all the time because work is giving her some paid time off--something about a bunch of vacation days she needed to spend, though she also told Mom the days definitely hadn’t been there in December when she’d wanted time for Christmas. Tony’s dimly grateful for whatever glitch had hidden the vacation from her then, though, because it means now she’s here, and she can help.

They spend a lot of time in the kitchen, even though food still doesn’t taste right. Tony sleeps in Nile’s room sometimes and tries to tell himself she’s still there looking over him, like Dad.

It doesn’t get easier that Nile’s gone, but it gets easier for Tony to still be around.

-

He gets into U Chicago. He gets into a few other schools, too, and has a couple rejections he didn’t care to read, but he gets into U Chicago.

“You deserve it, you worked so hard,” Mom says. He picks her up off her feet in a hug, and she laughs, loud.

“Thanks for making me work,” he says. “And thanks for fixing my application essays.”

“Oh, for--” She’s grinning as she slaps at his arm, and he puts her down. “How many times do I have to tell you, I didn’t do that!”

Tony rolls his eyes, but he’s sure he’s still grinning like a fool. “Sure, Mom.”

“You need to give yourself credit, you earned every bit of this.”

Sure, he did, but he knows he’s never totally perfected the right ‘their/there/they’re/whatever,’ no matter how many times Nile had tried to explain it. He also has some proof that Mom went and fixed things even after she gave him her approval for his submission--when he’d checked the system the day after he’d uploaded his application, the PDF didn’t look quite the same as the one he had on his computer.

Mom probably doesn’t want to bring down the moment with reminders of what they’ve lost, so he doesn’t bust her for it just yet.

She’s his mom, though, so she sees the bite in his smile even without him saying anything. “They’re so proud of you,” she says, and gives him another hug. “I just know it.”

-

In a weird twist, one of Nile’s old friends is the TA for Tony’s object-oriented programming class. He hadn’t recognised her name on the syllabus, but when she walks into the tutorial saying, “Okay, students of MPCS 51410-B, please correct your syllabi because you are now in Sandra’s section,” her face and voice shove him abruptly back in time.

He’s eight and he’s threatening to tell on her and Nile for cutting gum out of Nile’s hair, he’s ten and he’s trying to convince Nile to let him watch horror movies with them, he’s twelve and got roped into taking pictures of her and Nile posing in Hallowe’en costumes.

She looks shaken when she sees him, then shakes it off.

He doesn’t know how to bring it up, but he goes to her office hours in the second week of class anyway. Before he goes in, he doesn’t really want to talk about Nile. He doesn’t want to cry, he doesn’t want to have to lie that it’s okay, he doesn’t want to listen while someone talks about Nile the way people talk about Dad. Like she’s gone. Like she’s over.

He goes in anyway.

“Tony,” Sandra says, and she’s not crying yet at least. “I’m so sorry.”

It ends up not being too bad. They talk about Java for a bit, because there’s an assignment coming up next week, and Sandra mentions she just got a grant to work on something about databases that Tony doesn’t totally follow yet (but he will).

He comes back a few more times. It eventually ends up being nice to trade stories back and forth with someone who knew Nile, and Nile’s drive, her sharp wit, her big heart. Tony learns again that Sandra and Nile had met on the first day of kindergarten, and that Nile had screamed when the teacher had tried to partner them up with different people in the second week of school.

“She always said she just knew, with me,” Sandra says like a badge of honour.

“She was like that,” Tony says. It settles, a small betrayal, in his ribs. She’s still like that, he silently, irrationally papers over.

--

“You coming today?” Mom asks. She’s already dressed for church, but she’s sitting half-on the chair in front of the computer, distractedly typing something into a comment box on Facebook. “I’m leaving in a minute, just have to do...” She trails off, her typing picking up tempo.

Tony doesn’t bother responding out loud, just ducks back to his room to change his shirt and goes to wait by the door for Mom to finish up.

“Okay, okay, we’re already late,” she says, grabbing her purse and rifling through it for her keys. “Is your sister already in the car?”

The words pounce on them both. Stillness, then explosive motion as Mom flinches, as she drops her purse and her little tin of breath mints bursts and scatters.

“Mom,” Tony says, and she’s already on her knees, gathering up her things. His knees thud on the floor, following to help.

“I’m sorry, it’s just--”

“I know,” he says, and he repeats it because Mom wasn’t looking the first time. “Mom, I know.”

“I didn’t forget,” Mom says, hands finally still, eyes meeting Tony’s. “I could never.”

“But it’s like she’s still here, right?” Mom blurs and glows in the tears filling Tony’s vision. “You feel it, too.”

That’s what tips Mom over into crying, too.

They’re late for church, but they still go.

Peace be with you, murmuring around them, and Mom holds his face in her hands and makes him bend so she can kiss him on the forehead, like she always does.

Communion, and prayer. Please protect Mom, and bless the whole family, and let me get through finals okay. Tony prays the way he’s been praying for almost a year now: to God, and to Nile.

Mom’s kneeling beside him, her shoulder against his, and he crosses himself when his thoughts have smoothed out. Mom catches his hand in a tight grip as he’s lowering it; they hold on to each other.

[lady-of-the-lotus]

Looking through a paperman's eyes, Xiao Xingchen can suddenly see again.

See Chengmei's face.

Xue Yang's face...

His mind split between multiple papermen, Xingchen fractures.

Xue Yang breaks with him.

E - Xuexiao - Read on AO3! - Head the tags! ; ) The art here is only tonally appropriate for this chapter... Chapter 2

Chapter 1 of 2

They walk for an hour and a half, cross-country. Rumor of a new threat had found its way to their corner of Yi City. Disappearing people, strange sightings, the usual, except there have been none of the normal signs of demonic activity.

Chengmei, impatient as always, had wanted to fly, but Xiao Xingchen had insisted they get some exercise.

“The weather is nice, and there’s no need to rush home,” he says. “A-Qing has gone off again.” Every few months, A-Qing’s restlessness resurfaces and she disappears for a few days, making Xiao Xingchen worry until he hears the tap-tap-tap of her stick on the stone of the courtyard.

“She’ll be fine,” Chengmei says. “She was on her own her whole life.”

“I know, but…”

“She was doing better than you were, my friend.” Chengmei laughs, touching his elbow, sending a little spark up Xingchen’s arm. “I still can’t believe you gave her your coin purse.”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Well, if you’d asked me—”

Xiao Xingchen smiles in anticipation of whatever he’s going to say, but Chengmei breaks off abruptly with a low whistle.

“We’re here. A burial mound. Or rather, a mass grave.”

Xiao Xingchen’s sword is already out. “The resentful energy is quite strong.”

Chengmei snorts, something Xiao Xingchen has learned is his way of rolling his eyes so Xiao Xingchen can hear. Xingchen smiles to himself. He does this on purpose sometimes, winds Chengmei up, ruffles him. He delights in how expressive Chengmei’s voice is, how he wears his emotions on his sleeve, good or bad.

“‘Quite strong’?” Chengmei teases. “It almost bowled me the fu—the hell—no that doesn’t work—”

Now Xiao Xingchen does laugh. He can’t see Chengmei’s face, but hears the smile in his voice.

“Bowled me the fig over,” Chengmei finishes.

“A good save.”

“I know, right?” A creak of leather as Chengmei crouches. “There’s a stone headstone type thing here. I can’t quite make it out in this light.” Another creak as he seats himself on what seems to be a small cenotaph. "Probably from the war."

Xiao Xingchen frowns at him.

“How did you know I sat on it?” Chengmei shuffles his feet in the grass as if he’s risen, but he remains seated on the cenotaph.

“I know you too well, I suppose.”

Chengmei laughs. “You really are something else, daozhang.”

Xiao Xingchen waits for him to expand on that. He’s long since learned that Chengmei does that sometimes, throws out a non sequitur or random statement, sometimes to get a reaction, sometimes to change the subject, without really thinking it through.

Xiao Xingchen likes it, usually. Keeps things interesting. Often just by his remaining silent, as if uninterested, Chengmei will immediately follow up with something even wilder.

Tonight, however, his companion is silent, as if lost in thought.

“Get up, Chengmei, please. Let’s at least try not to anger malevolent spirits this time.”

A creak as Chengmei rises. “Still mad about what happened last week, I see.”

“That ghost almost killed you, all because you had to make fun of her fingernails, of all things!”

“You should have seen them. Just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you can’t be well-groomed.” 

“Chengmei…” He sighs, but he can’t contain a smile. “Describe what’s around us. What are we looking at? …You looking at,” he corrects himself before Chengmei can.

“Bones, all over the place. Scattered over the burial mound. Rather homey.”

“Human bones?”

“Human and animal, by the look of things. This reminds me of the time at this little inn in Bianzhuang, where the soup had the most suspicious-looking pieces of—”

A bellowing sound cuts him off. “On your left!” he hisses, but Shuanghua is already up.

A crashing of underbrush, a foul stench of rotting meat, a rattle of displaced bones. The earth shakes beneath the creature’s hooves, he hears the rush of air around a supernaturally huge monster, but there’s not a hint of demonic energy, and for the first time since he lost his eyes, Xiao Xingchen is afraid. 

Chengmei is reckless—

He lashes out, aiming at the sound. He hits something solid, and the beast roars, enraged. A cry from Chengmei and Xingchen is flung out of the way, tumbling to the rocky ground, out of the path of the charging beast.

The all-too-familiar sound of something piercing flesh. The scent of blood.

Xiao Xingchen slashes at the smell, aiming far enough away from the sound to avoid striking Chengmei. Shuanghua strikes flesh, hits bone, and is almost jerked out of his hands by the bucking creature. It turns and charges at him, dragging Chengmei along with it, by the sound of his tangled curses—

He ducks out of the way at the last moment. A crash as it thunders through the underbrush, turns again—

Chengmei’s voice, raised, half-choked: “Fuck you, stay away from him—” A stabbing sound, an angry cry, and something strikes him hard in the midriff, sending him slamming into a rock.

Blood again

His blood—

A bellow of pain. Distant, echoing. Chengmei’s shout, the whistle of a blade through the air.

A stabbing sound.

More blood, blooming thickly on the warm night air.

Xiao Xingchen passes out.

* * * *

 At first, the only way he knows he’s alive is the blinding pain in his skull.

Blinding pain. Ha. That’s funny. Something Chengmei would have teased him for saying—

Memory rushes back to him. Patting around for his sword, he tries to get up but falls out of bed.

He’s safe at home in the Coffin House, on the floor beside Chengmei’s bed. He recognizes the creak of floorboard, the scent of the drying herbs strung from the rafters, the melancholy whistle of wind through the gaps in the walls.

“Daozhang!” A hand at his elbow, guiding him back into bed. “You’re awake!”

“What happened?”

“You saved my life. The usual.”

“What was it?”

“Hell if I know. Some kind of boar monster. Take more than some pig to kill me, though.”

“What time is it?”

“Still night.”

Xiao Xingchen struggles to marshal his thoughts. “You almost died.”

He can almost feel Chengmei’s shrug. “Not the first time, and it won’t be the last time. Well, the ‘almost’ part might be the last time; I might actually bite it next time.”

Xiao Xingchen doesn’t bother trying to parse that one out. “Are you hurt?”

“Nothing serious.”

Xiao Xingchen frowns. “Come here.”

“Come…”

“I can’t get up. Come here.”

Hesitating, Chengmei crawls into bed beside him.

“Take off your clothes.”

Normally this would elicit an off-color joke that would have Xiao Xingchen frowning at him and blushing, but now Chengmei hesitates again.

“I…well…”

“You are hurt!” Xiao Xingchen pats him down, forgetting his headache in the sudden flurry of panic. He should have reacted faster last night, should have killed the beast with his first blow, should have protected Chengmei—

Bandages beneath his fingertips, bare skin, a slight stickiness.

“The tusks!”

“Ruined a good robe, having to cut it off,” Chengmei says, back to his usual casual, flippant self. “Not sure even you can sew it back up. The robes, I mean, not my side.”

Xiao Xingchen’s heart is beating so fast he feels dizzy. “You almost died, Chengmei—”

“So did you.”

Xiao Xingchen pinches his temples. “You shouldn’t have shoved me out of the way. The boar—the boar gored you—”

“Just a flesh wound.”

“We—we should go back to its lair when we’re better, bury the bones—”

Chengmei snickers. “ ‘Lair’?”

“As soon as you’re stronger, we’ll go back.”

“I’m fine now.”

“How many stitches did you need?” An inane question, but something simple he can use to ground himself. It’s starting to sink in now, his mind fully clearing: his blindness in the face of the beast, the boar’s agonized bellow, the fear in Chengmei’s voice—

He had almost lost him tonight. All because Xingchen had insisted on going night-hunting, continuing to push his own egotistical agenda on Chengmei despite the fact that he couldn’t see, selfishly endangering everyone around him. What had he expected to happen?

“Didn’t exactly stitch myself up,” Chengmei says. Lost in his own thoughts, Xingchen had almost forgotten his own question. “I sealed up my meridians, so it’s just pain, and I can handle pain.”

Xiao Xingchen reaches out again, touching Chengmei’s arm, and Chengmei inhales sharply.

“Your arm!”

He imagines Chengmei wrinkling his nose. “Well, the boar did a poor job of killing me, but an excellent job of shattering my arm. You know how it is.”

“I certainly don’t know how it is!”

“Left arm,” says Chengmei, as if that makes it better.

Xiao Xingchen is not a hugger, but he has a sudden overwhelming urge to fold Chengmei in his arms, hold him till Chengmei understands that this is not a normal way to react to grievous bodily injury.

“Not the first time it’s happened, and not the last,” Chengmei says, and Xiao Xingchen reaches out to take his good hand.

“I’m going to set your arm and stitch you up,” he says, “and then you are going to eat and go to sleep.”

“Fine, have it your way,” says Chengmei, teasing, but Xiao Xingchen does not smile.

He does not smile as he fashions a splint for Chengmei’s arm, or mops the blood from Chengmei’s torso, stitches the deep gashes in Chengmei’s side, or as he fastens the bandages around Chengmei’s middle.

“—nasty-looking bugger; I think it was some kind of boar crossed with a wolf, twisted and bloated by some kind of magic—it was powerful enough to mask its energy; that’s probably why Shuanghua didn’t sense it—”

Xiao Xingchen barely hears him. His heart is beating fast, and he’s so distracted by the fact that Chengmei almost died trying to save his life that he reaches up to adjust his blindfold and leaves a smear of wetness across his cheek.

The last of his clean blindfolds.

Another inane thought.

He’ll have to wash it out in the morning—

“All done? It was nothing, really.” Chengmei’s hand is on his arm. He’s very close to Xiao Xingchen as they sit on the edge of the bed, so close Xiao Xingchen can feel the brush of his shoulder against his. He radiates warmth, and Xiao Xingchen, perpetually cold, is seized again by a fierce desire to wrap him in his arms, curl into his heat, whisper to him that of course it matters if his arm is broken—

“You need to be more careful,” is all that comes out.

“I give you my solemn word that next time we go night-hunting, I won’t let you get knocked out again.”

Xiao Xingchen isn’t sure if he’s baiting him on purpose or if he genuinely means it. “I mean you need to take care of yourself.”

“Bathe more often. Got it.”

“Can’t you be serious for once?” Xiao Xingchen's voice is sharper than he intends, but it’s too late to take that back now. “If you were to be killed, I—”

“—would have one less mouth to feed.”

Xiao Xingchen grips Chengmei’s good wrist. “Chengmei—”

Chengmei laughs, bending his head slightly, his silky hair sliding over the gap in Xiao Xingchen’s open inner robe, tickling his chest.

“Chengmei, please be serious for once. If you were to be—”

“You look so pretty with blood on your face,” Chengmei interrupts, and that does something to Xingchen, sends a quivery rush of heat through his body. Chengmei slides to the floor, kneeling before him, trembling good hand resting lightly on his knee.

“I—”

Cheingmei's hand moves up his leg, finds Xingchen's hand gripping the blankets on the edge of the bed, strokes it gently, fingertip sliding over the sensitive skin between his fingers, over his palm.

Xiao Xingchen swallows hard. He’s trembling too now, heart pounding, the warmth flowing through his limbs gathering to pulse gently in one confusing, embarrassing place.

“Ever done this before?” Chengmei asks, almost murmurs. His voice is a mere shadow of its usual blunt, teasing self.

Xingchen twists at the sheets with his free hand, trying to keep his voice steady. He must be mistaken. Concussed, perhaps. Hallucinating. The pulse between his legs has become a throb, and that’s not helping his perception of things, either. “No, it’s not something I…get…get up, Chengmei, we were having a serious conversation. If you were to be seriously hurt, I don’t know what I’d—”

Again Chengmei cuts him off before he can finish. “You almost died tonight, daozhang. Let me take care of you.”

“That’s not what—” He gasps slightly as Chengmei’s hand moves back to his leg, creeps over his inner thigh, just grazing the half-hard flesh he wishes he could somehow hide.

Heat rises in his cheeks. He wants to pull away, cover it before Chengmei notices, but there’s a brush of fabric, a whisper of warmth breath, and then his half-hard—his half-hard cock is plunged in wet heat.

“I’m—I’m not—”

The wet heat disappears. “Is that a no?”

“It’s—” And suddenly all he wants is a return of the wet heat. Proof that Chengmei is still alive, still warm. “I’ll tell you when to stop,” he says. Trying to compensate for his inexperience, it comes out more commandingly than intended, but Chengmei gives a little whine and eases Xiao Xingchen’s knees farther apart, his bad arm wrapped around one leg, good hand wandering, slipping underneath him, brushing the soft, sensitive spot he’s never thought of touching before, fondling his—

“Not there,” he wants to say, but all that comes out is a little whimper that sets a flush of shame rising in his already-hot cheeks. Reflexively he digs his fingers in Chengmei’s hair, tugging it slightly, and Chengmei gives a little moan that sends vibrations over his painfully hard cock.

