#i will certainly drown my frustration in fanfictions

[vollzz]

Dredging this up from my google docs graveyard in hopes it will inspire me to work on it again - I don’t typically write fanfiction these days but it looks like when I do it’s about elden ring!

The first “chapter” (if 900 words is long enough to count) of a Yura/Eleonora canon-ish fic is under the cut. It explores how Eleonora came to the Lands Between, her and Yura’s slow burn meeting -> friendship -> relationship, and their adventures in dragon slaying and subsequent heart-eating. Plan for this was originally to be a long-ish chaptered fic, with typical chapters somewhere around 2-3k words.

No content warnings for this piece so far. And if it’s something that seems interesting, that you’d think of reading, let me know! I’ll go ahead and put it on my ao3 if I end up continuing it.

Eleonora woke to a faint, cool breeze and the distant sound of crashing waves. Prickly grass brushed her cheek as she rolled onto her back and groaned with the soreness that emanated throughout her body. Faint displeasure tugged at the back of her mind, meticulously clawing its way through the depths of her consciousness until its raging ferocity shocked memory and life back into her body. Eleonora shot upwards into a sitting position, her hands digging into the loose dirt and pebbles around her for purchase.

Blindfolded and bound with stinging rope. Constant, erratic lurching of a wooden transportation device. Rough hands and muffled voices. Her body, limp with drugged half-slumber, thrown into the dirt.

Eleonora clasped her hands to either side of her head in frustration with eyes squeezed shut. How had she gotten here, wherever here was? Why could she not remember anything beyond faded, fuzzy shapes and drowned-out voices?

My name is Eleonora. I live in the Land of Reeds. I wield a twinned blade of my family’s design. I’m here because…

Nothing. The thoughts sputtered to a halt.

A sigh. Her hands lowered; her eyes slowly forced themselves open.

The grassy hill Eleonora sat upon was clearly not of her homeland, nor was the ocean’s roar from beyond her vision. And the towering, glistening golden tree obscuring the sky was certainly not a typical sight, though it stirred something dormant within her.

An aged book folds shut in my hands. I look at the tall figure in front of me; their face is gray, garbled, and obscured. The book is taken impatiently and placed back on the shelf. “The Lands Between, Eleonora, is not a place of concern to you. It is for exiles, or those foolish enough to believe in the lies of grace. Here, we fight to the bitter end, as is our destiny.”

Wind caressed Eleonora’s cheek, gently stirring her from the flash of memory. Slowly, on unsteady limbs, she rose to a standing position, allowing a hand to brace itself on a nearby tree. So she had made it then, however unconventionally, to the place that she had sought. Though now that she had arrived, she could not fathom what it was she had aspired to do.

Eleonora shook her head, dispersing the uneasiness that clouded her. Her warrior’s training had kicked in: she meticulously inspected her iron-and-leather armor for damage or missing pieces. All clear; now she needed to check the state of her poleblade…

Panic. The cursory glance she’d made in her immediate vicinity did not reveal its location, nor did a more thorough inspection of the nearby foliage. With increasing urgency she stalked in an outwards spiral from where she woke, yet despite her best efforts it became all too obvious that it had vanished.

It took far too long to still the shakiness in her hands and the frantic pace of her heart’s beating, but Eleonora forced herself into a false calm. This, then, would be the first order of business: locate her missing weapon. Though her memories were still clouded and faint, the one thing she distinctly recalled was the feel of its hilt as she desperately kept it close to her body as best she could. Whoever was with her must have tossed it to the side along the journey. Eleonora refused to consider that it was truly lost.

The wheels from the cart she’d come on had left faint impressions on the grass and soil before her, and so Eleonora inhaled deeply before beginning the long journey of retracing where they had gone.

The beauty of the grass-and-ocean scenery accompanying Eleonora began to fade around the second hour of her trek, and was completely gone by the fourth. Still, she carried on, sharply inhaling her breath with each coming moment of disappointment. The search for her poleblade was not as simple as merely following the divots the cart’s wheels had made into the ground - every bush, ditch, or cave needed to be meticulously searched. Eleonora trudged forth with each coming minute only bringing more disappointment, until at last her lifeline of tracks began to fade, and soon after were no more.

No. Please. I haven’t found anything.

Yet clear as day -though the moon’s ascent was nigh- the wheels’ imprints were gone, lost amidst the solid, rocky ground Eleonora’s boots now stood upon.

Her breaths increased in depth and frequency and try as she might Eleonora could not stop the sobs from overcoming her body. With great effort she at least stifled her wailing and curled up on the hardened earth, which greedily took in the wetness of her tears. Eleonora allowed herself a few desperate moments of grief before gritting her teeth and once again rising to her feet. The loss of her weapon could be mourned at a later time, as soon as she located food and shelter for the night.

There were no caves nearby that Eleonora could find from her survey of the landscape; in one direction lay rocky ground that gave way to sheer cliff faces, and opposite was the vast grassy hilled expanse she had spent so long walking through. Scaling one of the cliffs to check the sandy beaches below didn’t seem like a practical idea, so she opted instead to wander amongst the green hillsides. Perhaps one of the fractured structures she’d seen would be enough to function as a temporary shelter.

Tonight, all she could do was shut her eyes and hope.

[silverylion]

Can we talk about Lance for a bit ?

There is something that really bothers me in season 8. I mean everyone is kind of still recovering but I feel like I need to say it anyway.

They chose to heavily feature Allurance from episode one cause they planned to kill Allura. It's a fact. As much as I don't ship it, they make a really cute couple with adorable scenes that made me smile and support them and I could have got over my disappointment regarding who I wanted to end up with Lance if only Lance had shown a bit of happiness by being with her.

No manner how we look at it, he isn't happy ! Why is that ? He finally got what he always wanted so why did they depicted him like that ? I really don't understand and that's what makes me so angry about all of this.

He doesn't seem like someone in love who finally got the girl! He seems hurt! Why is that ??

I'm ready to ignore the messy plotline of this season, the inconsistencies and everything that is wrong because overall, what I really care about is Lance as a character.

He means a lot to me because he is so different from the characters we normally meet in this kind of stories. He began as an annoyingly flirty boy who was desperately searching for glory to calm the insecurities he only show to few people. He was talented but needed someone else to acknowledge it to fully realize it himself. He was defined by his loudness and his love for love. He was looking for validation and a special person who would love him as profoundly as he love others. He had big dreams, big expectations, a bright future ahead of him. He wasn't overly masculine, liked being pretty and throw terrible pick up lines. He was funny, adorable I fell for him as much as I identified with (even if we are so different). He wasn't perfect, far from it, but it's also why I love him.