Chengmei’s head is moving now, up and down, tongue gliding along the sides of his cock, sucking hard on the sensitive nerve bundle beneath the tip, taking him deep into his throat. Xiao Xingchen forgets to breathe as he digs his finger deeper in his hair, tugging it again, and Chengmei full-on gasps, throat clenching around Xiao Xingchen in rhythmic convulsions. 

Xiao Xingchen comes, spilling deep into Chengmei’s throat. Chengmei swallows, an embarrassingly filthy wet choking sound, and Xiao Xingchen pulls his head off of his cock.

“I’m so sorry—” he starts, but then he’s on his back on the bed, and Chengmei is kissing a string of bruises into his throat, branding Xiao Xingchen.

“Good thing A-Qing isn’t home,” Chengmei whispers, and Xiao Xingchen laughs, shame gone.

“Let me try it,” he whispers. He feels like his bones have been ripped out, limbs calm and relaxed, but his heart is still fluttering.

The kisses stop. “Try what?”

“Lie down.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

“You want to?”

Xiao Xingchen’s heart thuds against his bruised ribcage. His hands are shaking slightly, and he hopes Chengmei doesn’t notice. “Yes.”

“I…”

“Let me try.”

And then Chengmei is on his back, and Xiao Xingchen is trailing his lips down his bruised chest, down his naval, working himself up to do the thing he’s afraid of wanting as much as he does. 

A tinge of shame returns. To want to do something like this—

But Chengmei is warm, Chengmei is alive, Chengmei is his.

He takes Chengmei’s cock in his hand, squeezing it gently, examining it with his fingers, rubbing his fingers along the hot, firm sides, smearing it with the little pearls of moisture leaking from the tip. He’s never been so close to another man’s cock before. A new pulse rises between his legs, prickles over his legs, clouds his thoughts with renewed need—

And then Chengmei’s cock is in Xiao Xingchen’s mouth, a living thing, silk-smooth and pulsing with life.

It fills more of his mouth than he’d expected. Thicker, hotter. Heavy on his tongue, pressing up against the back of his throat, making his eyes tear up and jaws ache. 

“You don’t have to—” Chengmei whispers, fingers of his good hand tracing the top of Xiao Xingchen’s blindfold, thumb stroking the bridge of his nose, and Xiao Xingchen makes a little humming sound to let him know that it’s all right, that he wants to do this—

Chengmei pulls him off his cock moments before he comes, ejaculating into his own hand.

A flash of disappointment, as if he’d wanted to take Chengmei deeper into him, swallow him down, ingest him, absorb him.

Bind him to him.

He bends down to lap at the wetness slicking Chengmei’s cock, cleaning it with his tongue. Chengmei gives a little whimper but doesn’t push him away. Xiao Xingchen licks at the cum, thoroughly cleaning him before turning to Chengmei’s hand.

Chengmei, who has been lying very still, breath coming in soft little starts, suddenly comes to life. “Don’t—”

“It’s fine.”

“But—”

“Shhh. I want to.”

Carefully, Xiao Xingchen runs his tongue over Chengmei’s palm. It tastes of blood and the salty tang of his cum. He cleans the palm, between the fingers, taking two fingers into his mouth when he’s done. He likes the feel of having Chengmei inside him again, even just his fingers. Warm, alive —

Chengmei raises his legs slightly, framing Xiao Xingchen between his thighs. He tilts his knee, sliding his foot under Xiao Xingchen’s groin. He moves his finger inside Xingchen’s mouth, sliding over Xiao Xingchen’s tongue, soft and slow. Xiao Xingchen sucks harder, rolling his hips into Chengmei’s ankle, one hand on his knee, the other on his hip.

He doesn’t quite come, not so soon after his last climax, but the friction feels good against his groin, Chengmei’s legs solid against his sides, the pain of his bruises reminding him of how fortunate he is to have Chengmei here, Chengmei beneath him.

He releases Chengmei’s finger and inches up to lie beside him. Chengmei rolls into him, nuzzling his throat with his nose.

“If your body is shattered in six places, we can’t do that again,” Xiao Xingchen murmurs into his hair. Chengmei’s heart, pounding against his chest, beats faster, but Chengmei’s tone is his usual flippant one as he asks, “Again?”

“If you promise to take better care of yourself. No more stunts.”

“I promise. Word of honor.”

“That’s what you said when you swore you’d stop teasing A-Qing.”

Chengmei laughs, the vibrations soothing Xiao Xingchen’s aching ribs. “Yeah, but I actually mean it this time.”

Shaking his head, but smiling to himself, Xiao Xingchen pulls him closer.

* * * *

Chengmei is up before him that afternoon. He’s prepared a meal of eggplant and rice he just saves from scorching, something he only manages about half the time. Xiao Xingchen isn’t sure what there is in the Coffin House to get diverted by, but Chengmei is easily distracted.

“And then I have a surprise for you,” he tells Xiao Xingchen. He rocks back and forth on his chair the whole meal—he’s never been good at sitting still—and jumps up to clear the dishes when Xiao Xingchen has finished eating.

Xiao Xingchen sits and lets him despite Chengmei’s broken arm, afraid of mentioning the injury and bringing up what had happened the night before. Everything is all so—so normal, and he’s afraid that if he so much as asks Chengmei how he’s feeling, the spell will break, or worse yet, last night will have been revealed to have been a dream.

“I brought you this,” Chengmei says when he’s finished, setting something down on the table. He takes Xiao Xingchen’s hand and lays it on the pouch set down on the table, then pulls his hand away quickly, as if the touch of Xingchen’s skin is something forbidden.

An awkward silence. The warmth of Chengmei’s touch lingers on Xiao Xingchen’s hand—

Xiao Xingchen reaches up, lays the hand on Chengmei’s elbow, and the awkwardness is dispelled as if it had never been there. Chengmei leans over his shoulder, reaching around him. His cheek grazes Xingchen’s, as warm as his hand had been.

“I removed the beast’s core last night,” he says. “It was a spirit beast, the first I’ve seen in years. The core is strong. You can—you know, take it, use it to make spiritual tools or whatever…” He pulls away, and Xiao Xingchen quickly turns to glance sightlessly up at him over his shoulder.

"A real core?"

"As real as they come."

It’s an impressive gift, the core. The spirit beast’s magical essence, it can be used in elixirs and spiritual tools. Xingchen has never encountered a beast with a core potent enough to do more than make healing draughts and powders, but he can sense the thrum of power clean through the containing pouch.

Instinctively he knows that this is more than a mere gift. That for someone like Chengmei—a survivor, a forager, a scrounger, a child of the streets—to give up such an advantage, something that he could use—

He rises, pouch in hand, and lays the other on Chengmei’s shoulder.   

“Thank you, A-Mei,” he says.

He has nothing to give Chengmei in return except for that—“A-Mei”—but it seems to be enough.

Silence. And then, “Well, I’d best be letting you play with your new toy,” says Chengmei. “Be careful with it. It’s got more malevolent energy than I’ve seen anywhere for a while. You wouldn’t want a corrupted spiritual tool killing you in your sleep, would you?”

“Could that actually happen?”

“I wouldn’t let it happen,” says Chengmei, a bit too emphatically, and he slips out of the house as if he’s said too much.

Xiao Xingchen sits back down. He wants to rush out after Chengmei, plead with him to be careful, to not exert himself with his wounded side and broken arm, but instead he smiles fondly after him, hoping he’s looking over his shoulder, and turns to the pouch.

After a moment he rises, rummages through Chengmei’s small store of things. Normally he would never look through his things—(“Look.” Ha. What would Chengmei have to say to that?) but this is going to be a gift for Chengmei, as he’s not so presumptuous to think a pet name is much of a gift.

But this will help him keep Chengmei safe, and he would do anything to keep Chengmei safe.

Carefully, he cuts a paperman out of Chengmei’s talisman paper and lays it flat on his hand.

He’d only done this once before, under Shifu’s supervision, and it had drained his spiritual powers for a week afterward.

He’s stronger now than he was then, but he still knows the dangers of being trapped outside his body, of fracturing his mind between two loci, of the damage to his psyche if the paperman is harmed while he’s still in it.

He hasn’t dared risk anything like this since losing his eyes. He’s relied too heavily on his spiritual energy to find his way around and defend himself to risk losing it for a week. Had no one to protect his body while he was in the paperman, keep him from the thousand dangers of the road.

But he has a home now, and he can rely on Chengmei to look after him if he drains his powers for a few days. And he doesn’t think he will drain them—the beauty of the core is that it will provide an alternate source of power for the consciousness transfer.

Or rather, consciousness splitting.

If all goes well, he can split his consciousness between his body and the paperman on night-hunts, seeing through the paperman’s eyes, being able to see threats, monsters, demons, beasts, defend himself and Chengmei, so that last night’s events will never be repeated.

And—he can’t help but blush at the thought—he’ll finally get to see what Chengmei looks like. It’s not as if it matters to him. Chengmei is Chengmei. He’s his, no matter what. He already knows he’s good looking, going by overheard scraps of conversation, but that had meant nothing to him as a blind man, and he knows it will mean nothing even after he sees his face.

But to be able to gaze upon his face as he lies next to him in bed, look across the table at him at dinner, see the light catching in his eye as he laughs, finally see the smile that sounds so very infectious—

It’s worth the risk involved in splitting his consciousness between his body and the paperman.

And the risk in using the malevolent core. Chengmei was right—there’s a strong dark energy in the deceptively bright and golden core.

But he can handle it. Use the light, leave the darkness in the pouch.

He wonders how long he has till Chengmei returns. He checks the shelf—so he took a basket with him, that must mean he was going to the market. Not something he should be doing in his state, but at least it gives Xiao Xingchen a bit more time before he’s expected back.

He sits cross-legged on the mediation mat beside his old coffin—they really ought to move that out, make more room in the house—what will they tell A-Qing?—he’ll leave that up to Chengmei—he doesn’t think she’ll care much, but they’ll have to swear to secrecy; he can’t imagine the neighbors will like having two cut-sleeves in their town—

He takes a deep breath, trying to order his thoughts, but for once they refuse to be calmed.

Is he a cut-sleeve? Is that what this is? Outside friendship, he'd never had so much as a flicker of interest in anyone before, man or woman, but he’d taken an innate interest in women for granted. He should go back and examine the last ten years of his life, recontextualize the last fifteen years of his life, see if there were signs, revisit his time with Song Lan—

Another deep breath. None of this matters now. What matters is that Chengmei will be home soon, and Xiao Xingchen wants to surprise him. And how now Xingchen willl be able to examine last night’s stitches, make sure the splint is in correctly place, ensure that Chengmei heals properly.

Eat dinner on the porch, watching the sunset together.

See the moon.

Lie on his back, looking up at the stars....

Best not think about that. Best not get his hopes up in case he fails—

He does not fail.

It’s like a red-hot razor is slicing slivers from his brain, carving it in half. He’s about to cry out when the agonizing pain is gone and only the heat remains.

His own face looks down at him, its wide mouth hanging open slightly, eyebrows raised above the blood-streaked blindfold.

He drops the paperman in shock, and the room dips and whirls around him. Dizzied by the sense of motion despite being still, he immediately bends down to snatch at the fluttering paperman, stop its fall. It eludes him as, nausesous, he watches his giant hand snatch at his paperman face like an enormous white hawk grasping at its prey—

He slams his head into the table and falls off his chair.

Sitting on the floor with the paperman tucked safely in his robe, queasy with motion sickness, he laughs to himself at his own clumsiness.

He can see.

He can see.

He can see.

Xingchen is about to rise, look around, examine every nook and cranny of his suddenly-new home, when he hears off-key whistling from outside.

His pulse quickens. Chengmei is home, sooner than expected—

Chengmei steps over the threshold.

“I’m back, daozhang!” he calls. “Where are you hiding? I bought you some fresh apples; I thought we could cook them in honey or something, maybe add some sweet wine—”

Xiao Xingchen gazes at him in mute horror through the paperman’s eyes.

It’s him.

That’s Chengmei’s voice. His familiar cheerful, irreverent voice.

But the face—

Xiao Xingchen leaps to his feet, stumbling backwards over the chair and falling in a tangle of limbs to the floor.

Chengmei—not Chengmei—the imposter—is beside him in a moment, apples rolling across the floor and smashed egg oozing from the dropped basket.

“Daozhang!” He lifts him to his feet with his customary combination of gentleness and roughness. “I knew I shouldn’t leave you alone with your head injury!”

Xiao Xingchen’s knees give way. “I’m—I’m—you—”

Chengmei—the imposter—Xue Yang’s—eyes are wide. “What is it?”

“I—you—”

“Lean on me, daozhang. I’ll help you to bed.” Looping Xiao Xingchen’s arm over his shoulder, Xue Yang half-carries him to bed. The paperman is nestled inside Xingchen’s robe, vibrating against his skin. “You just lie there, and I’ll peel you some apples. Perk you up a little. Maybe don’t go to sleep for a bit, I once half-cracked my skull, and I passed out in a ditch, and when I woke up I—”

Xiao Xingchen doesn’t hear the rest of his story. Weak with horror, he stares at Xue Yang as he slices apples at the table, holding the fruit steady with the elbow of his bad arm. 

Bad arm. The arm with the hand that—that—

He hadn’t felt the glove the night before. Xue Yang must have taken it off.

Taken it off when they had—

He rolls over on his side and vomits into the water jug.

 * * *

Like it? AO3

[idratherdreamofjune]

Apen or Faramir, Endeavour "Neverland" or "Coda", Leverage "The Wedding Job" or "The Juror #6 Job", Chara's wardrobe or Melete's wardrobe, beaches or prairies, The Perilous Gard or Fire and Hemlock, St. Claire or Alvarado siblings, swords or shields, Agatha Christie or Ngaio Marsh, "Gutair" or "Gosh", leaving or coming home, LotR or SW (prequel) costume design, Avidan or Velvare, Enel or Aquil for creating a distraction, Sutcliff or McKillip, Bhatair or Berlyne in a tight spot, & Ansam or Melly.

YIKES

Okay - first a disclaimer I should have included in the tags when I reblogged that prompt post: sadly this will not be responded to in graphics (I’ve seen a lot of “this or that” graphic responses and those are great but I don’t have the guts to take that on. Though. I could try to do one random graphic response per ask/asker.... Hum...

[Prompt post]-->[Make me choose]

Back to the ask at hand: quite a lot of tough ones!!! There will be spoilers.

Apen or Faramir - sorry sports fans, Apen is really an excellent young man but there may not even be a single character who is better than Faramir in my mind.

Endeavour “Neverland” or “Coda” - “Neverland” is not one of my preferred episodes even taken alone, as the subject matter is too dark for me personally. Meanwhile “Coda” functions as “the usual, not to say obligatory,” crime show bank robbery episode. XD That’s a good thing, because I enjoy bank robbery episodes. :P Of course the ending with Joan leaving is ROUGH but she lives so it’s okay; there’s always next season!

Leverage “The Wedding Job” or “The Juror #6 Job” - These are both good, but while I really enjoyed the mafia spoofs and fake FBI act from Parker and Hardison in “The Wedding Job”, courtroom drama takes the cake for me. :)

Chara’s wardrobe or Melete’s wardrobe - probably Melete’s, because Chara defaults to a more girly, pink look. Melete also tends to be more eyecatching and interesting (if unpractical).

beaches or prairies - beaches! As long as it’s not crowded (I’d take a private prairie over a packed beach any day).

The Perilous Gard or Fire and Hemlock - Perilous Gard all the way!! Fire and Hemlock is certainly a good book (and I need to reread it for sure) but The Perilous Gard got into my heart immediately and is dear favorite. Kate and Christopher are somewhere near the top on my nebulous list of ships.

St. Claire or Alvarado siblings - !!! After a lot of consideration, I’m picking the St. Claires. I think. They need more love (not from fans - just in general).

swords or shields - my first instinct is to go with swords, but maybe that’s just because they get more screentime (or page space hah). Sting and Anduril come to mind, and of course The Sword of Martin the Warrior! However I actually am especially attached to Captain American and Wonder Woman specifically because they use shields more than swords/guns/etc. (though, of course Captain America uses his offensively quite a lot. It’s the concept, okay?! XD )

Agatha Christie or Ngaio Marsh - definitely Ngaio Marsh. She can be a bit hit-or-miss (her penchant for the theater and formula for wrapping up endings are a bit worn), but some of her books are almost comparable to Dorothy Sayers mysteries - while Agatha Christie never comes close, in my opinion. Christie always seems a bit flippant about crime, even when she’s trying to be serious. And while Christie’s settings are good, Marsh’s are sometimes magnificent. Also I think Ngaio Marsh’s secondary characters go deeper than Christie’s. Anyway. Thank you for coming to my TED talk, as they say. :”P

“Gutair” or “Gosh” - if that second one is Gudrun and Joshua, that’s a no from me. The main thing I’ve always been disappointed in Joshua over is how interested he was in Gudrun while Bhatair was still ... in the picture (I was going to say “eating” but that’s just weird and vague). And once he wasn’t, they sure got married awfully quick. :/ Plus, despite all the tragedy, “Gutair” has my support. 

leaving or coming home - COMING HOME. Leaving has almost nothing to recommend it (except that it sets you up to come home at some point). I suppose if one were to leave WITH family then that would be okay. But I haven’t gotten to experience that lately.

Costume design: LotR or SW Prequels - Both have their good points, but based on sheer wearability of my favorite pieces in each, LotR wins by a long shot. Padme’s outfits are my favorite in SW, but by and large they look far from comfortable-for-everyday, let alone adventure-ready.

Avidan or Velvare - Avidan, because Velvare constantly has me wondering why I even care about him, whereas Avidan is a lonely prince doing the best he can despite being raised by that jerk. Avidan is making mistakes but I believe he’s trying to do what is best for the country, and I also believe hope he wants to do better. Velvare has yet to convince me of that, and seems driven more by his own interests, affected by whatever phase the moon is in (I mean, come on, he’s made some strange decisions). He’s shown some remorse but has yet to try to change, as far as I can see (arguably Avidan is in the same place in that regard, which is why I said “hope” hah).

Enel or Aquil for creating a distraction - !!! Another hard one, but more entertaining to consider. Seems like six of one, half a dozen of another, to me. XD Aquil seems to have a much better grasp of what he can do, curse-wise, which might come in handy. Except he frequently accidentally (? presumably) messes up on directions. Meanwhile Enel would probably go about following the plan and then end up breaking his leg or a window or accidentally tripping you. He reminds me of Sid the Sloth in Ice Age, now that I think about it. Aquil is probably the safest choice after all.

Sutcliff or McKillip - Sutcliff!!!!! McKillip’s books are good but she’s never gotten to me on an emotional level like Sutcliff. Also I can’t connect as well with her settings, they usually feel a little too castle-on-a-cloud. Enjoyable to read about, but not as livable as the landscapes in Sutcliff’s books.

Bhatair or Berlyne in a tight spot - Bhatair might be a better fighter, but I’d trust Berlyne to have my back and do what’s right, no matter what.

Ansam or Melly - Melly is sweet, and no offense meant to dog fans, but I prefer horses. Especially such a smart and loyal horse as Ansam! Too bad we haven’t seen more of him. Yet. Now, if it were Pigeondove vs. Ansam... that’s a little harder.

[nordic-breeze]

They Met by Chance - in a Quiet Saloon

Working title of an Arthur Morgan/Fem!reader/OC project that might (I hope) turn into a fully-fledged fic.

Rating: mature

Tags/warnings: mild smut under the cut, not overly descriptive and focuses more on the emotional aspect, angst, open-ended, ideas for continuation and other feedback are most welcome.

They met by chance, in a quiet saloon. All it took was one exchange of look, followed by a swift turn of head and a distinctive change of complexion. And she knew.

She was there to deliver payment for refreshments her family had ordered for her sister’s wedding. She registered but paid no heed to the brawny feller with a black, leather hat to her right leaning over the counter, a beer in hand. As she withdrew her hands, their eyes met. And the world stood still.

In that breath of a moment, she saw in him the same emotions that stirred in her. And she knew.

He made no attempt at engaging her in a conversation, nor she with him as is demure for young, modest women in this day and age. She turned to the door. Halfway there, she gave in and glanced over her shoulder. Her heart picked up pace. He was looking after her but quickly turning away, his ears a bright red.

Her fingers curled on the swing doors, hoping, yearning for a hand on her shoulder and a basso voice asking her if she wanted a drink, or something. A basso voice she heard all right, but it was that of an impatient customer, trying to get inside.

She mumbled an apology and stepped aside, ignoring the rude comment. Not out of reserve but out of distraction of mind. If she walked away now, she'd spend the rest of her life wondering what could have been had she stayed. That she knew.

Her legs carried her back to the counter. She ordered a lemonade to a casual, offhand remark of how a speedy walk had made her so thirsty in a tone a little too sharp to sound like the random change of heart she’d aimed for, all while standing close enough to the stranger to initiating a conversation with ease, though not so close as to be conspicuous.

Minutes of nervous fumbling, frequent, small sips of both beer and lemonade and fleeting glances ensued. It was very conspicuous indeed. Until a flippant remark from the bartender spurred a conversation. It was one that started of slow and stuttering but somehow ended up well into the small hours, long after the sun was gone, and their bottles emptied. As the saloon became crowded with late-night patrons, the tumult of a hundred conversations and the jovial tune from the piano had them draw closer to each other.

Mustering courage through a deep inhale, she dared to compliment his eyes. He tuned bashfully away as she smiled, and her heart went soft. The tune from the piano changed to a solemn, mellow tone. Riding high on the wave of newfound boldness, spurred by the mighty tides of rapt infatuation for an alluring stranger with mesmerizing eyes and a basso voice hoarse and gruff, she held out her hand and asked him for a dance.

She took his hand and guided him to the floor. Her hand found the small of his back and she pulled him close. Her head fell against his chest, and she could hear the hitch of his breath.

They spent the night together. Not something she had the habit of doing. And neither did he, judging by the flickers of insecurity in his skirting gaze, self-conscious, timid smile, nervous chuckling and trembling of hands.

She closed her soft, small hand over his large and calloused, telling him in a solemn voice she wanted him. That she’d never wanted anyone like this before. And his trembling ceased.

His walls crumbled, and as his heart softened, something else hardened. Their fingers entwined, and they gave in to their desires, and each other.

Once he’d shed his hesitance, he couldn’t stop kissing her, caressing her, nor did he want to. That night, he made love like it was the first and only time he’d ever feel the soft warmth of a woman’s skin. As if he’d never before been blessed by the heaved, panting breaths of a mezzo-soprano voice in response to his touch.

She’d seen and heard enough to understand what kind of life he led. But tonight was theirs. A few, short hours that was theirs and theirs to treasure alone, where nothing and no one in the world existed but them. The night she gave her all to a stranger, body and soul.

Later on, she’d remember with bittersweet affection a gravelly, rumbling voice turning soft and mellow by the mere touch of her hand. She remembered every word he’d uttered in awe, in adoration, in lust – under his breath in the moment of passion, shaky and unsteady afterwards, overwhelmed by the pleasure of release and the tenderness she’d showed him. She remembered with vehement yearn how their breaths grew more and more heavy by the reveal of skin under damp clothes. His warmth, his hands, kisses soft and tender from lush lips. And the wistful goodbye the following morning.

“I ain’t a good man,” he said with eyes burning with longing and regret, followed by a drawn-out embrace. The next day she found a gift-wrapped box on her porch. Inside was a gold necklace with a tiny rose pendant. And an unsigned note that could only be from one. She’d read it every day before sleep, with the tiniest of hope that one day, they’d meet again.

Months later, she’s at a jewelry store in Saint Denis, looking for something for her niece’s baptism. She is peering through the glass at the top of the counter, her hand on the pendant always around her neck, when a loud voice behind her stirs her sharp.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a robbery.”

Four terrifying men has come barging in, with masks to cover their noses and mouths, forcing the staff and customers to their knees with verbal threats and cocked hammers.

One guards the door while two of the others empty drawers, counters and shelves. The third holds open a bag, a barrel to people’s heads, followed by a command to give up their valuables to keep their lives, staff and customers alike. A fierce blow from the rear of the aggressor’s revolver awaits whoever dares to disobey.

She concocts a scenario of the stranger from the saloon bursting in to save her, to save them all from these savages. The reverie gives her but a tiny comfort. Until she comes to realize, he is one of them.

And her heart drops.

The bag is now in front of her. She stands frozen. A verbal threat follows her idleness, one that freezes mid-sentence as their eyes meet. An unusual, mesmerizing blend of blue and green that had once made her rapt with infatuation stares back at her.

Her fingers curl around the chain and without hesitation she rips of the necklace he’d once gifted her and throws it in the bag alongside her purse, her eyes burning with disillusionment and rage. His eyes are burning with something else. 

For a fleeing moment, the memory of his warmth rushes through her mind. A poignant ache tears through her chest, and tears wet the skin under her eyes. 

More tears are shed that day. 

[colorofmymindposts]

The Deviance of Two English Gentlemen Chapter Seven

Chapter Title: Comme Amis, Madame? 

Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Ritchie films)/Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mary Morstan/John Watson Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mary Morstan Rating: Teen and Up Status: Incomplete Word Count: 1727 for this chapter, 9444 for the entire work thus far Summary: Set post Game of Shadows. When Sherlock Holmes is given a case by none other than Mrs. Watson, he has no idea that he cannot fix the unsolvable for the couple. Intimate truths are exposed in the process, leaving all three irrevocably changed. Tags: Case Fic, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Secrets, Bickering Notes: The entire work can be read here on ao3. You can also read chapter one here and chapter two here, chapter three here, chapter four here and chapter five here and chapter six here. 

Story:

It was in a truly spinning, colored daze that Holmes managed to stumble up the stairs to his rooms, not once turning back to the door from where Watson had just departed. If he stole one glance, he thought he might run out into the street after the man, raving like a lunatic. It was better that he review the facts before jumping to conclusions at any rate.

Although, even solely as a detective, he could not wrap his head around what had transpired. Watson had kissed him. It was a gesture totally unexpected, at least at this point, when their more...amorous relationship had drawn its abrupt conclusion several years ago.

Of course, it could have been meant platonically. It was, after all, just on the cheek, a kiss much more innocent than previous ones they’d shared. The French were known to exchange kisses comme amis. Or perhaps Watson was just attempting to finally recognize their past together, just enough to acknowledge it, and could therefore move forward in his marriage.

Why would that be necessary, however? Surely after all this time, the old boy had gotten over Holmes. In fact, Holmes would have thought that all of Watson’s romantic feelings expired when he had packed up all things without a word to Holmes, rented out another flat, and had a girl on his arm within a month of leaving. If Watson had ever felt anything for him at all.

Those words...those parting words troubled his mind still. He turned them over, the three sentences, as though they were separate pages in a book. They danced in front of his eyes, and he burned them into his memory before they flared and faded in favor of another distraction. As if another distraction could successfully steer him away from Watson.

I’ve behaved remarkably badly.

Forgive me.  

And thank you.

None of the parts added up to a cohesive whole, ultimately. Behaved badly to whom? Forgive Watson for what? Thank Holmes for what deed? The whole matter was quite puzzling, and Holmes was beginning to ascertain that Watson either had no idea what he himself meant when he imparted those words or intentionally belied Holmes into investigating them so he would not think too much over the...child conundrum.

Holmes growled in frustration at it all. Never had a case provided such obstacles in his typical methodology. The personal element involved made it all very difficult to process, categorize in his normal way. With Watson by his side, Holmes had never experienced such clarity in his work, having finally found the pathway to the solutions through all the noise and clutter of the rest of the world. Now that Watson was not at his side but at the centre of this case, it was becoming harder to distinguish fact versus theory.

It was more difficult than ever; any time Holmes tried to think, his fingers traced the ghost-like touch of Watson’s lips to his cheek in awe and wonder, a feeling he had locked away in the deep recesses of his mind.

When they had been lovers, Watson had always been gentle. His doctor’s training had controlled how his hands caressed, his abundant care and precision had been merely a luxurious extension of his bedside manner whenever Holmes had hit the ring too hard. Though he doubted that Watson called his patients “ungrateful bastards” as he sewed them back together. It was equally unlikely that he ever finished the job with an impassioned kiss on the lips and a plea to act more carefully. Perhaps if Holmes had followed through on that advice, he would never have awoken to a half-empty bed as he had for the last three years.

In those years of Watson’s absence, Irene had been particularly special. At first, Holmes had admired nothing more than her brilliant mind, able to keep up with his own, a rarity in a person of any sex. Eventually, even he had found he could appreciate her beauty for what it was: flawless. She had been flippant as the change of the tide, however; and though her antics were amusing, she would gladly leave Holmes penniless and beaten to a pulp if it ensured her own safety. In spite of this, Holmes had been willing to try something with Irene, something more real when he had finally accepted that Watson had deserted him, when she had died.

And here he was now. Alone. And more bewildered than ever.

Without warning, the door to the flat opened. Holmes scrambled up from his bed, where he had lain for hours if not days, and rushed to greet the man he’d been waiting for in great anticipation.

“Watson!” he cried out upon entering the parlor.

He halted where he stood on the bearskin rug when he realized he had mistaken the identity of his guest.

“I must say Mr. Holmes, I am amazed as ever by your deductive powers,” Mrs. Watson remarked a touch snidely, though not enough to seem outright rude. “Despite all of what John writes, he can never do your talents justice.”  

“Yes, well he struggles with the quantitative details. Your husband is quite...the romantic—with his words,” Holmes replied, his voice slightly shrinking at the end. He coughed deliberately to compensate.

“I know he is. And I know you hadn’t been expecting to see me again quite so soon,” Mrs. Watson attested. “Truly neither had I. But I must speak with you about my husband.”

Holmes’ heart plunged into his stomach. Did she know? Had Watson confided his illicit action to his wife out of guilt? Oh Providence above, this could be the undoing of both of them alike.

“...must you?”

“It is not easy for me to say this, as I have been married to my John for some time now,” she began.

Holmes’ breath caught in his chest and could not escape. But the woman, surprisingly, looked at him pleadingly instead of in disgust.

She calmly continued, “But you have known John for nearly twenty years and I only for three. I can tell he has told you of our troubles, maybe more so than he has told me. I must ask for your advice on how to proceed.”

While she was more collected than her previous visit, the desperation was still very much present. The pads of her fingers were dry with the turning of pages, books, perhaps old letters as well, easily deduced from the tired lingering redness in her eyes that even she could not conceal. Gladstone had clearly seen it fit to comfort her if his hairs clinging to the hem of her dress were any indication.

He wandered over to his desk, not looking at her now, and rifled through some papers aimlessly in search of a more interesting task to occupy him.

“Mrs. Watson, I shall make this brief then for both our sakes. I advise you to speak with your husband,” he laid out rather plainly, proceeding to pop a macadamia nut from the bowl on the desk in his mouth. “These are delicious. Would you like one?”

“No, I have no appetite at present,” she replied with little disguise of her distaste.

He smirked rougely at the thought of his next barb. “Perhaps you should consult a doctor in that case.”

“You are trying to irritate me, draw me away. Did John tell you to do that?”

“Watson has tried to instruct me to do many things, and he has yet to be successful in any of his attempts,” he countered dismissively.

Damn the woman was persistent. He almost wished that Watson hadn’t told him anything of the matter.

“For your information, I have tried to talk to my husband all in vain. Last night, he chose his bed in favor of discussing anything with me. In every other instance, he has either been with you or in town,” said Mrs. Watson, her frustration and confusion evident in her speech. “I...it’s almost like he is suffering one of those black moods of yours that he described to me.”

“Hmph! Watson suffering a black mood! I would truly be worried if we ever saw that day,” he said through a mouthful of macadamia nuts.

Holmes crossed the room, going to face Mrs. Watson for the first time in this conversation. He stood right in front of her, leaving very little personal space between the two of them. Her eyes bulged somewhat in anxiety, and he purposefully tilted his head to one side to illustrate a more disturbing picture for the woman.

“I was hoping to be left alone to organize my thoughts, but I see that this...issue shall not leave my life unless I clarify it for you.”

“I would like nothing more than to leave you alone, Mr. Holmes,” she retorted, which almost made him laugh.

He turned from her, starting to pace toward the window overlooking Baker Street.

“Your husband, Mrs. Watson, suffers from an affliction that many men possess. He belongs to a crowd of men who desire the companionship of a woman but not her product, the thrill of a romance without its baggage. He is atypical in that he genuinely cares for you unlike most with those desires, but he cannot deviate from what he wants or rather what he does not want,” he explained. He swiveled back to address her. “Have I made myself clear?”

The woman’s face in that moment was astonishingly unreadable. Then she bit her lower lip, and he knew instantly he had struck a nerve.

“Do you consider yourself to be one of those men?” She asked, voice quavering.

“Not in the slightest. I do not desire the company of anyone.”  

“Except for John,” Mrs. Watson rebutted, contemplative in her gaze. “And have you any other friends besides him?”

“I have found no other worthy as him, no. I dare say I never shall,” he answered honestly. “I feel we are drifting slightly from your initial point of inquiry.”

“No, no Mr. Holmes, you have provided me with more than enough answers to go off of,” she replied, bitterness very obviously sinking into her tone. She stormed out of his rooms without so much as a half-hearted farewell as though he had deeply offended her.

At the very least this time she hadn’t thrown a glass of wine in his face.

[let-it-raines]

Rising From The Ashes (Ch. 3)

Summary: When her husband died, Emma wasn’t sure that she could ever move on. He left her with a broken heart and a baby who was only three-months old. It’s enough to take most people down, to make them not want to keep going, but Emma Swan isn’t most people. She’s stronger than she has any right to be. And after years of heartache, she’s found ways to move on…one of those being in Neal’s best friend, Killian Jones. As she’s always known, however, things are more complicated than they ever seem to be.

Rating: Mature

A/N: I mean, how better to end the week than with something angsty? lol. I’ll post Second in Command on Sunday or Monday, I think. It’s much happier and totally cancels things out :D

We’ve got to go through the emotions and process, peeps. Things have to be bad before they get better!

Double “-/-” around the flashback!

AO3: Beginning | Current

Tumblr: 1 | 2 | 3

Tag list: @resident-of-storybrooke @resident-of-storybrooke @captainsjedi @captswanis4vr @teamhook @ekr032-blog-blog@mayquita @bmbbcs4evr @wellhellotragic @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @onceuponaprincessworld @shady-swan-jones @snowbellewells @snow-into-ash @andiirivera @mariakov81 @thejollyroger-writer @shireness-says @kristi555 @facesiousbutton82 

Paperwork is scattered across her sitting room floor. At one point there was visible hardwood, but it’s been replaced with a sea of white paper with neatly printed words written across them, yellow highlighter marks slashed over certain words with handwritten notes added in filling up the margins. There’s some kind of organizational system going on, but she lost track of it hours ago. Now it’s a sea that she’s lost in, that she doesn’t know how to escape from, which is ridiculous considering all of the paperwork on the floor are just articles she found online about how to deal with someone coming home from war.

Or torture.

Or wherever the hell Neal has been.

She still doesn’t know exactly. He won’t talk about it when she visits him in the hospital. He won’t say a thing. Whenever anyone asks him about it, he deflects, changes the subject. It’s like he’s one of her high schoolers who think if they change the subject to the Friday night football game that she’ll forget that she’s trying to help them get into college. She’s not going to forget. It’s her job to help them, and she’s not going to be distracted by something so insignificant.

Neal is not the same way.

It’s been ten days since she saw him for the first time, since she had the tangible proof that he’s alive, and while her world has been thrown upside down, he seems perfectly fine, like absolutely nothing has changed. Every article she’s read, every professional she’s talked to, every conversation she’s had with Killian, it all says that he should be affected in some way.

Hell, he looks better than he did when he left. It doesn’t…nothing makes sense about this. Nothing makes sense about her life.