For many - including me - he was also representation. Not only for another kind of complex character but also by being Cuban and supposedly bisexual, something that seemed to be heavily implied so many times but I won't even talk about it.

During the series he has grown to be more self assured through the missions he accomplished with his friends, the people he met but most importantly Keith who trusted him and relied on his abilities, which definitely shown him his worth. I'm not even gonna talk about Klance as romantic. Keith is an important person for Lance's character, a friend he needed by his side along the way and that still was there for him in season 8. Which is really great, by the way.

I'm not gonna talk about the 'first choice' thing or the 'someone he needs, not someone he wants' or even the 'endgame' aspect of his romance. But yeah, that was all lies.

On this photo, Allura seems calm and happy, she seems like she can finally see a future with Lance and it's great. What is not so great, though ? When I saw this particular part in the episode, I stopped and watched Lance's face for about 5 minutes to try to understand. I don't see a happy boyfriend, here. I see a guy kind of unsure of what he is doing. I see a guy who doesn't know if what he is having is for real or even if it's what he really wants. He seems quite uncomfortable, tensed. It's maybe just a projection on my part but I genuinely cant see happiness here no matter how long I look at it. But maybe I'm really biased and don't see what actually is, you tell me.

Throughout the season, he was here to support Allura on her journey and it's great, but I would have wanted her to reciprocate it in a way or another. It's what Lance always needed and he didn't got it.

And in the end, he cried. I feel like he never really believed that this relationship would stick, that for whatever reason, they would end up parting paths. And the crew chose to kill her... In all honesty, Allura is not a character I really care about. I thought nothing about her in s1 and in s2, I started disliking her with what happened with Keith. But even thought I don't really care for her, making her die ? For seemingly no reason ? It's tough. And once again, I'm not even talking about how they killed representation or how people in the fandom can feel crushed by that, betrayed, even. I'm only remaining on Lance's side.

He never really had someone to reciprocate his love, something confirmed by his mom. He fell for Allura, casually at first, really hard when the series continued. What he feels for her is genuinely profound and I really liked that he confessed to her but even then... why did he seemed so sad ?

Just look at him !

He probably never loved anyone as much as he loved her. He sees a lot in her but he never felt like he was on equal ground with her. She is an awesome gorgeous space princess. He is just a boy from Cuba. (An awesome funny adorable space ranger but what do I know...). He never felt like he had a chance or deserved her affection. What about that ? It wasn't mentioned even once and I think that this is the reason of his constant sad face while he confesses, while he kisses her, while he conforts her...

I just don't understand and it makes me sad to see him like that. I know, he is just a character, I know this is just a cartoon, I know this just a kid show. But seeing a character you so much love becoming this sad guy that only support without reciprocation, this guy that loved love and is betrayed by it ? I just can't feel anything else but anger and disappointment for the wasted potential.

He ended up losing the woman he loved. The only person who seemed to reciprocate his feelings and because of that I think that he will always be a little more cautious about it because he has always been disappointed. He shot for the stars and fell hard. I fell hard with him. And as someone that feel that love will never go both ways, it just makes me even more bitter about this.

About the altean markings I don't know what to think. Some people think Allura turned him altean, others think she just left him something to remember her by. In both cases, this is wrong.

If the first theory is true, then what? What does that mean beside the ridiculous impossibility to change race? Did she make him altean to 'level him up' from his human status because he wasn't a match for her? Because altean are so much better? Because there was no need for that! Alteans are not all dead so why? For all I know, it wasn't to make royalty knowing that he ended up farmer so... once again, why?

If the second theory is true, well... That's even worst. She wants him to remember her ? I think he has enough around him for that, the status, the commemorations, the legend that will follow her, stories, his friends that gather to talk about her and how they miss her and what she meant for them... Giving him this will only prevent him from moving on. And it's harsh. I personally think that he should have moved on a long time ago. She never loved him, she was annoyed by his flirty attitude, by his simple presence sometimes. He should have seen that blatant rejection and accepted that yeah, he wants her but cannot have her. Romantic love wasn't something she cared about for so long. And then she fell for Lotor who betrayed her. And I think she honestly still doesn't care about Lance this way.

I think Allura didn't fell in love with Lance. She was heartbroken because of Lotor, because of the altean, because of the crown she lost, because she saw everyone with families while she lost hers. I think Allura just wanted someone that would take care of her and lift her burden with her. Just someone that would remind her that she is not alone in the universe, a distraction from the pain she was feeling. Someone that would ground her to prevent her from losing hope. He was easy, he loved her, she just accepted it not reciprocated it.

I see this like that because there was no real build up for their relationship. It wasn't a slow burn. It wasn't even reciprocal. She was sad that Lance felt so strongly about her and accepted their relationship for her own balance and because she didn't want to see her friend so sad. It didn't solve the problem for him though. Plus when the vision of Lotor, her ex boyfriend, told her to go get the creature thing she did but when Lance, her current (well past cause well, she's dead) boyfriend told her not to because it was dangerous and he cared to much for her safety, she didn't listen to him... Great. That's love folks.

I really could have fell for their story but seeing Lance so sad, so taken advantage of... He was so dull, no charisma, no joke, no stupid lines, nothing. He wasn't himself. He wasn't the Lance we saw grow during six to seven seasons. He wasn't the hero, second in command, courageous sharpshooter we all know.

And the sword ? Was it to foreshadow his future encounter with Alfor and Allura giving him blue markings ? Well, that was unnecessary. They could have done that without making people think that something more exciting would happen, that he would actually use the sword.

And the game show ? If they were to be together why the fuck didn't Lance chose her ? Why the fuck didn't she chose him ?... Well, she didn't because she didn't love him more than she loved the other Paladins. But why Lance didn't? Why make Lance and Keith chose each other? If they didn't want to involve them in any romantic kind of situation (they totally failed), they could at least have made them hug. And an emotional scene to express how much they care for each other to justify being worth choosing the other over anyone else to leave and not spend eternity in the game show. Keith was there for Lance and Lance was too obsessed with Allura to even ask about him. Great, even in a totally no homo friends kind of look it was badly handled.

Can someone explain to me the reason of the sunset setting ? Or why Lance freaked out when Veronica asked him to "put in a good word for her" with Keith ? They are friends, now, there was no allusion to their past rivalry. There was therefore no need for that kind of reaction.

He didn't save Shiro, for absolutely nothing. They never talked about it again. They never gave him the opportunity to make up for how bad he felt about that. He didn't event get a conversation with Shiro. They never gave a closure to Lance's arc.