The fact that Neal moves in to kiss her every time she walks in his hospital room doesn’t help. She’s taken to turning her cheek, the way his lips feel on hers wrong, and after being so shocked that she couldn’t move away when she’d first seen him, she now knows how to better handle the situation. Logically, she understands why he does it. As far as he knows, Emma is still his wife. She hasn’t moved on, she didn’t file the paperwork so that she wouldn’t be married to a dead man anymore. But she has moved on, and she did file the paperwork. Legally, she has no attachments to Neal other than Henry.

Emotionally, it’s another story.

But Neal thinks that she’s his wife, and every time she visits him, he is so damn happy to see her that she’s not sure she can break his heart, not when he probably finally feels happy for the first time in so long. He talks about how much he’s missed her, about how much the thought of she and Henry kept him going all this time. It’s the only concession he makes to where he’s been, to what’s been happening, and a part of her clings to it, clings to the knowledge that she was able to bring him back with just the thought of his love for her.

It also makes her drown in guilt.

How the hell could she have moved on when he spent nearly a decade thinking about her and their child? She must seem so flippant, untrustworthy. She must be one of the worst human beings in the world.

She thinks that a lot. She thinks about how she’s a terrible person until flickers of screaming matches and petty words flash through her mind in a jumbled mess that’s difficult for her to understand and piece together.

“God,” she groans, choking back a sob while she runs her hands through her hair before rubbing the heels of her palms into her eyes, finally ending up with her fingers tightly grasping the pendant on her necklace, “this is fucked up.”

And it’s not like she has any relief in thinking of other things. Her life doesn’t get any less complicated outside of Neal. Because when she’s not thinking of how the hell she’s going to fix that and help him adjust to life, help him adjust to Henry, she’s thinking about Killian.

He has been…amazing throughout this entire thing. He is her rock, has been for so long, and she doesn’t know how he’s managing to hold himself together when she knows he must be falling apart too. And she’s not sure that thoughts of her are keeping him together.

She’s sure that it’s thoughts of her that are pulling at all of the strings that are unraveling him.

Because she can’t go back to Neal when there’s Killian here. She can’t leave the man she loves to go back to the man she once loved, the man who has been a ghost to her for longer than she knew him alive. But should she? Should she try to make it work? Is that what she’s supposed to do? Is there even a right answer?

She loves Killian so deeply and so truly that the thought of breaking his heart breaks her. They’re together. They have Ada, they have Henry, and they have each other. They’ve been a family for so long, longer than even the time she and Killian have technically been together, and she can’t break up her family. She can’t.

Yet keeping one family together means breaking another apart. Again.

It all seems so impossible, and it’s honestly the least of her problems when she really thinks about it. It’s just the one that consumes her when she’s home with only a sleeping Ada as company.  

-/-

-/-

“Momma,” Henry begins, crawling up onto her lap from where he’s been coloring on the floor while she’s been working on her paper for school. She’s so close to finishing, to graduating, and as much as she loves her kid, she kind of wishes he’d still focus on his coloring.

“Yeah, baby?” She saves her document before closing her laptop, placing it on the couch next to her while she moves Henry in her lap. God, she can’t believe how big he’s getting. He’s still got four months until he turns four, but he’s practically an adult.

“Where’s Killy?”

Her eyes instinctively close in an attempt to shut out all of her thoughts. Henry and school. All she’s trying to focus on is her son and school. And she’s only really focusing on school because she has to be able to provide for Henry. She has to be able to do something to help him have the best life that he can have. She has absolutely no time to think about Killian Jones or how he has completely changed her entire life.

She has absolutely no time to think about how his lips feel on hers, how grinding into his jeans feels, how he sounds when she bites his bottom lip. So obviously that’s all she thinks about when she’s alone.

It’s been three weeks since they kissed, and she’s honestly about another week from going crazy thinking about it. And she can only think about it because they don’t talk about it. She really wants to talk about it. She wants to know if it meant anything to him, if it means to him what it meant to her. She’s had feelings for him for longer than she’s willing to admit, mostly because she wasn’t willing to admit it to herself.

She’s been with men since Neal died, but it’s always been one date or one night, never really wanting to be in a relationship. A part of it has definitely been guilt, of feeling like she can’t move on because her husband died being an honorable man, but it’s mostly been about Henry. All she’s cared about is Henry.

And Killian.

She cares about Killian. A lot. Far more than is appropriate actually. Of all of the men in the world who she could fall for, she was dumb enough to fall for Neal’s best friend. But really, he’s her best friend. He hasn’t always been, but he has been for the past few years.

And she wants to jump his bones.

She also wants to date him, to let him into her heart more than she has been, but that’s…too much. It’s all too much, so if she keeps it on a physical level, it’s more understandable. She can’t really keep it on a physical level.

“I understand you, love.”

The words echo in her mind almost as loudly as the feel of his lips on hers continuously replays. Actually, no. They’re louder. They mean more, and those four words…they were everything.

But then she fucked it up by kissing him, by pushing too far, by making him pull back. And now while they’ve talked, while they’ve spent time together, there’s some kind of distance between them. She doesn’t want a distance between them. It’s been a long time since she wanted something for herself, and she’s struggling to allow herself to want this.

She wants to be with Killian. She’s just not sure that he wants to be with her.

She’s not sure that they even can be together.

“He’s coming over for dinner, Henry.” Henry stares at her blankly, almost like he doesn’t know what dinner is when he mostly definitely does. It’s literally his favorite time of the day. He gets to eat and Killian comes over. It’s her son’s two favorite things. He has good taste. “Killy will be here soon. Why don’t you draw him a picture to give him when he gets here?”

“Okay,” Henry sighs, sloppily kissing her cheek before crawling off of her and back to the ground, immediately pulling out a new sheet of paper from his book and getting busy drawing…something. Honestly, some things she can tell. Some things she can’t.

While Henry works on his art, she works on her paper, knowing she needs to finish it so Killian can proofread it after they get Henry to bed. She could send it to Mary Margaret, but Mary Margaret takes absolutely forever to get anything back to her. Killian is much faster, slipping on his glasses and quickly reading through it, finding mistakes as easily as if he was out commanding a ship.

So maybe something is weird between them, but she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Killian would do anything to help she and Henry. He’s a good man, a gentleman like no other, and she doesn’t know what she ever did to deserve someone like him in her life. Sometimes she thinks that she didn’t.

That she doesn’t.

She hears the front door of her apartment open, the sound of boots stepping onto the hardwood, and before she can get up to go greet him, Henry is up from the ground and running toward the door, his arms already open so that Killian can scoop him up and swing him around, laughter absolutely rumbling out of her little boy’s stomach.

“My man,” Killian laughs, shutting the door behind him and carrying Henry back to where she’s sitting, “tell me about your day.”

“I went to school,” Henry exclaims, his little chest still heaving from where Killian was swinging him around. Her chest his heaving a bit too, her heart beating wildly while she’s pretty sure butterflies actually move around in her stomach.

“Yeah? What’d you do at school?”

“Me and Kaleb ate goldfish crackers. And sat on a rainbow.”

Killian quirks an eyebrow even as his smile covers his entire face, the lines around his eyes crinkling. He looks happy, absolutely besotted with Henry, and she has to work on holding back a sob. Killian is so in love with her kid, and it both breaks and heals her heart.

She thinks she might be in love with Killian, too. She doesn’t know, though. She isn’t even sure if she’s capable of love anymore, but the way he makes her feel…she doesn’t think she’s ever experienced that before. And of course, that makes her feel awful, guilty even. She was married. Of course she’s felt this way before. Why would she have married Neal if he didn’t make her happy?

He did make her happy, didn’t he? Of course he did. He had to have, and if he were here, he’d love their son this much too.

But he’s not here. He’s not, and she doesn’t know what to do.

She just wants to be happy. Neal would want her to be happy, right?

Killian makes her happy. Killian makes Henry happy.

Shit, she wishes there was some kind of guidebook on how to deal with moving on. There technically are, she’s read enough of them, and even though she feels like she has, sometimes the guilt still nags at her. Like right now. It’s nagging at her right now because she feels free, light almost. And she shouldn’t be allowed to do that.

“A rainbow, you say?” Killian looks at her and waggles his eyebrows, something that makes her laugh without fail. “Was there a pot of gold at the end of it?”

“No. Books.”

“Ah, well, I happen to think books are just like gold. Right, Mummy?”

“I kind of like the gold,” she answers honestly, shrugging her shoulders.

Killian winks at her before leaning over and quickly kissing her cheek in greeting. “Hello, love. How are you today? Did you sit on any rainbows?”

“I went to work, picked Henry up from daycare, and have been doing school ever since. It’s not really been a sitting on rainbow kind of day.”

“Well, we’ll just have to change that, won’t we?” He shuffles Henry on his lap before standing. “Come on, Master Henry. Let’s make your mummy some dinner and you can tell me more about this rainbow.”

Later, when Henry’s in bed and Killian has finished proofreading her paper, the damn thing finally submitted to her professor, she and Killian are sitting on the couch idly watching TV. She’s not really sure what’s on. She honestly can’t pay attention to it, not with the way her mind is racing.

“Killian?”

“Yeah, love?”

“Do you think that I’m allowed to move on from Neal?”

He doesn’t reply at first, hurt flashing in his eyes, before he schools his features. What was that? “I think so. You were barely twenty-three years old when he died, and while I think that you’ll never forget him, I don’t think you can spend the rest of your life alone, not if you don’t want to be.”

“And that doesn’t make me a bad person?”

“Not at all, Swan. It makes you human. What happened to you is awful – ”

“What happened to us.”

He gives her a soft smile, one that she really likes. “Aye, what happened to us is awful, but I know that if I had been Neal, if I had been married and died, there is nothing I’d want more than for my wife to be happy.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. That’s what love is, you know? It hurts like hell a lot of the time, but at the end of the day, you just want the person you love to be happy.”

“Killian?”

“Mhm?”

“You make me happy.” She turns to face him, tentatively running her hand along his cheek. His eyes flutter closed, his thick eyelashes dropping against his cheeks, before he opens them and all she can see is that beautiful blue. “Why haven’t we talked about the kiss?”

“Swan.”

“No, seriously. I want to talk about it. It…meant something to me, and I need to know if it did for you too.”

His jaw clenches the tenseness obvious, and her heart drops into her stomach until Killian turns his head and kisses her palm, his scruff a rough contrast to his lips. “Emma, it meant everything to me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s just…”

“You feel guilty,” she finishes for him, knowing that if there’s anyone in the world who understands, it’s him. He was there through it all, but it’s more than that. It’s always been more than that. “Because of Neal.”

“Aye, I do.” “But didn’t you say he’d want us to be happy? He loved us both. And if it’s okay for me to move on, to want to be free from what I feel like are actual chains holding me down, wouldn’t it be okay for us?”

“Emma, this is a dangerous game we’re playing. You are my best friend. I want to be with you. God, I want to be with you,” he groans, kissing her palms again, shivers running down her spine, before he runs his free hand through his hair, “but it’s more than just us. It’s the past. It’s Henry.”

She knows. She’s knows it’s all of that. She knows that Henry could be affected by this, but honestly, she knows that she and Killian could go up in flames, and Killian would muddle through the ashes to be there for Henry. She’s never been more sure of anything.

Ever. “I want to try. I want to let go, and I want to try. We understand each other, right?”

“Right.” He nods and allows the corners of his lips to tick up. “Then kiss me.”

And he does, leaning forward on the couch and gently sliding his lips over hers, his nose scrunching against her cheek while hers does the same. It’s the same as last time, but it’s different. It’s slower, sweeter, gentle. His hand makes its way into her hair while his thumb moves against the dip in her chin at the same gentle pace that his lips are moving overs hers. She smiles in the middle of it, not able to help herself, and Killian smiles too, pulling back from her for a second and resting his forehead against hers while he smiles down at her.

She’s happy.

That’s all she feels. There are no conflicting emotions and warring thoughts. She feels comfortable and happy, and she hopes that she can keep feeling this way. It’s all she’s wanted for so long.

Happiness.

Pure and simple happiness.

-/-

-/-

But she can’t think about any of that right now. The complexity of her life, of her relationship…relationships? Does she have relationships right now? It doesn’t matter. It can’t matter. Right now all that matters is trying to make her life has calm and as normal as possible. It’s not just her she’s thinking about.

It’s never just been her.

“Momma,” Henry yells, running into the room with his bookbag bouncing on his back until he comes to a skidding stop in front of all of her papers, nearly toppling over on top of them, “what are you doing?”

“Work,” she tells him. It’s a bit of a lie, but not totally.

“I thought daddy said you were taking some more time off of work. That’s why you’re not picking me up from school.” “I am, baby, but I can do a little work from home.” She uncrosses her legs and gets up from the floor, smoothing out her pajama pants. Did she not even change into real clothes today? Has she washed her hair? Brushed her teeth? She’s pretty sure that she brushed her teeth at least. Killian would have told her if she hadn’t brushed her teeth, right? “How was school?”

“So fun! We started a new book today, and it had trains in it. Mary Margaret let me bring it home so I could read it again.”

“Where is Mary Margaret, kid? She didn’t come inside with you?”

He shakes his head, dropping his bag to the ground. “She walked me to the door and let me inside before leaving. Leo has a dentist’s appointment.”

“Gotcha. You want a snack? Ada bug shouldn’t be up from her nap for another hour, so I can help you with your homework.”

Henry groans, throwing his head back and pouting the slightest bit. He’s only the slightest bit dramatic sometimes. “Can’t I eat and watch TV?”

“Nope. We eat, do homework, and then you can watch some TV. You know the rules.”

If there’s anything she knows for sure right now in her life, it’s that she loves her kids, and she’s going to try her absolute hardest to keep their lives as normal and as loving as possible. That is what’s most important. It’s what has to be. She would do absolutely anything to keep them happy, and she will. For as much as she goes through, they are the brightest part of her day without question.  

So she fixes Henry an apple and some peanut butter, trying to keep him healthier than she keeps herself, and sits down with him to do his math homework while he eats. When the baby monitor goes off halfway through, she leaves him to try some problems on his own before going upstairs and getting Ada, changing her diaper and bringing her downstairs. Ada will need to eat in a little while, and with Killian at work, Emma is doing this by herself. So Henry really needs to focus and get things done before her home is a madhouse.

It’s kind of always a madhouse.

“Finished,” Henry sighs, throwing his pencil on the table.

“Did you double check your work?”

“Yeah, but I know daddy is just going to check it again when he gets home from work. Do you think when I get to meet my dad that he’ll help me with homework?”

“I’m sure he’ll love to help you, baby.”

Henry twists in his chair, scrambling out of his seat and taking his plate to throw it away in the bin. “So when do I get to meet him? You and daddy get to see him, but I don’t. It’s not fair. And everyone at school keeps asking me about it.”

“We don’t know yet,” she answers honestly, knowing that it’s better just to tell him the truth. She really hopes that no one is giving him any trouble at school. Mary Margaret would tell her. She’d have to tell her. “I’m meeting with his doctors tomorrow to find out though, okay? You should be able to meet him soon.”

“Yeah, okay.”

On a normal day, she’d get Henry to spend some time outside, but she doesn’t feel like watching him right now. All she wants is to stay inside and not do anything, not think for just a little while, so she allows him to immediately start watching TV. She and Ada join him while he watches The Magic School Bus. She’s been subjected to some pretty awful kids’ shows over the years, so she’s honestly relieved when Henry really gets into something like this. It at least keeps her entertained as well.

Plus, Ada is really into the music and beat of it along with all of the colors, so it keeps her entertained as well. They really need to do some tummy time before she eats, especially since her entire schedule has been off. Emma’s been trying to keep it the same, but it’s so hard right now. Ada’s sleep schedule is about as messed up as Emma’s is right now. She’s got to start fixing that tomorrow.

They’re only on their second episode when the front door opens and closes, Killian’s footsteps sounding as he steps onto the hardwood. She doesn’t need to turn around to know that it’s him. She’d know the sounds of him coming home anytime. It’s something she’s grown accustomed to over the years, no matter where they are living.

“Hi,” he greets, leaning down and quickly kissing her cheek. It’s something he’s done thousands of times, but it feels…different. It feels like it’s friendly, something between friends, not something between them. But she’s imagining things. She has to be. Everything is so crazy right now, that even the life that is normal doesn’t feel normal. And hormones. She still has crazy hormones, right? It’s fine. Everything is fine.

“Hi, my Ada bug,” he laughs a little more enthusiastically, gently taking her out of Emma’s arms and propping her up on his waist while Ada cups his cheeks with her adorably chubby hands. He kisses her cheek, making her laugh. God, her laugh is like pure joy, and Emma doesn’t think she’s ever going to get tired of it. The first time she laughed was a few days ago, and it’s been so fun to make her laugh ever since. She’s really into it when Emma blows raspberries on her stomach or when she drops her toys, and the laughter that comes from both of those things is precious. “I missed you today, my little love. Yeah, Daddy missed you quite a bit.” Her eyes follow him as he sits down in the center of the couch, right between she and Henry.

“Hey, lad. How was school?”

“I already told Mom.”

“You still have to tell me. You know that. I want to hear about your day.”

When Killian pauses the show, she thinks that Henry might lose it, but he doesn’t, only groaning the slightest bit. “It was good. I took my science test.”

“How’d you do? You ace it?”

“I think so. There was one question, with the photo plant thing.”

“Photosynthesis.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know that one, but I tried.” “That’s all you gotta do, bud,” Killian tells him, a bright smile on his face while he alternates between talking to Henry and running his fingers over Ada’s stomach to keep her entertained. “Did you and Mum already do your homework?”

“Yeah, but you’ve got to check it. It’s math.”

“I will after dinner, okay?” Killian presses play on the remote, the show playing again, before leaning over to her and whispering in her ear, “Can I talk to you in the kitchen for a minute?”

The familiar feeling over nausea she’s been feeling for a little under a month now takes over, but she nods, getting up from the couch and walking through the archway to the kitchen while Killian follows behind her, Ada still in his arms. She’s starting to get fussy, fidgeting a bit, and before she and Killian sit down at the kitchen table, she takes her out of his arms and gets ready to feed her.

“What’d you want to talk about?”

Killian reaches up and runs his hand over his stubble, his fingers tapping against the skin. He’s nervous. Why is he nervous? He shouldn’t be nervous.

“I got a call from one of Neal’s therapists today.”

“Dr. Vibuthi?”

“Dr. Carter. He was checking to see what we plan on doing for his home situation. I suggested we put him up in a nice hotel, like we talked about, until we figure out how exactly to tell him about us since we’re supposed to be easing him into the changes.” “Where’s the but in this scenario?”

“But,” Killian continues, “Dr. Carter says that he really needs to be staying somewhere familiar, such as his house before he left. I tried to explain to him that we’re living somewhere different, that it’s not even the same state, but he was insistent.”

“He can’t stay here, though. There’s evidence of our life, of Ada, everywhere.”

“I know. I told him that, that there was no way in hell I’d hide my daughter or act like she was something to be ashamed of, but he insisted. And God,” Killian sighs, running his hand through his hair, “I don’t know what to do. They tell us he has to stay with us but that we’re supposed to ease him into life here. It’s all so fucking complicated.”

She almost instinctively covers Ada’s ears, not wanting her to hear the curses even if she’s too young to truly understand things like that, only picking up things that they say over and over again. It’s just habit, and she really doesn’t want her baby’s first word to be fucking.

That would be something.

“So what do you think? What? We set him up in the guest room for a little while, until we figure things out. We have him meet Henry, let them get to know each other a bit, and then we sit down with him and tell him about what’s going on with us?”

“I guess. I don’t really see another option. We just have to rip the band-aid off. From what I can tell, despite everything, Neal seems fine. And he’s a grown man. As much as, yes, we have to ease him into things, he’s not going to want to be babied. You know how he hates that.” “Yeah, that’s true.” She doesn’t want to say the next words, but she has to. She can’t not know. Maybe she’ll be able to sleep if she knows. “Are we going to stay together, Killian?”

His eyes blow wide before they settle, his face becoming as neutral as possible. She’s seen him do it a million times, and she’s not sure that she likes what it means. “I don’t know, love. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do, if it’s the honorable thing to do.”

“I don’t care about honorable. I love you. That doesn’t just change. And I know it’s not even the most important thing right now, but it is consuming me.” “Emma, I love you and our kids more than anything in the world, but this isn’t a black and white situation. If you want to have another chance with Neal, I have to give you that chance. Do you know what you want?”

You, she thinks.

You, she knows.

“No,” she says instead, the truth unable to pass her lips. “I feel like I don’t know anything. I feel like I have no answers, but I don’t want to leave you. I also just don’t want to hurt Neal. He doesn’t deserve that.” “No, he doesn’t, but this is where we are. I’m sorry, Swan, but if this is how our life is going to be, we’re going to have to make some hard decisions, okay? It’s going to be bloody awful at first, but we don’t have a choice. We should just try to be happy that Neal is getting his second chance. We’ll figure out things as we go. I make plans for a living, but this is it. This is all I can come up with for us right now.”

She feels the tears welling up in her eyes again, the sting of fresh water, and she wonders why the hell this couldn’t have happened when she wasn’t still adjusting to having a baby. She’s not sleeping, her hormones are all over the place, and absolutely everything is heightened. It’s awful. Every time she cries she feels ridiculous even if she knows that she’s not. She wouldn’t be ridiculous for crying even if she wasn’t in one of the world’s most stressful situations, but nothing makes her feel better. Nothing except for her kids.

And Killian. Killian makes her feel better which only makes everything worse.

“So did Dr. Cater say when they were releasing Neal? I thought this is what we were talking about at the appointment tomorrow.”

“Aye, it is, but he wanted to run over a few more things with me beforehand.”

“But what did he say about when?”

“He said Neal could come home tomorrow, actually.”

[blancheludis]

A/N: @iron-man-bingo square: Self-Sacrifice

Fandom: Marvel, Iron Man Characters: Tony Stark, James Rhodes Tags: MIT Era, College, Friendship, Protective Rhodey, Tony Needs A Hug, Alcoholism Words: 3.773

Summary: “Sometimes I don’t want to be sober ever again,” Tony says quietly. “It’s easier like that.”

What a world they live in, Rhodey thinks, that he has to teach Tony Stark about love.

---

Tony is so vibrant, so used to hiding behind glittering masks, that it is impossible for the casual observer to notice when something is wrong with him. Rhodey is not that anymore. For a year now, they have been best friends. Still, the cracks in Tony’s composure show themselves only gradually.

The first thing Boston’s students learned about Tony Stark is that he is young and rich and smart enough to leave them all in the dust. The second is that he is the life of every party, unmatched in his ability to drink and please any crowd. Rhodey is disgusted by that right up until he is worried.

The trick, Rhodey eventually learns, is to keep Tony distracted, to turn the alcohol into nothing more than an afterthought – and to throw out the people who only want to use Tony. Which, admittedly, is a Sisyphean task at college.

Coincidentally, the first time Rhodey wonders whether Tony is not hiding more cracks than previously thought is during a party.

By the time Rhodey arrives, everybody is already drunk. He stands in the foyer, letting the pounding music wash over him, making his skin vibrate as if it has a life of its own, and wonders whether it would not be better to call it a night. Arriving late means to put in twice the effort to have fun.

He has no time to come to a decision, though, because that is when Tony finds him. His eyes are as wild as his hair, and his clothes are in disarray, buttoned up wrong and with lipstick stains adorning his collar.

“Platypus,” he calls, his lips fitting clumsily around the newest nickname in an embarrassingly long line of them. “I saved a bottle for you somewhere.”

A bottle could mean everything from bear to the most expensive whiskey the store around the corner has to offer. Sometimes, it does not seem that Tony discriminates between what he pours down his throat as long as he has a bottleneck to hold in his hand.

“Let’s go to the kitchen,” Rhodey shouts back over the music. “Maybe get a glass of water for you too.”

Suddenly, Tony is much too close, pressing himself against Rhodey’s chest in a clumsy attempt of an embrace. When he backs away, it is only far enough that he can look up better at Rhodey.

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Rhodey.” Eyes growing brighter, he adds, “Let’s just not be ourselves tonight.”

With that, he grips Rhodey’s hand and pulls him off deeper into the house.

“Wait,” Rhodey says, “what do you mean by that?”

It is such a strange phrasing that something cold unfurls behind Rhodey’s sternum. He is not yet drunk so he cannot make sense of a drunk’s words. Perhaps the surroundings alone have him not sober enough either to decipher Tony.

He is pretty sure either the music or Tony’s ability to ignore everything he does not want to hear drown out his words. Surprisingly, Tony turns briefly back to him.

“What I said,” Tony replies cheekily. The way his eyes glisten and how wide they are, Rhodey thinks it might be not just alcohol running through his friend’s system. “Come on. This is our night.”

The night for what? Senseless revelry with a side dish of abandoning their selves?

“What are you drinking?” Rhodey questions, planting himself firmly in the foyer so that Tony tugs uselessly at his hand. “Did you take anything from anyone?”

It would not have been the first time – to experiment or to relieve stress, come on, Rhodey, you’re not that boring when it comes to building robots.

In front of him, Tony rolls his eyes, which somehow makes him lose balance. Rhodey steadies him without having to think about it.

“I’m not on drugs,” Tony says slowly, enunciating each word as if that is a ridiculous notion, as if there is no reason to worry about him. Ever. “I’m just not Tony Stark tonight. You should try it, Platypus. Lift those lips. Dance with me.”

Confused, Rhodey lets himself be pulled into half a twirl before he regains control of his senses and stops. He wants to say something, wants to dissect Tony’s statement, but Tony, sighing dramatically, lets go of him.

Too late to hold him back, Rhodey has to watch Tony disappear into the moving mass of drunk students filling the house. When he attempts to follow, the bodies form a wall before him, seemingly impossible to part. For the moment, Rhodey does not remembers how to navigate places like this.

He needs to find Tony, needs to talk to him about this. It might have been just a throw-away comment, but added to the more-than-usual unhinged behaviour, Rhodey feels like he should worry.

A drink does sound right now, though. Just one to get his thoughts flowing again. Tony will likely only talk to him when he comes to him smiling, and he is sure he will not be able to do that sober.

Shaking his head, Rhodey makes his way to the kitchen. The next morning, he barely remembers that they talked about anything that night.

 ---

Tony in a suit always looks like a completely different person. The clothes are immaculate and tailored to Tony’s exact size. Considering that Rhodey is used to Tony wearing over-sized sweaters with his hair sticking up wildly, sitting barefoot on the ground, working on whatever new project his crazy mind has come up with, seeing this slick and controlled version of him is like stumbling over a stranger in their dorm.

Even worse is the reluctance Rhodey feels at the prospect of coming in. Tony is his best friend, but he is also inhabiting two very different worlds and Rhodey only fits into one of them.

When Tony notices him, he looks up with a smile so very different from his usual blinding grins. Looking like this, Tony never shows much emotion.

“What’s going on?” Rhodey asks as he finally steps into the room. “Why are you wearing a suit?”

“Obie called,” Tony answers, his tone precise, polished. “They need me for a press conference.”

Those happen sometimes but rarely. Usually, Howard and Stane are happy to let Tony be as long as he does not cause too much bad press. Rhodey does not remember any of that happening lately, and yet Tony’s expression is grimmer than usual when he gets called away for these things.

“Don’t you have people for that?”

Rhodey has met the frazzled woman in charge of PR for Stark Industries once when she was briefing Tony on what to say and how to say it. Rhodey would not want to change places with her, especially not since she has to coach Tony Stark on things he has known for longer than she has had the job.

“It helps if I go out there and play the genius kid every once in a while,” Tony says in a flat voice. He is checking his tie’s knot in the mirror, calloused hands running over the smooth cloth. It is already perfect, which means that Tony is stalling.

“When do you need to leave?” Rhodey asks, stepping closer to keep Tony from ruining the knot again.

Looking up at him, Tony’s small smile turns wry. “Ten minutes ago.”

That is all the confirmation Rhodey needs. “What’s wrong?” he asks and pulls Tony towards the bed, pushing him down to sit on the mattress.

As much as Tony likes designing things, he does not seem to like Stark Industries very much. Perhaps that is just about his father, though.

Tony raises his hand as if to run it through his hair but remembers at the last moment that he should not mess it up. Instead, he rubs the bridge of his nose. Then he glares at his hand as if it is responsible for the nervous gesture.

“I’m just not myself out there,” Tony says with a shrug, somehow making this sound nonchalant. “Sometimes it’s hard to get back to that.”

Rhodey thinks he knows what Tony means. If a camera is trained on him, all of Tony’s smiles become wider but more artificial, never reaching his eyes. He gestures less but more sharply, does not let himself be caught in talking about something he actually likes.

“I guess being yourself is not an option then?” Rhodey asks, despite knowing the answer. Despite them being best friends, Rhodey is still getting blocked by Tony’s masks and deflections every now and then. He is not going to let strangers get a peek at himself.

Tony snorts without much amusement. “I doubt Obie meant for me to make things worse.”

That sits wrong with Rhodey, it always does when Tony talks about himself with disdain. He has not yet found an effective cure for that, however.

“You’re not a bad person, Tones,” Rhodey says, wishing he could make Tony believe how much he means that.

“You only think that because I’ve conditioned you to like me by brining you the good coffee instead of the grovel from downstairs,” Tony replies dryly. A little bit more life returns into his features, making Rhodey inwardly congratulate himself.

He still remains serious. “You can’t buy my good opinion of you with coffee.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Tony gets up, face smoothing over again. “One day you’ll wake up and wonder what you’ve been thinking.”

Rendered speechless, Rhodey cannot do anything but stare for a long moment, trying to find the kind of argument that not even Tony Stark can brush away and turn against himself.

“That’s nonsense,” bursts over Rhodey’s lips with none of the eloquence he has been grasping for. Being faced with this Tony, Rhodey feels utterly helpless. “I’m not in for the money or the coffee or anything else. Just for you.”

For a second, it looks like Tony’s expression is going to crumble, like they can have a real conversation about this. Then a car honks twice, causing Tony to be replaced by Stark, unreadable and sharp-edged enough to cut anyone getting too close.

“And who’s that?” Tony asks, flippant and careless. Turning towards the door, he smooths down his suit. It is obvious he does not intent to give Rhodey the time to answer. “Gotta go. See you tonight. Probably.”

“Definitely,” Rhodey corrects with determination. He is worries by this sudden turn in their conversation and by how easily Tony hides himself away. “We’re going to have a talk about this.”

Tony flashes him a grin, as bright as it is false. “Definitely.”

Then, without another word, he strides out of the door, leaving Rhodey behind with his thoughts.

The next time they see each other, Tony is already drunk. He lost his jacket somewhere but is still wearing his good shirt, wrinkled now and with unidentifiable stains on it. He is dancing with abandon in a stranger’s dorm room, seemingly noticing nothing of his surroundings.

The whole dorm appears to be present, riled up by a surprise party nobody knew they needed tonight. It could all be a coincidence that the night Rhodey wanted to talk about something serious, everybody is up and drunk, filling the air with chaos. When his eyes meet Tony’s, there is no mistaking the flicker of guilt on his face, though. Nor can it be called anything other than avoidance, the way Tony seems to slip through Rhodey’s fingers every time they come even remotely close to each other.

They do not talk that night, nor any of the following ones because Tony keeps himself busy with project and extra credits. He probably thinks he is being subtle about it. He is not, but Rhodey gets the message anyway. Tony does not want to talk and Rhodey will not push him into it.

Neither will he forget about it.

 ---

Their apartment is dark when Rhodey comes home. That in itself is not really surprising and Rhodey would not think anything about it if he had not gone by the lab on the way here after Tony has missed all of their classes this day. The latter is not really uncommon, but he is usually found working those days, never noticing how much time passes by while concentrating on his projects. Sometimes, Rhodey envies Tony’s ability to focus so completely on one thing, never coming up for air until it is done. Mostly, though, is means more work for him.

“Tony?” he calls as he pulls the door close behind him.

There is no answer, but that does not have to mean anything. Turning on the light, Rhodey walks into their apartment. In the kitchen, he finds an assortment of bottles on their counter, some half-empty, some tipped over. All of them, without exception, are expensive and contain alcohol.

Tony was home then. As much as the Stark Mansion can be described as home. Rhodey has never been there, has only seen pictures and listened to Tony’s stories about it, but that is enough for him to dislike it intensely. Mostly, he does not like the person it turns Tony into.

Hastening his steps, Rhodey walks down the hallway to Tony’s room. He knocks but does not wait for an answer. Tony and alcohol is not a good mixture. He can drain bottle after bottle and never show any signs of being drunk – but only if he has to perform. Afterwards, when they are home, Tony usually crashes and only Rhodey is there to catch him.

The room is dark too, but the light from the hallway is enough to illuminate Tony’s figure, sitting on the ground, back to the bed, clinging to a bottle, never looking up at the intrusion.

“Go away,” Tony says. His voice is hoarse, quiet. If it is supposed to be a demand, Tony does not have the energy to actually turn it into one.

Rhodey ignores it anyway. “I think you’ve had enough.” He steps into the room but does not go directly towards Tony.

He has learned the hard way that, sometimes, Tony might speak and interact with him without actually registering his presence, causing him to flinch at sudden movements or at simply realizing that Rhodey has come too close. That is a hard thing to know about his best friend, but where it might have put him off once, it only makes Rhodey’s protectiveness worse.

“Go,” Tony repeats sharper. “I’m not myself tonight.” He blinks up at Rhodey and manages to hold his cold expression for barely a breath before he crumbles. Dropping his gaze, he pulls the bottle closer to himself. “Or wait, maybe I am. Maybe this is all I am.”

For a long moment, Rhodey is at a loss. True enough, Tony does not look like himself. There is nothing of the sharp edges of Tony Stark in him, full of confidence and smirks and brilliance, and nothing of the softness of Tones, vibrating with slightly manic energy, heart full of kindness. There is a shapeless tiredness to him now, misery given form.

Going closer, Rhodey crouches. He keeps all of his movements slow. “Tony,” he says as firmly as he manages, “look at me.”

Tony shakes his head, focusing on the bottle with all the intent he seems able to muster. Without warning, Rhodey reaches out and pulls the bottle from Tony’s grip. They struggle for a minute, both locked to the cool glass. Then Rhodey takes his free hand to gently pry Tony’s fingers loose, Tony gives in with a sigh.

When he puts the bottle behind him, out of Tony’s reach, Rhodey has to fight to urge to take a swig himself. It looks like there is a difficult conversation ahead of them, and as much as Rhodey might want some liquid courage for it, one of them should have a clear a head for it.

“You should go, Rhodey,” Tony says before Rhodey had a chance to think of how to begin. “I’m not good for you. Howard said that. I ruin everything I touch. Don’t let me ruin you.”

Familiar anger uncurls in Rhodey’s chest. Every mention of Howard Stark tends to irritate him, but the combination of the conviction in Tony’s voice and the general situation has Rhodey skipping right past that into feeling murderous.

“You won’t ruin me,” Rhodey says slowly, needing Tony to understand that before he can ask any questions. “You’ve made my life so much brighter. That’s what you do with everything.”

Something tears itself from Tony’s throat that is probably supposed to be laughter. It comes out warbled, making the hairs in Rhodey’s neck stand up like the sound of nails on a blackboard would.

“Don’t lie to me,” Tony spats, sounding upset.

“I don’t,” Rhodey counters immediately. He feels very much out of depth. “I promised you that, remember? First semester? I told you I’d never be one of those people who’d lie to get into your good graces. We’re friends.”

If possible, Tony’s expression gets even sourer at the mention of friendship. “You deserve so much better.”

“Funny, because I think that should be my decision,” Rhodey replies, perhaps harsher than necessary, but it gets Tony to listen. His eyes are wide and dark when he trains them on Rhodey, but he returns the gaze unflinchingly. “And I want to keep my best friend, even if he sometimes drinks himself through his father’s liquor cabinet and has serious self-worth issues.”