Why do I feel like they did all that to make everyone pay for the shippers that made the toxic reputation of this fandom ? Why do I feel like the writers hate Lance ? Why do I feel like they totally baited us ?

The guy so in love with the idea of love ended up a lonely farmer. That's a great message for kids : don't even think that life will live up to your expectations no matter how hard you work for it. Don't even think that you can find any kind of fulfillment in your life, neither in love nor career.

I've never been in a fandom while a series was still going but I engaged in the Voltron fandom. I discovered it quite late but fell hard for it, it brought me so much happiness, so much hope ! I will never do it again because I'm not sure that the sadness and disappointment I feel right now are worth it. I will never be mad at the theorists and meta writers, they are good people who saw the extraordinary potential of Voltron, they probably feel worse to have spent so much time and energy picking up clues that definitely existed and only served to bait us.

In conclusion, everything Lance did this season was in a way or another related to Allura, as if he forgot he was someone of himself. As if the writers forgot who this character was. And it's painful.

At least there are still the beautiful fan art and fanfictions that really make him justice.

[maybege]

Ok for the smutty fic prompts! 118 + 153, with Ex con! Paz? cause you made me yearn for this man🥺

Heat Waves - Part 2

Summary: The heat wave continues and so does yours and Paz’s situation-ship.

Pairing: neighbour!ex con!Paz Vizsla x fem!Reader

Wordcount: 3.2k | Rating: E (18+ only!)

Warnings: explicit sexual content, dom!Paz, sub!Reader, fingering (f receiving), size kink, oral fixation, slight choking, dirty talk, degradation, comeplay, unprotected sex, just lots of filth,

Prompts: #118 “If you can't sleep … how about we have sex?” + #153 “You have no idea how much I want you.”

It’s been weeks since I touched anything fanfiction related but this was a fun distraction for tonight. I hope you are all doing well and enjoy this piece! Please please please let me know what you thought in a comment or a reblog ❤️ all the love, may (also tagging what I think is your new account? @lillefersken)

masterlist | crossposted on AO3

The heat just would not stop.

At this point you were sure no one could expect anyone to function properly when the city and the entire coast had been bathed in tropical temperatures for almost two weeks now- You hated it. It did not feel like you could rest properly, like you could sleep, like you could breathe. And even the occasional cold shower only made you feel worse.

A quick look on your phone told you it was three am. And the party in one of the apartments a few floors down made no sign of stopping. You groaned in frustration, debating whether it would be best to close the windows and get some much-needed quiet or leave them open and not get boiled alive.

The worst thing was that you weren’t even sure if the open windows were helping. Air circulation, you had read somewhere, was your best friend when it came to heat waves like these. But for that to work the air needed to move and by now you were convinced that that hadn’t happened in the last 72 hours.

“Chug! Chug! Chug!”

Were you too old to start crying from sleep deprivation and frustration?

No, your brain decided and you clenched your jaw, willing yourself to just keep it together.

Tomorrow is a brand new day, just take a deep breath. Tomorrow is a brand new –

“C’mon Dreks, give the girl a kiss!”

Stars fucking damnit would they never shut up?

You could hear a window creak. “For fuck’s sake people are trying to sleep!” someone shouted and you smiled when you immediately recognized the voice, “It’s three in the fucking morning, tone it fucking down!”

Silence.

You breathed a sigh of relief, leaning back into your pillow and making the mental note to thank Paz tomorrow. That would offer you the perfect opportunity to maybe drop by and bring him a coffee or maybe a self-made sandwich? You smiled into the pillow at the thought of spending time with him again.

After the rather spontaneous … night that had resulted from him offering (and actually) fixing your sink, you had barely seen him through no fault of your own – or his for that matter. With Paz getting the night shift at the construction site and you busy working at the bistro and chasing after all the tips you could get to finally sign up for that writing course, your schedules simply … hadn’t aligned.

But now that he had managed to silence that torturous music? Now that certainly justified a visit.

A bout of laughter rang through the streets and then the music continued. Your pillow drowned the frustrated scream that you let out.

Your phone lit up on your nightstand and you gave up the pretence that you would find some sleep tonight.

Paz: Remind me again why I should adhere to my parole?

You smiled, your fingers already flying over the screen.

You: Because I don’t want you to leave me alone with these idiots when they arrest you?

Paz: I wouldn’t let their bodies be found.

You laughed, convinced that you had never felt as happy as when you saw the three little dots still moving on the screen.

Paz: If you can't sleep … how about we have sex?

You stopped laughing, your breath catching in your throat at how forward he was. But not in a bad way. Not in the way Dreks had been forward with you – too forward – but in a way that you wished he had been the last time he had been in your bed.

Another ping, another message.

Paz: I promise I will take you out for dinner tomorrow. As a date.

Now that sealed the deal.

You: Save the date for when I can bear going outside and come over.

Someone stumbled on the other side of the wall and you could hear him curse. You snorted, blindly reaching for the little light on your nightstand and switching it on. You could hear his door creak before it fell closed again and only a second later, a knock sounded on your door.

You jumped up, not caring to put anything on. It would only be taken off anyway. Besides, it was way too hot.

So, when you opened the door at 2 am in the morning, you knew it would be Paz Vizsla on the other side of it and you would greet him in the nude. Which was something he clearly had not expected.

He looked out of breath, as if he had just finished a marathon, and his chest was glistening with tattoos. Even with him wearing only his boxers, he looked absolutely massive in your doorframe, the black ink that snuck its way up his arm and across his shoulder tempting you to trace the lines with your mouth.

It was only then that you realized the silence between you had stretched on quite a bit and you were still standing in the doorway, grinning at each other like little school kids. You cleared your throat, shifting the weight on your feet.

“Hi,” he breathed.

“Hello,” you smiled back.

And then he was on you, his hands cupping your face and pulling you in for a kiss. He was so close and so warm and you were surprised how easy it was to bear the heat of his touch when it was him that was kissing you, him that was crowding you through the darkness towards your bed.

“You have no idea how much I want you,” he murmured against your lips, “You were all I thought about this week.”

“Promise me you’ll fuck me tonight,” you gasped, “Please, I – after last time, I just –“

“You just what?” he grinned, peppering kisses down your neck. His large hands wandered to your middle, brushing over the skin of your hip down to your ass before cupping the soft flesh in his palms. “You just want to be properly fucked?”

You nodded, leaning up to kiss him again. He hadn’t shaved in a few days and you could feel the stubble against your cheeks but it did not bother you, if anything, you just wanted more of him. You wanted to feel him on you, inside you, curled around you. You just wanted Paz.