Tony’s hand spasms, gripping tight around thing air. He opens his mouth as if to ask for his bottle back but thinks better of it after one glance at Rhodey’s expression. Instead, his shoulders slump further.  

“It’s not an issue if it’s true,” Tony mutters under his breath, grimacing at the sound of his own voice.

Rhodey scoffs. “That doesn’t even make sense.” Since there is no use to discussing that now – he has tried before, a dozen times – he gets to his feet, offering his hand to Tony. “Here, let me help you up, and then I’ll get you to bed.”

Likely trying to swat the hand away, Tony misses by several inches. “I don’t –”

“Shh, Tony, you’re drunk,” Rhodey cuts him off. Grabbing Tony’s hand himself, he pulls him up and deposits him on the mattress. “The alcohol makes you feel more miserable than you are. We’ll talk once you’ve sobered up.”

Rhodey crouches down again to pull Tony’s shoes off. When Tony expectedly tries to kick him, he dodges the weak attempt easily. Tony likes being cared for even less than being told he is wrong about something, especially himself.

“Sometimes I don’t want to be sober ever again,” Tony says quietly. “It’s easier like that.”

Judging on Tony’s tone and the way he stares up at the ceiling, Rhodey is almost certain he was not supposed to hear that. That does not stop him from coming up and sitting down next to Tony on the bed.

“It’s not,” he argues vehemently, wishing any of his words would actually register with Tony the way they are meant. “You’re Tony Stark. You don’t hide. If things are bad, you’ll make them better.”

That is what Rhodey has likes about Tony from the beginning, even when he was still just the rich, white kid treating MIT like his personal playground. No matter what problem is put before Tony, he finds a way to solve it, to make any broken thing work, and better than ever before.

Which is why Rhodey wants to find whoever messed up Tony’s self-confidence and ruin theirs. More than ever when Tony says, in an impossibly small voice, “I can’t.”

Toning down his temper, Rhodey argues, “Oh, you can. If you think you can’t do it for yourself, do it for me until you can.” Much gentler, he adds, “I’ll be there for you.”

Tony is silent for a long moment. His breathing is loud as if he has to consciously remind himself that his lungs need air. He stares down at his lap until he pulls up his feet, making himself small. With visible effort, he looks up.

“You’re my best friend, Rhodey.”

The seriousness of that remark breaks Rhodey’s heart a little because it is still lacking confidence, ends almost as a question.

“And you’re mine,” Rhodey replies firmly, leaving no doubt that he means it. “Don’t you forget that.”

“I don’t,” Tony answers quickly, then bites his lower lip. His eyes stray from Rhodey again, making him look embarrassed. “I mean, I’m myself with you. I never am anywhere else. So – thank you?”

This is not the first time Tony has said something like that. I’m not myself out there. Let’s not be ourselves for once. I’m not myself tonight. Rhodey has noticed it before, but never has it come with such an urgency, like time is running out.

“You don’t owe the world anything, Tones, and I happen to love who you are,” Rhodey says, looking at Tony until he looks back. Deciding that Tony does not look so spooked anymore that bodily contact will make things worse, Rhodey reaches out and outs his hand over Tony’s, which is gripping his knees. “We’ll work on that, promise?”

A small grin pulls at Tony’s lips. It is lopsided and does not quite reach his eyes, but Rhodey decides to count it as a good sign anyway.

“You shouldn’t let drunk people promise anything,” Tony says. He is obviously deflecting, but his lids are drooping and the tension is bleeding out of him, making him slump into Rhodey’s side.

“I’ll ask you again in the morning,” Rhodey offers, making it almost into a threat. “But let me warn you now, I won’t accept no as an answer.”

Giving up the fight to stay upright, Tony melts completely into Rhodey, letting his head fall against Rhodey’s shoulder.

“I love you, Rhodey,” he mutters, stumbling a bit over the words. Rhodey knows that is not because he does not mean them, but because he is unused to saying them.

“I know,” Rhodey says, smiling down at his best friend. “We just need to get you to love yourself a little too.”

What a world they live in, Rhodey thinks, that he has to teach Tony Stark about love. That is a task that could take his entire life, he is aware of that. There is no doubt in his mind, however, that it will be worth it. The things Tony creates when he is driven by guilt are magnificent. Rhodey can hardly imagine how much brighter the world will be once Tony starts shaping it with love.

[unquietwordssettledthoughts]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Naruto Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Uchiha Izuna/Uchiha Madara Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Smut, Royalty Summary:

Smut written out of sheer spite for anti-shippers.

There were full days where Madara loathed his position, despite the many advantages and privileges that came with it. When his advisers droned on about situations outside of his control, small details so far from interesting it took all of his self-control not to fidget or groan on his throne. It had been one of those days already, though one would be hard pressed to even call it afternoon yet, and the fact that it had followed the worst night of sleep possibly in his life only made it worse.

Why they thought he needed to know about every speck of dust on their parchments was beyond him. He had to focus on a point above their head, staring at the doors to the throne room, just to keep up the appearance that he cared at all. Yes, the agricultural department had its uses, and yes they were very important uses, but he had named this damned idiot the head of that department for a reason. Crops and plants were a mystery to him, and with the whole kingdom placed on his shoulders he hardly had time to pick up another subject to study.

He was busy keeping himself in check by inwardly reciting all the stuffy, pretentious poetry he’d had to memorize as a child when the throne room doors were thrown open, his right hand storming into the room and giving a sweeping bow once he’d approached the dias.

“Forgive me, my liege, but I have urgent news.” Izuna stood straight once more, not paying any mind to the man he’d interrupted, who was now glancing nervously between Madara and his brother.

‘Urgent news.’ That at least helped Madara stay focused, giving a miniscule frown in thought as he flicked his wrist in gesture for his brother to continue. Either he actually had business with him, or his day might actually get interesting…

“A missive has arrived from a relative. It would be best discussed in private.”

Madara forced himself to sit still for a few moments, to appear unrushed while he considered the suggestion. No matter that he wanted to sag in relief and shudder in delight at the offer, knowing now exactly why his brother was here. They’d done this song and dance enough times for him to know there was no missive, and he would gladly accept such a delicious distraction.

“Leave us.” It was a flippant command, Madara not even bothering to look at anyone in the room. His agricultural advisor would simply have to wait to continue his unnecessary and dull speech, and everyone else waiting to speak with him would have to get over themselves for a good hour or so. The only two he had to say any more than that to were the guards stationed at the side ends of his dias, catching their attention with a tap of one finger against the hard throne arm, jerking his head to tell them to leave as well.

If it had been anyone else requesting to speak with him alone, his guards would have stayed. That’s the only reason he gave them leeway in their hesitance. Soon enough, the final door was shut, the sound echoing off the walls in the quiet around them.

Usually, this would have been when Madara’s mask would break. It might have been many years since Izuna technically had the right to call him brother, having lost the political status that allowed him to be familiar with the king when he’d renounced his own title as a prince. That said, in the few hours they could steal in private, Madara was all too thankful to slip back into the role of being an older brother - someone who could tease and harass with little care, without the weight of thousands of people resting in every word and command he spoke.

It’s the recent revelation of exactly why Izuna was so keen to ‘call upon him’ in such a setting that kept him from doing so then. Gasped pleas in the heat of the moment, unwitting confessions on how his brother loved to serve him - being forced to play the stoic, aloof king might be taxing when it’s demanding of him every second of his life, but Madara’s more than willing to play a little longer if it meant pleasing his little brother.

He let the silence drag on for a minute between them, bored eyes trained on the man standing at attention before him belied by the way his blood rushed hot through his veins. Only when he saw his brother’s eye twitch, a small movement of discomfort or impatience he couldn’t quite tell, did he finally speak, his tone wry and bored and not at all giving away how he was already imagining all the ways his brother could serve him.

“State your business.” He watched the way Izuna shifted his weight at the command, how his shoulders tensed as if he was holding himself back.

“My business is, as always, to serve my king - and, by extension, his kingdom.” Madara raised an expectant eyebrow in lieu of a verbal response, making it understood that his brother should continue. He did so after a short pause, doing exactly what a good subordinate shouldn’t do and looking his king in the eyes as he spoke. “If it would please your highness, I would prove my loyalty to the throne by servicing him.”

Madara leaned back in his seat, acting as if to mull the idea over in his head. They both knew at this point he wouldn’t turn Izuna away, not after clearing the room, not after allowing the offer to stand between them. If he wasn’t in the mood he would’ve shooed him off at the start, would have told him the ‘missive’ could wait until later.

It didn’t matter what they both knew or not. What mattered was the way Izuna’s pupils dilated with interest, how he was clearly struggling not to fidget, and how he loved every reminder that Madara was in control.

He wanted to service his king. Not his brother, not then anyway, and Madara might not have been the best at playing up his position in their intimate encounters but he was all too willing to give it his all. And what better way than to make the impatient brat wait like the good little peon he should be?

“Approach.” He could see how Izuna had to hold himself back at the command, his brother stepping up onto the dias as calmly as one could when they wanted to lurch forward. Madara had to hide a smirk behind his hand, pulling off the motion as he leaned to one side and resting his chin in his palm. When his brother stood but a foot in front of him he drug his gaze unhurriedly down his body, examining him, determining his worth.

Of course, Izuna was more than worthy. Brat he might have been but he was Madara’s brat, and no matter that it went against everything he’d ever been taught Madara would have given the kingdom and more for his little brother.

Flicking his gaze to the floor was all the approval he gave Izuna, expecting him to kneel. When his brother did so with no further instruction it caused an unexpected thrill of power to shudder through him, made erotic by the sight of the man on his knees just for him.

“Do I have permission to touch the king?” Izuna’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, peering up through his eyelashes. All Madara did was give a curt nod in response, forcing himself not to move when his brother did so, not to twitch as those clever hands ran up his inner thighs, nudging them apart to allow Izuna room between them.

He had to swallow when one hand palmed the already growing bulge in his pants, fighting back the impatient noise, the instinct to snap at Izuna to get on with it. Patience was a foreign concept to the both of them when it came to sexual acts, born out of the fear of discovery and Madara’s personal habit of burning too hot too fast no matter what emotion took over him.

But a king is patient if only because he knows those beneath him will follow his command, and Madara knew from years of experience that Izuna would serve him well.

The brat was certainly taking his time, though. Working his belt loose with one hand while the other massaged at his thigh, face so close he could almost feel hot breath on his cock despite the layers between them. Madara’s own hand itched to pull him closer, to tangle itself in hair so like his own and shove him closer to find some relief.

Gods, he was already getting worked up, and his pants hadn’t even been untied yet.

With the ties of his pants loosened, Izuna scooted closer, taking a moment to nuzzle at his still-clothed cock, eyes fluttering closed as he ghosted his lips across the material. Pushing his luck, testing Madara’s patience, whatever one would call such clear teasing it was wearing Madara’s already limited patience even thinner. Imagining those lips currently leaving open-mouthed kisses on his cock stretched around it instead, knowing how good that wet heat felt taking him to the hilt, swallowing around him-

Izuna licked a strip up his shaft, and it was just that side of not enough to make Madara nearly crack.

He only just caught himself in time. Managed to cover the frustrated groan of his brother’s name by tightening his jaw, catching Izuna’s eyes when they peered up at him curiously.

“My patience wears thin, Izuna. Either do your duty and serve your king, or leave.” He sent a silent prayer to whatever gods would listen that his brother didn’t try to leave - knowing the brat, he’d at least be tempted to do so, if only to see what Madara would do.

It sent an all new rush of arousal down his spine when all Izuna did was nod, licking his lips again as he gave the cloth one final kiss as he shifted the material down and freed him at last. Cold air hit his length but he barely had time to register it before Izuna was on him, a firm grip making him jerk forward while he ran parted lips up the underside of his shaft, drawing a curse out under Madara’s breath.

The way Izuna worshiped was downright sinful. How he held him in place and mouthed at the side of his shaft, letting just the tip of his tongue flick at the skin there. Took his time working his way up, pausing to lap at the head as if eager to taste him.

For someone seemingly eager to please his king, Izuna seemed to be doing everything in his power to break Madara’s control. Touching him just enough to tease but never enough, onyx eyes, mirrors of his own, studying his every twitching movement and drinking his every hitched breath in.

His lips felt like heaven when they finally took part of him in, and Madara had to bit his own fist to keep quiet when his brother suckled on the tip. Before he could catch himself his free hand found the back of Izuna’s head. There was no masking the movement as anything beyond being caught up in the moment, the smirk pulling at the mouth around him showing he’d been caught. Instead of jerking his hand back and losing face further Madara rested in there, tangling a few small locks in his fingers and leaning back in his throne to better watch that wicked mouth take him in.

And what an excellent show it was for his gaze alone. Watching as his brother sank lower, taking him in until his nose sat in dark curls. How lewd he looked with his mouth stretched open, lips pink and wet with saliva, heady lust glazing his eyes over. Curiosity had Madara shifting in his spot, reaching with his foot until he was nudging against the undeniable evidence of just how aroused Izuna was to be serving him in such a fashion.

“Serve me well, take what your king gives you,” Madara loosened his hand from Izuna’s hair, brushing his fingertips thoughtfully down his brother’s cheek before leaving it to rest on his thigh, “and he might be gracious enough to allow you to relieve yourself.”

That promise, if one could call it that, was all it took for Izuna to take his duty seriously. No longer willing to take his sweet time, Izuna pressed his tongue flat against him as he bobbed his head, swallowing around him and dragging an unwitted curse out of Madara’s throat.

Madara would be the first to admit he’d been rather promiscuous in his earlier years. There had been little end to the number of people willing and eager to be with royalty, whether for the thrill or to gain favor it mattered little to him at the time. Yet out of all the dozens of partners he’d had over the years not a one of them came close to driving him wild like Izuna could with just his mouth. How he would moan with unabashed and legitimate pleasure, the sound and vibrations sending shudders through him. The way he’d pull back and lavish the head with attention right before swallowing him whole once more, choking a moan out past his kingly facade. Madara’s knuckles were white where they gripped the arm of his throne, desperately clinging to the mask of aloofness and rapidly finding it a vain effort when every inch of his being cried out for him to take hold of his brother’s head once more, to thrust into that blissful wet-heat and find his release.

As Izuna persistently chipped away at his self-control, more and more soft gasps and words escaped him, Madara biting his lower lip raw in an attempt to keep them at bay. Both sitting still and remaining silent was no longer possible, muscles twitching and hips gently rocking while he remained only vaguely aware he was even doing so.

He had come dangerously close to the edge by the time he broke, head hitting the back of his seat hard as he blindly reached for his brother, cursing as he moaned. “Fuck, Izuna, just a little more. Faster, gods like that.”

One hand working the base of his cock, that knowing, smug glint in his brother’s eyes while he sucked and swallowed around him, and Madara was shaking apart only moments later, panting as his orgasm ripped through him and left him breathless.

High off of the ecstacy thrumming through him, Madara paid little mind to the weight crawling into his lap, accepting his little brother with open arms and letting his head lull to the side and rest atop the one pillowed against his shoulder. It was low cursing and the rustle of fabric that keyed him in, eyes cracking open to watch as Izuna desperately worked himself off in his pants, unashamed to take his own pleasure and far too close to the edge to care anyway.

When Izuna’s movements stilled as well, a jaw-slacked moan spelling his end, Madara wrapped his arm tighter around his brother’s waist to pull him closer. Neither of them spoke while they came down, taking a few minutes to nuzzle into each other, to enjoy the quiet after-bliss embrace of lovers discovering nirvana together.

It was moments like these, stolen between dry meetings with even dryer elders, that made Madara grateful for his place in the kingdom. Knowing that he was above any social demands for ‘decency’ with a more ‘acceptable’ partner, that he could protect Izuna from any fall out with a simple flick of his wrist to dismiss any punishment or claims against his brother’s person. That not a single person within his realm could force his love out of his arms, or would dare to interrupt his privacy even within his throne room.

Knowing that Izuna had a kink for serving his king only made it all the better, and as Madara tucked his most precious person up under his chin all he could think of was how great this day had turned out for him.

[flxbber]

tagged: stolen from @braverytaught tagging: @eplabita @vrrotten @pennedbyautumn @marblecarved @killedsupers @gymgordon @imbicilite

you are air! 