The back of your knees hit the mattress and you squeaked, tightening your arms around his neck in order not to fall. Kisses turned into laughter turned into breathless gasps turned into hands running down your side.

“Lay down for me, love,” he whispered against you and you did, his hands making sure you didn’t fall, his body following yours like waves lapping at the shore. The pet name sent shivers down your spine and he was so close now, his nose brushing against yours and you swore you had never seen eyes as intense as his.

“This way,” he ordered gently, his hands guiding you to turn around until you were flat on your belly. Your breath rushed out of your lungs as you felt him spread your legs apart. His hands alone felt massive and you remembered just how giant he had felt in your hand. Stars, you could not wait to feel him.

The sheets felt cool against your skin for a heavenly second before you were distracted by Paz’s hands between your legs. One finger pushed inside you and you arched your back, trying to get him to understand how ready you were.

“Shit you’re so hot,” he murmured, thick fingers rubbing over your folds again and you gasped, “And so wet. Tell me, little one, is that all for me? Is that pussy all wet for me?”

“Yes,” you nodded, your cheek sticking to the pillowcase, “Paz, please, I –“

“You what?”

“I want more,” you whined, shuffling your legs wider apart, “Paz, I’m so ready, please …”

He hushed you by adding another thick finger and pressing a kiss against your shoulder blade. You could feel him hard against your butt, leaking precome onto your skin and it drove you crazy, knowing how close he was, knowing you still needed time but you just … you did not want to wait. 

Paz carefully crooked his fingers inside you, his thumb circling your clit in the process. “We both know how big I am,” he reminded you teasingly and, as if to prove his point, pressed his cock against your hips, “We need to prep you, love.”

“Don’t wanna wait though,” you pouted, a moan leaving you when he scissored his fingers, your walls clenching around him, “Waited for so long.”

The big man chuckled against you, the depth of his voice only churning the fire inside you. “I know, sweetheart, I know how badly you need to be fucked. But I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you assured him, lifting your hips and pushing them back against his fingers, your thighs clenching when they massaged that spot in you that made you feel like you were floating.

“You want to know what I thought about?” he asked you innocently, his breath washing against your ear and you shivered. His fingers left you and you were so close to protesting when you felt them come back, now three fingers slowly stretching your entrance.

“I imagined what it would be like to fuck my come into you,” he revealed lowly, kissing your cheek, “Only used the hand that had been inside you to jerk off, too, tried to remember how fucking tight you were for me.”

Oh by all that was holy how could one man be so hot?

Paz grunted and the mattress shifted as he straddled you from behind. His chest was against your back, the heat of him almost unbearable when paired with the unrelenting temperatures of the night.

This was it.

“Go slow, please,” you asked, suddenly feeling a little shy, “You’re so big.”

Paz hummed, his big hands immediately slowing down, smoothing over your sides before you felt him against your entrance. “I will go slow, I promise,” he whispered, kissing your shoulder blade softly, “You tell me, when it’s too much, yeah?” he asked, already sounding a little breathless and you nodded, turning your face to rest on your folded hands.

You only had the memory of him in your hand, the size of him, the girth of him. Paz Vizsla was packing and you had no idea how you would be able to take him. Out of the corner of your eyes, you could see him move, see his chest heave with his breaths and see his arms move as he ran his hands over your back.

You breathed out, focusing on the feeling of him running his tip through your folds, circling your clit before ever so slightly pushing into you. It drove you crazy and you tried to spread your legs even more, trying to show him that it was okay, that you could take him, that you –

“Someone seems to get impatient.”

He pulled out again, chuckling when you lifted your hips to follow him. You could feel your wetness drip onto the sheets but his strong thighs had caged in yours and all it did was make him push you down again with a chuckle. It should not have turned you on how easy that had been for him.

You gasped when he pushed inside you again, this time a little deeper, though as soon as his tip was inside you, he pulled out again.

“Fuck,” you cursed, wrapping your arms around your pillow, and muffling your moan.

His hand came down next to your face, holding him up and seeing the tattoos on his knuckles made you want to bite into yours.

“Never had a big cock like mine, did you?”

“N-no, you’re so big,” you mumbled, wiggling your hips to get him inside you again.

The growl he let out was otherworldly and your breath hitched when his other hand came down on the back of your neck, pushing you into the sheets. “Is this okay?” he checked in, his cock pushing inside you, stretching you more than anyone ever had.

“Yes,” you breathed, relaxing into the bed.

“Good girl.”

Feeling you relax seemed to have been the magic unspoken words he had been waiting for because as soon as his hips started moving, they did not stop. It was rough and fast and so precise you wondered just how he was able to read your body like it had been his all along. His hand on your neck slightly pushed you into the pillow, his thumb stroking over the nape of your neck lovingly while his cock stretched your walls.

You tightened around him, your cheeks burning when you heard the squelching sounds from behind you. You had never been this wet without help and yet here you were, being fucked within an inch of your life by the giant man next door who had occupied your dreams for as long as he had lived here. Your pussy clenched around him, trying to keep him inside you and you could hear him curse under his breath.

Paz changed the rhythm, then, going for slow and deep strokes that made your eyes roll back. He shifted his weight and his hand left your neck and instead found both of yours, holding them down next to your head. His mouth was by your ear and you whined, feeling completely overpowered by him in the best way. He could do whatever he wanted with you, you just wanted to feel him inside you for as long as possible.

“You look so good like this,” he rumbled, “You – actually you look a little cockdumb for me,” he added before kissing you softly. “Is it okay if I call you that?” he asked, his hips slapping against your ass, “Is it okay if I call you just a little cockdumb for me?”

You could not form any words, too far gone on his cock to care. “Uh-huh,” you agreed, your eyes zeroing in on his hand right next to your face and before you knew it, you had leant forward, slipping your lips around his thumb and sucking on the thick digit. Paz groaned loudly, his hips stuttering before he caught himself, stilling inside you.

“Stars woman,” he ground into you, “You just want me to come in this pussy, don’t you?”

He pushed his cock into you slowly, grounding into you which in turn caused some of the folds of your bunched-up bedding to catch on your clit and –

You moaned around his finger, drool escaping onto the pillow but you did not care. You felt messy and wet and hot but all you wanted was for him to continue just like this. With his fat cock in your pussy and the unfamiliar but certainly not unwelcome stimulation on your folds, you felt like you were right on the edge.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he praised you, “prettiest fucking pussy I’m ever gonna fill up, sweetheart, you hear that? I’m gonna fill you up so good you don’t want anybody else ever again.”