Air is the element of freedom, independence, and curiosity. Air is the most flexible, adaptable, and unpredictable of all the elements. Airy people are known for their quickness and freedom in thought, feeling, will, and movement. Just like physical air quickly moves around any obstacle in its path rather than resisting, so Air confronts its problems indirectly. When troubles come, Air is known for avoiding harmful situations, diffusing tensions, deflecting antagonism, using humor, wit, and occasionally using tricks or manipulation. Regardless, Air is known as the most out-of-the-box thinker of all the elements. It always sees things from a different perspective and is adept at approaching and solving problems from an unusual point of view. Air can be light and playful as a spring breeze, clear and confident as the noon-day sky, as swift and daring as the jet stream, as kind as the warm summer rain, or as fierce and destructive as a hurricane. Air is, of course, the element that carries voices, music, and communication in general, so it is known for communication skills and a love of the arts. It is the element that most frequently mingles with the others, such as lightning (Air/Fire), sandstorms (Air/Earth), or rain and hail storms (Air/Water). So Air is the most sociable, the most outgoing, the most cosmopolitan, and the best at people skills in general. Air is highly skilled at compartmentalizing: treating things it doesn’t like or doesn’t care about as if they weren’t real. This can make Air aloof and detached from reality at times. Paradoxically, Air is either the most popular of all the elements or else an eccentric and a non-comformist. This reflects their kindness and sociability, but also their strong independent streak. Air is also known for its cheerful attitude, social skills, sense of fair play, confidence, fierce sense of justice, resilience, spontaneity, curiosity, sense of humor, and enthusiasm for everything life has to offer. It’s greatest strength and weakness is its lightness and changeability. It can adapt to anything, and foresee and avoid problems before they arrive; but immature Air can also be impatient, restless, impulsive, fickle, easily bored, frivolous, flippant, unreliable, or lecherous. Intellectually, Air is curious. Air always asks “how.” Air loves to learn about anything and everything it sees. There is often no discernible rhyme or reason to the subjects that attract Air’s interest. If there is a pattern, it’s that Air loves to learn anything that is new. Old things are boring to Air, so it is always seeking something new to see, something new to learn, someone new to talk with, something new to do, or somewhere new to go. Air is very aware of its surroundings and rarely misses any detail. Air’s mind lacks the rules and structure that characterize other elements. As such, Air tends to come up with very unique and inventive ideas that seemingly come out of nowhere. This can make Air seem random, chaotic, and eccentric, but there is a method to its madness – even if only the Airy person him/herself knows what that method is. Air is also exceptionally good at multi-tasking. The drawback to Air’s mentality is a tendency to be easily distracted, bored, forgetful, or side-tracked. However, no element is more intelligent than any other. It is merely a different pattern of thinking. Emotionally, Air is very expressive and extroverted. Air experiences all the wide range of emotion and expresses it freely. It doesn’t take much to get an emotional reaction out of air, but it is also easy for Air’s feelings to change from one moment to the next. As such, Air is arguably the most emotional of all the elements. Their negative emotional tendency is towards fear since Air instinctively avoids conflict and hates confronting anything head on. MBTI: ENFP and ESFP are ideal examples for Air. Other airy types include ESTP (Air/Fire), ENTP (Fire/Air), ISTP (Earth/Air), ESFJ (Air/Earth), and ISFP (Water/Air). Air is generally Extroverted and Flexible. functions: Extroverted Sensing, Extroverted Intuition, Introverted Thinking, introverted feeling enneagram types: 2, 4, 7, 8, 9 platonic solid: Diamond (Octahedron) aristotelian environment: Warm and Wet temperament: Sanguine

cardinal virtue: Justice (Iustitia) yin-yang: New Yang opposite element: Earth – While Air is the element of freedom, spontaneity, change, lofty dreams, bursts of energy, independence, cosmopolitanism, independence, and revolution, Earth is the element of law, order, stability, practicality, diligence, tradition, community, and gradual growth. core strengths: Air is free in mind, heart, will, and body, independent, cheerful, flexible, adaptable, curious, adventurous, generous, forgiving, optimistic, energetic, creative, communicative, socially skilled, cosmopolitan, and excellent at thinking out-of-the-box and multi-tasking. possible weaknesses: When Immature, Air might be impatient, fickle, easily bored, dishonest, frivolous, flippant, unreliable, fearful, shallow, impulsive, hedonistic, or lecherous. possible traits (overlap with other elements): Air might be brave, passionate, fearless, charismatic, independent, kind, sympathetic, empathetic, forgiving, artistic, or imaginative.

[verycivilofyou]

✨ element.

LINK.

✨ Air.

Air is the element of freedom, independence, and curiosity. Air is the most flexible, adaptable, and unpredictable of all the elements. Airy people are known for their quickness and freedom in thought, feeling, will, and movement. Just like physical air quickly moves around any obstacle in its path rather than resisting, so Air confronts its problems indirectly. When troubles come, Air is known for avoiding harmful situations, diffusing tensions, deflecting antagonism, using humor, wit, and occasionally using tricks or manipulation.

✨ TAGGED BY:  @softestmood​  /  t y !  <3 ✨ TAGGING:  @skymade  /  @fortissimvs  /  @brazenlass  /  @reflectingchaos  /  @wekeephimsane  /  @ohhfiddle  /  @canspotatimeagent  & anyone else who’d like to !

Regardless, Air is known as the most out-of-the-box thinker of all the elements. It always sees things from a different perspective and is adept at approaching and solving problems from an unusual point of view. Air can be light and playful as a spring breeze, clear and confident as the noon-day sky, as swift and daring as the jet stream, as kind as the warm summer rain, or as fierce and destructive as a hurricane. Air is, of course, the element that carries voices, music, and communication in general, so it is known for communication skills and a love of the arts. It is the element that most frequently mingles with the others, such as lightning (Air/Fire), sandstorms (Air/Earth), or rain and hail storms (Air/Water). So Air is the most sociable, the most outgoing, the most cosmopolitan, and the best at people skills in general. Air is highly skilled at compartmentalizing: treating things it doesn’t like or doesn’t care about as if they weren’t real. This can make Air aloof and detached from reality at times. Paradoxically, Air is either the most popular of all the elements or else an eccentric and a non-comformist. This reflects their kindness and sociability, but also their strong independent streak. Air is also known for its cheerful attitude, social skills, sense of fair play, confidence, fierce sense of justice, resilience, spontaneity, curiosity, sense of humor, and enthusiasm for everything life has to offer. It’s greatest strength and weakness is its lightness and changeability. It can adapt to anything, and foresee and avoid problems before they arrive; but immature Air can also be impatient, restless, impulsive, fickle, easily bored, frivolous, flippant, unreliable, or lecherous.

INTELLECTUALLY:  Air is curious. Air always asks “how.” Air loves to learn about anything and everything it sees. There is often no discernible rhyme or reason to the subjects that attract Air’s interest. If there is a pattern, it’s that Air loves to learn anything that is new. Old things are boring to Air, so it is always seeking something new to see, something new to learn, someone new to talk with, something new to do, or somewhere new to go. Air is very aware of its surroundings and rarely misses any detail. Air’s mind lacks the rules and structure that characterize other elements. As such, Air tends to come up with very unique and inventive ideas that seemingly come out of nowhere. This can make Air seem random, chaotic, and eccentric, but there is a method to its madness – even if only the Airy person him/herself knows what that method is. Air is also exceptionally good at multi-tasking. The drawback to Air’s mentality is a tendency to be easily distracted, bored, forgetful, or side-tracked. However, no element is more intelligent than any other. It is merely a different pattern of thinking.

EMOTIONALLY:  Air is very expressive and extroverted. Air experiences all the wide range of emotion and expresses it freely. It doesn’t take much to get an emotional reaction out of air, but it is also easy for Air’s feelings to change from one moment to the next. As such, Air is arguably the most emotional of all the elements. Their negative emotional tendency is towards fear since Air instinctively avoids conflict and hates confronting anything head on.

[shadowfaximpala]

Double Trouble

MASTERLIST

Summary: Relentlessly pranking the Winchesters had become a normal excuse to hang with your favourite Trickster, but both of you were so lost in the excuse that neither of you dared to admit the real reason behind the disguise.

Tags: Trickster, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Fluff

Warnings: Language

Relationship: Gabriel x Reader

Author’s Notes: This was super fun to write, most of my writing lately has been on the smut side, so it’s nice to finally produce some fluff. Let me know what you think!

The two of you snickered watching the brothers fumble around the war room, you had thrown the holy car keys to Gabriel in rush and ordered him to hide them somewhere in the bunker when Dean wasn’t looking.

“He's such a dumbass,” Gabriel whispered in your ear.

“Shh,” you soothed, listening to Dean’s angry ramblings as he opened every cupboard and every drawer with a deep aggression.

“Dean just hot wire the car we don't have time for this” Sam offered. You could almost see it in your mind's eye. His jaw was clenched as he looked at his younger brother with utter disgust.

“I am not stealing my own car!” You heard Sam’s lank frame shuffling around to help Dean.

So many times you wanted to burst out into a ruckus of laughter but you remained as calm as possible. You had no idea where the keys in question were.

Loud thudding mixed with Dean shouting angrily at his toe as he stubbed it on the corner of the table meant you couldn't take it any longer… your shoulders began to bounce, a giggle began to erupt from your chest. A strong pair of arms encircled your torso, a hand found your mouth to silence you as your back was pressed into a strong chest. Your heart burned at the gesture, skipping beats at how closely Gabriel held you. You tried to calm yourself from the need to laugh and the burning desire to melt into the archangel behind you.

“Dean seriously, there isn't time for this!” Sam barked. There was a minute of deafening silence before an angry ‘fine’ rang through the bunker. Moments later the two stalked out into the garage. You heard a few revs from the engine along with some rather loud expletives and the purr of the 67 Impala roaring to life.

Finally the coast was clear, Gabriel let you go as you lurched forward, you let out a howl of laugh that you tried so hard to keep in. Your lips were plump and swollen from biting down, clamping them shut before a certain someone managed to distract you, you placed your hands on your knees trying to calm the ache in your sides.

“Oh, my, god!” You managed between laughs. “They are so stupid!” Gabriel’s eyes lit up at your infectious laughter. “Where did you hide the keys?” His eyebrow rose cockily.

“That’s for me to know.” He gave you a one sided smirk, his expression darkening.

“Plaid morons, I love ‘em but they have got to start keeping their possessions close!” You giggled.

“Well, for my next little trick…” Gabriel pulled you close once again, a flutter of his wings rustled in the silence of the bunker as you both vanished, appearing in a little town outside Kansas.

“What the… where are we?” You looked round to survey the landscape. Still latched on tight to the angel next to you with an iron grip you cast a glance down the streets and up at some familiar signs.

“Aren't Sam and Dean supposed to be rolling through here?” You cocked an eyebrow at Gabriel, he eyed you and let out a smug grin.

“Not for a while but I wanted you to enjoy the view when they did.” His eyebrows shot up and down.

“What did you do?” Your voice laced with amusement.

“Oh sweetcakes, you'll have to wait and see… in the meantime are you hungry?” You realised you had been comfortably latching onto him, your face flushed in embarrassment as you slowly pulled away.

“Uh, yeah…” you replied, a bashful red hue adorning your features as you decided to look everywhere but at the angel.

“Good!” He transported you to an overly sweet looking diner, the booth was secluded in a corner next to the window, looking straight down the main road. You ordered pancakes with extra chocolate sauce and whipped cream. The waitress gave you and Gabriel a knowing smile before chasing off to the kitchen to give the cook your order.

You and Gabe made small talk until the food arrived. One mouthful in and you were making guttural noises at how deliciously decadent the pancakes were, your sweet tooth just as big as Gabriel's. You didn't see the way he watched you, the way his tongue dove past his mouth to lick his bottom lip or the way his hungry eyes creased at the edges as he formed a fond smile every time you made a noise.

“This is so good!” You groaned, a mouth stuffed full of food.

“Five…” Gabe’s face wore a deadpan expression as he stared at you. You cocked your head to the side inquisitively. “Four…” he added. You were about to say something when he chimed in again. “Three,” he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Still not getting it he craned his neck motioning his head towards the window.

“Two,” he said a little glint appearing in his whiskey coloured eyes.

Your eyes followed his motions to stare outside the window.

“One.” You look towards the road, sure enough the purr of an old engine came rattling through the windows. Your jaw dropped, it was most certainly the Chevy Imapala, 67 model. Two burly, lank figures attached to the front and passenger seats, their expressions turned downwards in confusion as the whole street looked at them incredulously.

The interior was the same; the outside however was flushed a wonderfully bright shade of baby pink. Oh heaven it was divine. You were absolutely certain that the boys had zero fucking clue as to why their car was the attraction of so much attention.

As if in slow motion a confused looking Sammy locked eyes with you sitting in the window; the biggest shit-eating grin on your face with a rather smug looking trickster sat opposite you. Suddenly the car stopped to a halt outside the diner.

Dean smacked his fist on the wheel and exited the car, slamming the door. A flash of pink blurring past his vision as the door rushed past his frame. He eyed his car in horror and disbelief.

“Son of a bitch! What the fuck happened to my car?!” You heard him shout from outside. You couldn't contain your laugh any longer. It burst from your lungs like a raging fire. The diner entrance swung open as Dean burst through, an aura of evil emanating, radiating off his body.

You calmed yourself, sipping your strawberry milkshake innocently, Gabe crossed a leg over his knee, an arm spanning the booth chair as he pretended to be nonchalant.

“What the fuck did you pair of trickster douchebags do to my car?”

You played with the straw to your cup, batting your eyes and looking up through long lashes at the Winchester.

“I don't know what you mean. I thought baby had always been that shade?” Conveying no sense of emotion as you addressed the rather pissed off looking Dean. Gabriel looked at you proudly.

“Come on Dean-o, why would we mess with your car?” He traded glances with the man standing before you, his signature arch of the eyebrow flaring an angry growl from Dean as he slammed his hand on the table.

“Drop the act, I know it was you two. Just like I now know you two hid my keys this morning and you put mayonnaise in my conditioner! Y/N I thought you were supposed to be helping Cas in Utah…”

“I got bored. Cas is too serious, and he told me he didn’t need my help after I replaced his angel blade with a rubber knife...” You feigned a pout at Dean who now looked even angrier than before.

“Right you two need to be separated,” Dean grabbed your arm, pulling you from the booth. “Come on.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Gabriel warned. His whole essence growing darker, heat radiated off him like a pavement in summer, blurring the edges of his aura.

“Bite me.” Dean grunted, hauling you with his strong grip, you struggled around trying to thrash free.

A click of fingers echoed, the whole diner stood still completely.

“Hands off her, now.” Gabe’s voice was immediately intimidating, you could see a shift in Dean’s expression as he considered the consequences, however his own self righteousness got the better of him, he shrugged his shoulders in a casual flippant motion and continued to drag you from the diner.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Out of nowhere Dean was flung across the room, in less than a heartbeat the angel was by your side, his face conveying his primal sense of anger, he was almost snarling at the fallen Winchester.

Like the flip of a switch he became his usual chocolate sprinkled sass covered self. The way he shifted with ease made you feel uneasy in his presence. It had all happened so fast you couldn’t process the idea that Gabriel was trying to protect you from Dean, a fellow hunter who you had grown close to over the years. Why he was doing so you couldn’t place. The two of you were having fun but it had become far more serious... 

Castiel had insisted he didn’t require your help, he made that painfully clear in one of his usual moody rants about how he would put you in danger and how you needed to leave. Gabriel had found you storming around outside the church you and Cas had taken residence in for a short while after swooping by to pay you another visit. He decided he’d cheer you up by dropping you in a TV universe first, after flirting shamelessly with Jon Snow from Game of Thrones he pulled you out and took you on a whirlwind ride to the bunker, playing small tricks on the boys throughout the course of a few weeks leading up to the present circumstance. Gabe had always seemed to thrive off making you smile in the time you had both grown closer in friendship. You weren’t entirely oblivious to his flirting, but you had always known it was a platonic form of back and forth.

Dean grunted, picking himself up off the floor. He looked between you and Gabriel, something akin to realisation flashed on his face, he averted his eyes quickly before shaking his head in annoyance.

“Can you at least undo whatever crap you did to my car?” He whined. Gabe clicked his fingers.

“Very funny…” Dean watched as baby turned a wonderful shade of puke green. “I’m serious, I’ll dowse you in holy oil.”

“Fine, party pooper,” Gabe spat as he clicked again. Baby returned to midnight black much to Dean’s relief.

“Thanks,” he muttered before leaving the diner. He exchanged words with his brother outside, you watched as Sam shifted uncomfortably on the spot next to the passenger door, he threw a look in your direction then hopped into car.

“What was that about?” You shifted on the spot, turning on your heel slowly to face a glowering angel.

“Don’t know, don’t care.” He stalked back over to the booth and unceremoniously plonked himself down, snapping out a lollipop from chuck holy knows where and plopped it into his mouth, hollowing out his cheeks as he sucked. You sat opposite him, time still frozen as he stewed in a mood, thinking over what had happened. You watched with cautious amusement as he continued to stare at nothing in particular.

“What’s the matter?” You couldn’t take the silence anymore, you were practically drooling looking at the way the candy swirled around his mouth.

“It’s nothing sugar, finish your pancakes and we’ll go annoy Cassie for a while.” He shot a wink at you and continued to suggestively suck on the sugar ball of candy on a stick.

Your appetite dampened entirely just looking into those whiskey eyes, you pushed the half finished plate away from you.

“Not that hungry anymore,” you muttered. ‘Let’s go.”

The next few days you both pranked the hell out of Cas, turning his trenchcoat a series of wonderful colours, sticking signs to his back when he wasn't looking and putting whoopie cushions under every chair he sat on.

Finally the angel snapped as he sat on yet another farting pillow.

“Gabriel, Y/N, I know you two are behind this, you pair are insufferable.” Cas whined, looking around for any sign of the two pranksters plaguing his existence. “Don't make me call Sam and Dean.” You knew his threat held merit with the anger in his voice.

You stepped out from behind the door you had taken the liberty of hiding behind to avoid being spotted. Cas glared at you as you entered the light of the room, your face resembling a child caught stealing.

“Where is he?” Castiel’s voice was even deeper than usual.

“Who?” You asked, a smug smile plastered on your face. Cas tilted his head to the side.

“Gabriel,” he stated, not sure if you were toying with him.

“Ohhh, yeah he skipped out as soon as you started throwing a tantrum this morning.” Castiel let out a heavy sigh.

“The sexual tension between you two is driving everybody crazy, deal with it and stop pranking everyone. My coat doesn't look good in fuschia,” he groaned. Your face instantly heated at his comment. Was it that obvious to everyone around you that you were terribly attracted to the archangel? “You don't look very good in fuschia either,” the angel joked pointing to your expression, a satisfied and proud smile on his angular face. You rolled your eyes about to retort when your cell phone blared through the church, the emergency ring tone you had set making your heart lurch in your chest.

You flipped it open, a very worried sounding Dean on the other end. “We got trouble, how soon can you be back at the bunker?”

“What happened?”

“No time to talk, shit’s going down. Just get here,” the phone line went dead, signalling the insistence of importance.

“Is Dean in trouble?” Cas’ voice was serious.

“Not sure, can you zap me over there?”

“I can fly you there,” was his deadpan response. You rolled your eyes.

“That’s what I mean-” Castiel’s hand grasped your shoulder, the world spun under your feet before a familiar surrounding came into view.

Dean stood before you with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face, before you had a chance to shift in any direction you were met with a watered down glue being poured over your head in a heavy dosage, you growled in anger, unable to think straight. Feathers and glitter complimented the glue as they were thrust at you with the force of another smug Winchester.