The idea of him coming inside you, filling you up with the load that had filled the entirety of your palm the last time … it made your walls flutter.

“Gonna come inside you,” he repeated against the back of your neck, his body slick against yours and you did your best to nod, your mouth open from silent gasps and moans at the places he hit so deep inside you, you were convinced you never could to be with anyone else.

His body was a furnace behind and over you, his hips slamming against the flesh of your ass again and again and the salt on his skin making you feel intoxicated.

“Say it,” he rumbled, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear and pushing his cock deeper, “Beg me to come inside this sweet pussy. I know how bad you need it.”

“Please come inside me,” you gasped out, “F-fuck, please, Paz, p-please come inside me. I’m so close, I just want to feel your come inside me, p-please.”

The thumb you just had in your mouth, hooked into the corner of your mouth, forcing your mouth open. “I want to hear you when you come on my cock,” he growled, “C’mon, sweetheart, be loud for me.”

And you were. Your legs were trembling, your muscles tensing and it felt like your soul had left your body as you moaned into the thick summer air, coming around his cock while he was still fucking you. His body was heavy on yours, keeping you grounded and leaving no chance of escape as he fucked you through your orgasm like he had just waited to show you how could he could make you feel even when your brain seemed unable to process anything that was going on.

“Good girl,” he praised you, “Go on, clench around me, love, make me come.”

Not shortly after, Paz came inside you. And he came a lot. So much, in fact, that you could feel the pressure that came with lying on your belly and as soon as he pulled out (both of you wincing at the loss of contact), his come already trickled out of your pussy.

“Shit it’s dripping out of you,” he cursed, still sitting behind you and you gasped when his fingers pushed it right back inside you, “We don’t want that, do we?”

You giggled, shaking your head as you slowly rolled onto your back. “No, we really don’t want that.”

In the warm light of the streetlamps that flooded up from the streets, you could see a wide smile on his glistening face, his eyes roaming over your face and body to make sure you were okay. He looked shy almost. As if he hadn’t just given you the best orgasm of your life.

Paz leant down from where he had perched his head on his elbow. His lips pressed against your temple, his nose running along your hairline. “You’re so fucking beautiful, sweetheart,” he whispered, “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m feeling perfect,” you corrected him with a tired smile, “I feel like I am a cloud.”

He laughed at that, deep and genuine and so fucking perfect it made your heart clench. “Would you like something to drink then?” he asked, his hand running over your thigh.

“Yes please,” you mumbled, still trying to catch your breath, “There’s some water in the fridge. I, uh, I think I’m gonna freshen up a bit.”

Paz sat up, swinging his legs over the end of the bed. The street lights illuminated his face as he looked at you and you could see the soft lines on his face. “Are you suggesting a midnight shower, sweetheart?” he teased you, shrugging on his boxers, “I could join you.”

You opened your mouth, ready to invite him for another round under the deliciously cool water when another voice pulled you out of your bubble.

“Are you two finished already?”

Paz chuckled, pressing a kiss against your temple before turning his face towards the open window.

“Fuck off!” he shouted, his voice turning into a mumble as he continued to drop kisses down the side of your face until he reached your neck, “I’m busy.”

[theredsuzuran]

Muzan x reader ~ Lily [pt 2]

Took me forever to complete this song fanfiction, wouldn't have been possible if my friend didn't help, thanks to him. Please check out the first part to understand it better. Here.

Warning : abusive themes, mention of blood and gore.

Enjoy

She knew she was hypnotized.

The sound of a loud slap echoed throughout the room, your father who was furious about your escape have just hit you hard on your face infront of everyone, including the servants. On other hand your mother holding your father's arm tightly to prevent him from hitting you any further.

"Get away, you callous women, it is for you that she tried to run away, you should be ashamed of yourself", he shouted, shoving off your mother roughly onto the tatami floor.

"This is wrong, the Gods will punish us", she murmured under her breath making muffle sounds, your father dissatisfied by her futile attempts of protests turns his attention away from you to hit her right in the stomach with his bare fist in pure fury, making her scream in agony coughing out mucus. Your mother being a fragile women of timid personality, rarely talked to anyone let alone protest or stand up against vile play, always seen behind the shoji doors praying to the gods and chanting prayers, constantly intimidated. Witnessing your father abusing her inhumanely infront of her children, family members as well as the servants, evoked a sense of rebellion inside of you.

"Don't hit my mother, you are angry because of me hit me instead, as much as you like, but not her", you growled furiously at your father, making your mother jolt towards your direction as she shook her head violently.

"Stay away from this brat", he said apatheticly, disappointment hinted in his voice turning his head away from you once again in utter disgust. Receiving such cold treatments from your father made your heart shattered in pieces. Then, your uncle step up.

"Take her to the room and increase the guards, this shall not happen again", your father ordered the servants which was immediately followed without any hesitation or delay before you could protest you were taken away. However you wonder why did your mother reacted that way?

__

As the time passed by, you grew up to be an elegant lady mostly within the confinement of four walls, while pushing down all the jovial moments deep into the unconsciousness... your mind engulfed with the thoughts of your demise. It was getting harder and harder each day for you to keep your sanity intact. A constant state of melancholy always prevailed within your aura, even your own shadow seem deceitful.

Walking on cold thin nights

Then the night of that cursed full moon occurred. You glanced at the starry night from the now open window of your cell with your souless (e/c) eyes. Succumbing towards the void of eternal darkness. Heaven knows what grave sin you might have committed to receive such heavy punishments. As you were busy getting drowned in your own thoughts the shoji door slightly opened and the maids rushed inside your room one by one with cloths and accessories in their arm.

"It's time m'lady" the head maid bowed respectfully infront of you, then motioned the other maids to help you get ready. You could feel them pitying you, sympathizing the miserable state you're in. You simply nodded and get up to dress for your deathbed. At this point you didn't care much you just want it to get over soon, trailing off in the sea of your own distorted thoughts.

You approached your family to bid farewell before heading towards the palanquin. Everyone wishpering behind your back something that they are not allowed to speak infront of you. That didn't bother you anways but you wish you could atleast see your mother for the last time. Is it that hard for a mother to witness her daughter's departure that she needs to constantly hide indoors avoiding her like plague?

A herd of maids accompany you as your bridesmaid to mount Akakura. The norimono stopped infront of a shrine. The bitter cold outside and the solemn atmosphere made it difficult for you to enter through the main gates. All of them left at once after escorting you inside the shrine. While you sat there facing the kami observing the interior, The light of the lamp beside you flickering slowly. The shrine was enormous filled with shofisticated designs, paintings and detail descriptions of the great folklore of Japan. Gods like susanoo killing Yamamoto no orochi in order to restore peace, you were completely lost admiring the aesthetics of the shrine.

But then it broke,

Did she awoke again?

"This is not what we were expecting", you felt a strong gust of wind behind your back as if something was breathing behind your back, you could feel saliva dripping over your expensive uchikake and to your exact horror was standing your living nightmare, a disfigured seven headed monster signifying those of a dragon and a serpent hovering on top of you covering almost the entire shrine glancing directly at your fragile figure with pure malice and hunger.

"Nay, certainly not, she's not one of them, fufu", another head cooed grinning creepily. You looked at them with utter confusion, raising your head slightly to look over that hideous thing above you.

"What do you mean?", Asking almost frustrated, your voice still shaking.

"Oh", the head at the centre replied, his voice calm and steady, facing you with it's long wide neck, his eyes glowing dangerously, inches away from your face, breath stinking of something you'd probably not keen to know as he opened his mouth to speak.

"I fear mortal, but you are not blood-related to any of the seven maidens we have devoured so far", you were taken aback. Not related? You were bewildered, unable to process the new set of information displayed before you, fresh stream of tear forming in the corner of your eyes.

"No, you are lying", You snapped at them angrily.

"What a clueless human, what do we gain by that?", The head in the left hissed irritatedly.

The ground beneath you seem to slide open whereas the sky above began to crumble. For eighteen years you have been raised by people who are not even blood related to you but most importantly they were using you to save themselves, you stood their perplexed, overwhelmed with the new reality. How cruel can people become? An urge to confront your parents came in demanding for an explanation, about their selfish lies, for hiding your true identity, stealing your childhood and a chance to live a normal life. Now that perfectly made sense why your mother always prayed to the Gods for forgiveness, barely talking to you or look in your eyes and why your father is so detached towards you and not your siblings. They were never your own and you were never there's.

"Those human thought they could deceive us, we will kill them", head to the left spoke.

"No, not so soon, they might have deceived us but the girl lying below us is a marechi, no no no we cannot let her go" the main head chuckled darkly, showing its true nature all of them at once looked at you with their protruding eyes, as you shut your eyelids for the worse accepting your misfortune, a heated argument broke among the seven heads.

"You have eaten all the seven women previously, I will have this one" the right head hissed, accompanied by other heads, all of them screaming and cursing at each other. You notice the unlocked gate it must have been open since the demon arrived. It was your golden chance to escape, as they were busy fighting, you took advantage of the situation, slowly crawling your way towards the entrance of the shrine . They seem to not notice you trailing off their sight.

"Stop fighting with one another, we all are literally the same, anyone of us eating her would be enough to make us stronger and please that man", the head at the center erupted fuming with anger.

"She's gone, she's gone", one of the head shouted. Indeed you were missing the only thing left was the wataboshi you wore on top.

Then she ran faster than-

You ran through the dense forest lifting your kimono, the smell of fresh air hitting your nostrils, the feeling of nostalgia came back as you can finally taste that long lost freedom you constantly craved for since forever but unfortunately that didn't last long. As you were running blindly you could feel something gigantic chasing from behind. Being too frantic you stumble and fell onto the ground your leg getting caught in the fabric of your kimono in the process.

Start screaming, "Is there someone out there?"

Please help me

Come get me

"You thought you can ran away from us? What a foolish human", the sound of loud laughter resonated through out the woods. The demon wrapped its tale around your waist squeezing you tightly in attempt to crush your defenseless body lifting you up opening its mouth to shove you inside.

Behind her she can hear it say-

"Let go of me!" You screamed on top of your lungs, a last desperate attempt to exist. When out of the blue a large mascular tentacles flew towards your direction cutting the tail swiftly in a blink of an eye, releasing you from its bone breaking grip but instead of crashing against the ground, you were caught by a pair of strong masculine arm. You looked up in disbelief. A familiar fair male in texudo emerged, his flawless features shining underneath the moonlight coming through the branches.

"Muzan..."

"We met again (y/n), I hope am not too late", he smiled at you gazing softly. Tears came rolling down your cheeks as you cannot believe was it real or just a dream.

History always seem to find it's way of repeating itself.

His previous soft look instantly changed to that of a menacing one as he trailed his glance towards the disfigured monster.

"Crouch down and lower your heads", all the seven heads bow down infront of the demon lord, Cowering with fear at once as if they were struck by lightning.

"Pardon my lord, we didn't realize you have arrived before us or else-", the demon yelped immediately like a lost puppy.

"Who gave you the permission to speak?" Muzan replied indignantly, his eyes glowing threateningly at the petrified creature. You knew he was a demon but you were unaware that he held such authority making a powerful demon like Akai that supposedly haunts the mountain for centuries to lower his head in terror on his command. What was unknown to you that he infact was the progenitor of these morbid creatures.

How ironic being saved by none other but a demon.. being first of his kind.

"Have mercy, my lord" the demon begged, while one of his head thought why's he saving that human girl?

"Why am I saving that human girl? Go ahead, continue", muzan narrowed his eyes making the demon quivered with shock. He can read my mind?

"What makes you answer my authority?" The demon lord demanded furiously, veins popping out from his head.

"Beings like you should not be allowed to exist" with that said, his one arm stretched, injecting a sharp blade into the creature allowing his blood to overflow, creating chaos in the demonic cells of that creature eventually turing it into a pile of molten flesh.

It's over, the nightmares. Fresh tears rolled down your face, mixed with all sorts of emotions, the tables have turned, the heavens seems to have listen to your prayers. A pair of large hands cupped your face breaking you from the chain of thoughts

Follow everywhere I go

"Why are you still crying, dear?" Muzan replied with his smooth, monotonous voice, removing his hand as he placed you gently on the surface. His mood changed in a matter of seconds, you wonder how much more he was capable of doing beside that but brushing aside those feelings of negativity you moved closer.

"Took you long enough" engulfing him in a tight hug, startling him in the process. The idea of being intimate with a lowly creature was good enough to make him puke in disgust. How can a mortal like you have the audacity to touch the all mighty kibutsuji Muzan? He believed himself to be above everything even viewing his own subordinates as puppets of his play. His twisted sense of morality speaks that affection holds a person from attaining superiority and is a sign of weakness, the more ruthless and cold hearted the more close you are to perfection. He shows no value to people who possess such emotions which he is foreign to. Your vulnerability makes him want to ripped you to shreds, torment you and break your mind, yet he finds himself at ease. It was hard for him to admit that his pride was hurted against someone so delicate and somehow he felt those feelings of warmth to be tolerable with you, even to the extent of craving it.