“You got punked.” Sam was beaming like a cheshire cat.

“What the fuck?!” You screamed at the two of them.

“You’ve been driving us crazy for weeks god damn it!” Dean fired at you.

“That wasn’t just me!” You shot back, your voice shrill.

“Nope. They got me too, sugar.” Gabe sat in the corner covered in golden glitter looking surprisingly satisfied with the whole situation. Why he hadn’t just instantly cleaned himself up was beyond you, he looked as though he was basking in the idea of being out-tricked.

“Right, now we’re all here,” Dean began. “You two,” he gestured between you and Gabriel, “have to stop this prankster bullshit duo you’ve got going on, just admit your obvious feelings, bang, do whatever is the hell you gotta do but keep us out of it!” He snatched his beer of the table and perched himself on the edge of it.

“Are you three going to watch while we do it on the table?” Gabriel wiggled his eyebrows. Dean’s face turned into a disgusted grimace.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned at the archangel.

“Too late!” Before anyone in the room could blink Sam, Dean and Castiel vanished into thin air with a click, the glue and feathers you had so beautifully been adorned with had gone. Gabriel, however, was still covered in golden glitter.

“You got a little something… everywhere.” You laughed. Gabe’s expression didn’t alter, he looked deadly serious as he stood from the chair, stalking towards you like a predator, you couldn’t take him serious dowsed in shimmering glamour.

“Looks like they figured me out,” he began, still approaching you. You felt as though you were shrinking in his presence.

“What do you mean ‘figured you out?’” You swallowed the lump forming in your throat.

“Besides the fact that pranking these idiots is hilarious, I enjoy spending time with you. More than enjoy it actually… I’m going to go out on a whim here and say you feel the same”

“Is it that obvious?” You deadpanned.

“Only to everyone except me apparently, I just thought you enjoyed annoying these ass clowns.”

“I only used that as an excuse to get closer to you,” you gave him a little smile, not sure on weather you should be admitting such a thing to an archangel.

“Oh sugar, all you needed to do was ask to get as close as you like,” he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. You wanted to laugh but you couldn't, you simply stared at him hoping he would get it, but as he did with most serious situations, he laughed it off or made a joke, this time you were deadly serious, but you weren't sure on how to approach the elephant in the room. He was an archangel, one of the most powerful beings in creation, you were a human, a huntress, you weren't even on the radar so why would he enjoy spending most of his time in your company? You couldn't understand it. Fear of rejection crept back into the forefront of your overloaded mind.

You chewed the inside of your cheek, trying to focus on anything but your frustration.

“You can zap the boys back now,” you knew the disappointment was evident in your tone. You had to stop this before your heart became snapped like an overstretched elastic band.

“Uh- okay, but I kinda’ feel like we were in the middle of something, unless I'm not connecting the dots here?” His eyebrow knitted in confusion.

“Please Gabe, I… I just can't talk about this kind of thing, you're an Archangel for Chuck’s sake sake, you'll exist until the end of days whilst my existence is fleeting, I'll grow old as balls or I'll end up dead on a hunt, the latter more likely. I'm weak and I'm temporary.” You could see the look of anger and hurt flash across his face. His arms grabbed you and pulled you flush against him, his cheek resting on the side of your head.

“Don't ever say that crap again. You're not weak, you're the strongest woman I know celestial or not, you're beautiful and you most certainly aren't temporary! I’d do everything in my power to protect you...” He squeezed you tighter to him, you succumbed to his embrace, wrapping your arms around his waist and nestling into him, your eyes stinging in the corners, tears threatening to spill.

“I feel like this is a cruel joke, I just had to fall for an angel,” you sighed.

“It’s no joke sugar, the angel fell for you,” His voice was soft around the edges, a tenderness laced with concern, his arms shifted around you to cradle your neck as he pulled away slightly to peer into your eyes. “Whatever is swimming around in that noggin’ of yours, we’ll figure it out okay? You’re not going to get hurt on my watch,”

“But I will get old Gabe, I won’t be able to give you the things you want later down the line…”

“Don’t mean to toot my own horn…” you rolled your eyes but gave him a fond smile at his joke, “I’m an archangel sweetcakes, son of god, I can bend time to my will, you’re stuck with me, forever.”

“I like the sound of that.” He pressed his lips softly to yours, moving perfectly in sync in a passionate dance that felt like heaven and earth were crumbling beneath your feet. When your dizzied senses dissipated into the realms of normal your eyes opened to meet with whiskey coloured irises, full of joy and love.

“About freakin’ time!” The boys stood back in the bunker, Castiel’s hands on both of the Winchester’s shoulders. “You two dicks going to stop pulling pranks on us now?” Dean shot you both a look before venturing over the the fridge and pulling out a piece of cherry pie that had been calling his name. “Thanks for dropping us in some creepy musical, real fun,” his voice was oozing with sarcasm as he slammed the refrigerator door.

Gabriel gave you a playful wink and a nudge to the shoulder as you watched intently. “Wait for it…” he whispered softly into your ear.

You watched Dean take a bite, his face lit up for a fraction of a second before contorting into an angry scowl, holding up the delicious treat to inspect it. There in the filling was a shiny set of car keys.

“Son of a bitch!” He hollered, glaring at the both of you.

“I think your plan backfired…” Sam groaned.

“We’ll give you a day off… See ya boys!” You laughed at them before being whisked away from the bunker entirely.

Forever tags: @mkate-writes-things @laneygthememequeen @roxy-davenport

[reylorabbittrail]

Why the Trio in the Sequel Trilogy Won't Be a Trio

I’ve seen a lot of chatter and speculation over last year and a half about who the Trio™ of the sequel trilogy is. There was an assumption that Finn, Rey, and Poe would be, but look at how Rey doesn’t even meet Poe onscreen in TFA. They have a four sentence interaction in the novelization after awkwardly hugging when the map is completed. Then Rey leaves to go find Luke. 

When asked point blank who the trio is in TLJ, Rian Johnson answered by asking if they meant the three on the teaser poster. Clearly, fan expectations are not quite meeting reality when it comes to character dynamics. 

Now to be fair, there is a surfeit of trios running around the new trilogy. Someone compiled a list (sorry guys, I suck at searching tags or I’d link to that here) and found at least ten of them. But none of them mirrors the Original Trilogy Trio™. 

“But wait!” you say, “Star Wars has always had a trio. Han, Luke and Leia. Anakin, Padme, and Obi-Wan. Why not now?” So, yeah. I’m going to make the argument that the prequel trio is a very different sort of trio from the OT trio. They aren’t comparable. And there is a good reason that we aren’t getting one at all in this new trilogy. 

Three is a Magic Number 

Literature and Film are littered with trios. Three is one of those numbers that just feels good. It can represent all kinds of things from youth, maturity, and old-age, to faith, hope, and charity. Myth gives us the Three Fates, the God-rulers of Heaven, Earth, and Underworld, the judgement of Paris between Wisdom, Rule, and Love. Within the Christian religion there is not only the trinity of the Godhead, but also Christ’s threefold temptation in the desert, and the call to love God with Heart, Mind, and Strength. Pay attention to those last two. They matter here.

In adventure stories, trios make a good party. Look at Conan the Barbarian. The 1982 movie (a pastiche of several of the short stories) has a trio of fighter-thieves on a mission to rescue a princess from the clutches of an evil cult. The trio is Conan, our protagonist, Valeria, his lover, and Subotai, his sidekick/friend. The combination of hero, love interest, and sidekick/best friend is pretty common. And in terms of symbolic significance, it basically states that our hero succeeds through the support of love, both romantic and platonic. This is Anakin, Padme, and Obi-Wan. 

Another common trio in adventure stories is Mage, Fighter, & Rogue. Does this one sound familiar. It’s only every swords and sorcery movie ever. It’s the a Trio from Wheel of Time, Rand, Perrin, and Mat. (Significantly, the love interests are not part of this trio. It isn’t a necessary component, unlike the previously mentioned one.) And it also is one way to describe Luke the Magic Space Knight, Leia the Warrior Princess, and Han the Rogue.

The third major type of trio, and the one I want to focus on, is the Tripartate Soul Trio. You should recognize this from philosophy or psychology. Id, Ego, and SuperEgo. Intellect, Will/Spiritedness, and Appetite. Guts(Strength), Heart, and Brain(Mind). See, I told you I was bringing that one back. And the temptations in the desert? They were first to bodily needs, than political power, and finally to intellectual and spiritual pride. And four centuries before Christ, Greek philosophers were pondering the same division.

We know plenty of these, but to stick to popular fandom so, think Spock, Kirk, and Bones. Spock is the hyper rational one, always seeking the most logical solution, but not necessarily the most humane. Kirk is the man of action, acting on instinct, but not necessarily emotion. Bones is the emotional one, prone to irritable outbursts and always chafing at how unfeeling Spock is. 

Another example, you ask? Hermione Granger, Harry Potter, and Ron Weasley. Hermione is the logical, intellectual one, Harry the instinctive man of action, Ron the mess of emotions. This trio does not necessitate a love interest, but if there is one it will be between Brains and Guts, the alchemical marriage that resolves opposites, leaving heart as the third wheel. The protagonist is always Heart. This is because in the integrated man (or woman), the heart is the center of action, spurred to action by the appetites, and moderated in that action by the intellect. 

Funny how Han and Leia end up together and Luke is the third wheel. Yeah, that’s not by accident. Leia is the brains of the operation, Han is all gut, Luke is all heart. Even there companions reinforce this. Han’s best friend communicates in emotionally charged growls, and is a volatile, reactive creature. Leia’s protocol droid is a prissy robot that is forever spouting off the statically likelihood of actions. Luke’s astromech is a droid of action, along with being pretty sassy. 

Are any of these trios showing up so far in the sequel trilogy? I mean with actual screen time together as a team. Nope. Didn’t think so. 

There’s a reason for this. 

Four Elements, Four Humours 

The Tripartate Soul is still going to matter in a big way in the sequels. But it is not going to be represented by people. I’m working on a much bigger post on why I think that it is going to center on the nature of the force. Suffice it to say that Manichean dichotomy of the first film between good and evil is shifting to something much more nuanced. 

There is another literary number that plays very nicely here though, and for which I’m seeing groundwork laid. Four. Four has its own impressive history, from four gospels to four Cardinal virtues, to the four elements. I’m going to focus on the last one. 

Ancient medicine had a number of schools of thought, including one that was outstandingly bad at healing people, but pretty good at personality typing and identifying primary weaknesses and strengths. The melancholic (excess of black bile, treated with enemas) was prone to despair, the choleric (excess of yellow bile, treated with purgatives) to pride, the sanguine (excess of blood, treated by bleeding) to flightiness, the phlegmatic (excess of mucus, treated with decongestants) to disengagement. But melancholic are emotionally intuitive, cholerics are your fiercest ally, sanguines can make anyone smile, and a phlegmatic is a staunch friend and a rock of stability. 

Want to guess what element they relate to? Well, Choleric is obviously Fire. Sanguine is Air, Phlegmatic is Water, and Melancholy is Earth.  Now here is where I would bring in Avatar: The Last Airbender because it would be perfect, but unfortunately I haven’t seen it. So instead I will note how lovely it is that the Hogwarts houses match up with the four elements. Gryffindor, with its fiery red and gold colors and courageous inhabitants represents the best of the choleric temperament. Ravenclaw is situated in the highest tower, represented by a bird, by people who could be described as having their head in the clouds. They are Air, through and through, and have the quick wit and flitting attention of the Sanguine. (Sanguine is also classic attention deficit, either all distraction or hyper focused.) Hufflepuff is Earth, situated below ground, loyal friends, and likely the nicest people because they are emotionally grounded. Slytherin is Water. Their common room is below the lake, they are the most apathetic to concerns of the wider wizarding world, and fiercely devoted to the few friends they have. 

Want another example? Try Wind in the Willows. The Water Rat, all fight and action, is Fire/Choleric, the Toad is Sanguine/Air with his never ending succession of fads and his obsession with motor cars, the Mole is Earth/Melancholy with his tendency to worry and his sensitivity to other’s feelings, and the Badger is Water/Phlegmatic with his disengagement from the world and his devotion to his few friends. 

Bit far afield of Star Wars, though. I’m getting there. What if we don’t have a trio? What if instead, the trilogy begins with the elements out of balance? Fire is raging against Air, Water, and Earth. There is a major confrontation between each of our heroic characters with our primary antagonist. And all four characters happen to perfectly capture one of those elements. 

Fiery Kylo Ren confronts the flippant flyboy Poe Dameron, Air incarnate. Rey not only comes from a planet that is all Earth, but she exhibits the resilience of Earth. There is a compassion in her nature that has not been stomped out by 15 years of harsh survival. And Finn is Water, loyal to his friends, but initially inclined toward just avoiding involvement. 

So, if the elements are out of balance, thus being the source of conflict, resolution comes not through extinguishing fire and removing it from the picture, but from coming into balance with the other elements. If a redemption arc is in the cards, then this becomes a real possibility. And that means that the end game is ultimately a quartet working together to save the Galaxy. Not only is there the theme of balance in the force at work, but balance in the elements that are bound by the force.

The funny thing about these movies is that they didn’t start with the thematic elements. But as the stories come together, these things just start to assert themselves. It only works when the archetypes play their roles. Otherwise things feel forced. When a Tripartate Soul Trio shows up, we know which one should be the hero, and if it’s played to be Intellect, something feels off. When an elemental quartet shows up, we know the end game is for them to work together so that everyone is in good humour. It’s as fundamental as the second act being the place where exposition occurs and something happens that makes you think the happy ending can’t possibly be pulled off.

I’m not saying that Kylo Ren, or even Ben Solo, becomes besties with Poe and Finn. And this scenario doesn’t even necessitate romantic Reylo (though I’m not giving up on that just yet). She matters to Kylo/Ben’s arc immensely. But a movie where they end up platonic soulmates would not clash with this idea. Granted, I could be completely wrong and I’m ready to laugh at just how off base I might be come December. Still, I think I’m closer than trying to shoehorn any of the existing characters into a Trio that doesn’t quite fit with established archetypes.

[pussymagicuniverse]

Sapphic Book Review: When Katie Met Cassidy

Books are a forms of magic, especially for queers. Language is often used to oppress, marginalize and erase the nuances of LGBTQ+ identity. But it can also be used to reclaim, express, and celebrate the beauty of queer love and experiences. 

This is why I deliberately seek literature written by queers, especially women. I usually have to search for them, but Camille Perri’s novel When Katie Met Cassidy jumped out at me while browsing an independent bookstore in Sarasota, Florida. 

My initial interest was based on how the title included my name. Cassidy isn't a common name; at least, not something I'm used to seeing printed on a book. Pulling the beige spine out of the shelf, I was met with an aesthetically pleasing front cover design and a blurb from a Vogue review that said: "The delightful, sexy, queer novel of the summer…"

"Cassidy and Katie’s growth reflects the non-linear development of queer identity – we’re always evolving."

When Katie Met Cassidy is the light-hearted queer rom-com the gays have been waiting for. LGBTQ+ content is often rife with trauma and pain, societal oppression and family entanglement. While this novel doesn’t entirely discount these experiences, the driving force of the plot is the romantic tension between Cassidy and Katie.

Katie is a 28-year-old supposedly straight woman recently dumped by her pretentious fiancé. The book opens with the messiness of her emotional state: clothes littered across her apartment, a maze of unopened boxes, and a wrinkled work uniform. She's a stark contrast to Cassidy, who wakes up early to exercise, wears custom-made men's suits, and sports a slick butch haircut.

The two protagonists meet at work; attorney Cassidy and lawyer Katie are mesmerized by one another. Cassidy is distracted by Katie's attractiveness, while Katie is intrigued by Cassidy's masculine presentation. Their worlds collide when they bump into each other later that night and Katie tags along with Cassidy to a lesbian bar called Metropolis.

Perri's descriptions of seedy queer spaces and sexually-charged nightlife are hilariously exaggerated (although not far off from reality). It's refreshing to read a novel that portrays lesbians as flippant as they are serious. Not every representation of queerness needs to be seamlessly positive — the regulars at Metropolis are messy, funny, confrontational, and shameless. They glide between caricatures and real people, revealing an honest and self-aware expression of performativity.

They’re distinct enough to avoid tropes, but create comical aspects to the novel — like Becky, the ex-vegan chef who specializes in meat dishes. Cassidy is the emotionally unavailable heart-breaker; her hyper-sexual appetite mirroring Shane McCutcheon’s from the L Word. And Katie is a good girl from Kentucky, eager to mold her image in order to please others.

The depth of the novel is the underlying theme of understanding oneself in relation to society, specifically from the perspective of lesbians in their late-twenties and early-thirties. An interview with the the author printed in the back of the book reveals some insight on this choice: "…many people ‘come out’ or unexpectedly change their line of thinking in regard to desire and sexuality much later in life than the cusp of adulthood. I wanted to write about this kind of change, which obviously gets much less treatment."

Since queer people often realize their sexuality much later in life than their heterosexual peers, Perri’s characters reflect the nuanced and fluid journey of queer becoming. There's no script for lesbian women, nor is there a timeline for understanding one's sexuality. Cassidy and Katie’s growth reflects the non-linear development of queer identity – we’re always evolving.

When Katie Met Cassidy is an excellent addition to the bookshelves of lovers of lesbian literature and rom-coms alike. This story is layered with amusing circumstances, endearing romance, and entertaining portrayals of lesbian life in NYC. It’s simple storyline and language makes this novel an accessible, queer gem.

Cassidy Scanlon is a Capricorn poet and witch who uses her artistic gifts as a channel for healing herself and others. She writes poetry and CNF about mental health, astrology, queer love, pop culture representation, and how social structures shape our perceptions of history and mythology. When she’s not writing, she can be found petting the local stray cats, exploring the swamps of Florida, reading 5 books at a time, and unwinding with her Leo girlfriend. 

You can visit her astrology blog Mercurial Musings and explore more of her publications on her website.