After a while, a sudden realization hit your senses as you parted from the tight embrace, your (s/c) countenance painted with dark shades of red, averting your gaze from the demon. The moon shone brightly above you exhibiting your breathtaking beauty just like a piece of art. The way your shiny (h/c) locks fell over your smooth skin, the way your pulm lips parted to speak and the way your eyes sparked with adoration, was enough to drive him insane. From the very moment he laid his eyes upon you, he knew a masterpiece like you belonged only to the epitome of perfection. He will do anything to keep you to himself.

Top over the mountains or valley low.

"(Y/n), you have a very rare blood, a marechi" said muzan, as you recall the conversation you had with the demon in the shrine saying something similar on this note.

Give you everything you been dreaming of

"What's with that muzan?" You asked curiously, to which muzan's tone changed into that of a viscous one.

"Its a great meal for demons", silence broke out as you were too shock to say anything. Muzan knew he can take advantage of that situation and mould you the way he desires.

"(Y/n) are you scared of me?"

"No", you replied almost immediately with no hesitation.

"Do you trust me?" He questioned again looking at you directly with his glowing ruby orbs. Beginning his sick games of manipulation.

"Yes I do, with all my life, you are the only one who saved my life not once but twice, you cared so much for me when no one did" you paused.

"Beside my mother"

Just let me in, ooh

"Your family abandoned you, when you needed them the most" he replied creating doubts about inside of you, making you back off a little towards a tree.

"My mother was helpless" you answered.

"They used you for their own benefit", pinning you against the tree, he whispered venom into your ears. The proximity between you two, send shivers down your spine. Seeing you helpless excited him, making him determined to claim you even more.

Everything you want in gold, I'll be the magic story you have been told.

"How do you k-know?" You trembled, gasping your mouth and before you could lift your hands to cover your face muzan held your hands into his bigger ones looking directly in your eyes.

"Tell me (y/n) am I wrong?", you knew he wasn't although it didn't make sense.

"No.." is all you replied, satisfied with your answers muzan proceeded into the next step.

And you will safe under my control.

"I want to keep you safe, (y/n)", he moved closer to your face.

"You and I shall rule the world"

"I don't know muzan"

"No one can harm you ever again"

"But-"

"Don't you want to be free?"

Free? That's what you have been wanting for so long, freedom. He made you believe that you can be a boundless bird stretching its wings in the infinite magnitude. All of your doubts stopped growing from then and there, muzan knew he has struck the right cord, creating a ray of false hope about your vision of a perfect free world, thereby controlling your perception just like a predator luring his victims with lies. Seems as if you were destined to be deceived.

"Yes" you replied hypnotized by his convincing.

"Then become a demon"

Just let me in, ohh

Muzan moved his hand across your face caressing it gently, his face inches apart from yours, as his lips crashed against yours. For someone who recoiled from physical touch, to be felt loved by something that isn't supposed to be God's creation. A warm feeling crept inside of your chest as it was pressed against his. Feeling your joint heartbeats.

I never bothered to feel my chest for a heart beat, now I do. As I looked down to see my hand moving towards my face, the slimy red droplet broke away, disconnecting our lips. Demon? This man who gave me this new life? His eyes, so calm and fiery, How can I feel such duality? I lifted my other hand, without knowing it went to his chest, On his chiseled chest, there. You thought.

"A demon?" You replied with your now quivering lips turning your face away with embarrassment, realizing your lips connected with burning passion. Your eyes teared up you know not why, to be embraced by one who was supposed to be cold, to be embraced by someone who stood against armies through out time, you wanted to be with him.

"you will be", said muzan, as you felt your consciousness fading away, you know now why... Why all of them follow him, despite the abuse..Despite the sacrifices... you know now why your body moved craving for his touch although you could feel your throat burning yet it didn't matter, the warm embrace is all that you wanted.

That night you abandoned your humanity.

[imherongraystairstrash]

could you do the prompt "you look awful" with alastair and lucie? (platonically ofc)

Writing fanfiction instead of doing my homework checkkk ✌️

Characters: Lucie and Alastair (Platonic) Prompt: “You Look Awful”

Lucie didn’t remember the last time she had cried. Maybe it was because she submerged herself into her pride and joy, “The Beautiful Cordelia”, whenever she was sad. And she could do whatever she wanted when she wrote. Nothing was out of reach. She could make the villains lose and the hero win every, single time. She took comfort in knowing she could do the opposite, should she wish to. In her stories, nothing happened without her consent.

But in real life? The rash reality was that she couldn’t fix anything with a swish of her quill. She couldn’t erase somebody’s death and she most certainly couldn’t bring anyone back to life. Lucie wiped away tears with the back of her hand.

Whatever was the point in having the power of resurrection, the power to command the dead, when she couldn’t bring back to life a measly spider, let alone the life she truly longed for?

Perhaps it was for the better, Lucie thought. If she had the power to bring people back to life, what would stop her from bringing back lives lost tragically? Barbara, Oliver, all of their lives mattered as well… 

Or maybe it was what she deserved. For having the audacity to dream that for once in her life, she would be the hero. She wouldn’t be James’ little sister. The second Herondale child. The one without inherited powers. 

She shouldn’t be jealous of James; his life was beyond difficult. But Lucie still felt that the only people who marked her significance were her family. And even then, she didn’t feel important. She felt like a side character to a main character’s story. Only interesting enough when they are in the shadow of the character that really matters.

She couldn’t escape her problems this time. Not through writing, at least. Her frustration was a harsh wave pulling her mind farther and farther away so that she couldn’t muster up the ability to write but a sentence. Tears started flowing vigorously. What was she without writing? How could The Angel be so cruel as to take that away too? 

“You look awful,” she heard someone say.

Lucie looked up at Alastair, who was staring at her, but not unkindly. He sat down next to Lucie on the floor. 

Lucie quickly turned away, ferociously wiping a tear away. “It’s nothing. You don’t have to stay here, Alastair. You probably have better things to do.”

“My sister’s soon-to-be parabatai is on the floor of a hallway, all alone, crying over something that is clearly not nothing; I’m not leaving.” 

Lucie turned back to look at him in confused wonder. She’d never thought Alastair would care whether she was sad or not. Of course, she knew he was protective over Cordelia, but never did it cross her mind that Alastair would care enough about her to stay and see what was troubling her. 

“Are you alright, Lucie?”

James would have demanded who had made her sad and then proceed to hunt that person down with his band of Merry Thieves, leaving Lucie alone in the process. Could that be why Lucie didn’t cry much? Because it was never about her and always about who made her sad?

“Lucie?”

Lucie shook her head as a means of clearing it. “Yes, it’s okay.”

“You don’t have to talk about it, but it’s alright to be sad.”

Lucie didn’t really know what to say. That was also something she’d never been told. Why is it that being sad was wrong? Every now and then, was it alright to feel sad?

“My mother taught me that phrase.” Alastair said, looking at the wall in front of them. “I sometimes have difficulties accepting the fact that sadness isn’t always negative and that there is not always a reason behind it. Sadness is the same as happiness, except that it has the potential to drown you if you feel too much of it.”

“I like the sound of that. Even though it’s a bit morbid. It—it is like a good kind of morbid.”

“A good kind of morbid.” Alastair said, half to himself, with a smile. “We should coin that.”

“Oh, yes. I am sure we can make a club and get many people to join.” Lucie said. 

Alastair continued smiling. Lucie didn’t see Alastair smiling much, but she thought it was nice to look at. It was clearly not practiced; his smile was crooked and strange, suggesting that the facial expression is rare enough for him that it’s a bit awkward, but there was something about the smile of someone who doesn’t smile much that makes it charming.

Alastair Carstairs was interesting. Lucie had always thought so. He felt much older and was always so mature. Not like Charles was; Charles acted the way he did perhaps to spite them, or because they were his practice subjects for when he was to be Consul. Alastair was mature because it almost seemed like he was forced to. Alastair didn’t seem to enjoy being mature, it was like it was an unwanted gift that was thrust upon him and he was forced to keep it. 

Lucie shook her head once more. She was tired of secrets and though Grace wasn’t as horrible as Lucie thought she was, she didn’t keep good company. Lucie felt useless; she wanted to help with something.

“Alastair, do you want me to talk to Thomas?” Lucie asked. 

“What?” Alastair said, paling.

“I’ve been friends with Thomas for longer than anyone, save Christopher; he’ll listen to me. I’ve been thinking, and it seems a bit foolish to be angry at you. Yes, you did something horrible, but you were young. I know Uncle Gideon and Aunt Sophie as well, and they’re not ones to hold a grudge over something like that, especially if you apologize.”

Alastair just stared ahead before he said, “don’t worry about me right now, Lucie. This is about whether you are alright or not.”

Lucie looked at him sadly. “I am alright. And I would rather talk about you. Alastair, you’re like one of my tragic book characters.”

“What?”

“It’s better if you don’t ask questions.”

Alastair shrugged.

“The point is,” Lucie continued. “You seem like you’re afraid to be happy.”

Alastair made a noise in the back of his throat.

Though James always liked to tease her for not knowing when to keep quiet, Lucie didn’t elaborate. For once, Lucie let the words speak for themselves. She looked at Alastair as he slightly furrowed his eyebrows, lost in thought. 

“I’m doing this for Thomas as well.” She whispered after a while.

“Thomas hates me.”

“He doesn’t.” Lucie said firmly. “He desperately wants to hate you, but he can’t. He knows he’s being dramatic.”

Alastair scoffed. 

“It’s true. I’ve known Thomas my entire life, and I understand him enough to know that if you apologize—and I mean truly apologize— and he sees you regret it, there’s not a single reason as to why he wouldn’t forgive you. He may be stubborn, but when it comes to this, I think he’ll understand.”  

There was a solemn quiet in the hall. For someone passing by, it would seem as though the boy and girl were mourning or were just told terrible news. In reality, however, it was the quiet of gears turning, of minds contemplating, wondering.

“They seem so kind.” Alastair said quietly.

“Who?”

“Gideon and Sophie. I’ve never witnessed two people who don’t have a single ounce of… bitterness towards anybody.”

Lucie nodded. “They’ll like you.”

“I very much think you’re lying.”

“No, I’m speaking with all the seriousness in the world. They believe in the power of change; all of the Lightwoods do, because they themselves are proof of changing for the good.”

Alastair looked at his shoes. “It’s a bit ironic. I come to help you, and instead you help me.”

Lucie smiled to herself. “Oh, but you did help me.” Because Lucie didn’t feel completely useless. Nor did she feel like a failure. She was helping Thomas and Alastair and she could think of nothing better to make her feel better.   

Tagging: @livvyheronstairs @hitheresomeoneusingthus @celias @tsccreatorsnet @atla-lok143 @aceofjesper @autumnangel20 @julemmaes @rinadragomir @cupcakesandkittens @youngreckless 

If you want to be tagged in future fics, please let me know! 

[wangxianficrecs]

re: the discussion around bookmarks and concrit. i also think that we authors need to be very careful in what kind of criticism we dismiss. there can be a tendency, in my experience, for authors to dismiss some very real concerns regarding racist elements in their works. that’s not limited to just the mdzs fandom—though mdzs being a non-english work does add to it—but more of a fandom in general issue. and because these can be some very personally harmful, not everyone who reacts to it does so politely. i understand why some people can feel a little defensive, but dismissing these concerns makes fandom spaces uncomfortable and even outright hostile to non-white fans. i always get a little nervous when i see issues like this come up, because there’s always a few people who see these things and think they shouldn’t listen to any criticism at all. i certainly don’t want to dismiss any of the very reasonable concerns that have been brought up today, though! i just want to remind people to be kind and thoughtful and respect the voices that oftentimes get drowned out.

Of course!

MOST of the time, an author does want to hear this kind of thing, and they’re simply oblivious or ill-informed.

Cultural sensitivity is a huge and very delicate issue... particularly in this fandom. I don't think it's easy to be black-and-white about it, either, because perspectives and backgrounds are so varied.

I should say right off the bat that I am a writer, and not a cultural minority -- so this is my perspective. And what I always come back to is: ask the writer if they want your feedback. Most of them do! There are reams of posts here on Tumblr about common pitfalls, people who are learning new ways to be sensitive, people who are sharing hard-learned lessons with newcomers.

Overall, fandom is open to learning and trying hard, which is gorgeous to see. Sometimes it's intuitive, and sometimes someone has to go through an arduous process of unlearning something they've 'known' all their lives. Here on Tumblr there are people who are either living in China or a couple generations removed from it who make very educational posts on things I've never thought about before in my life, and I love it. I love having my eyes opened (even if sometimes it's painful), I love understanding the context behind certain choices on the show, I just love getting to know new people and have insight into lives that are different from my own. I think most of the people bumbling around in this fandom feel the same way.

BUT. When you take someone to task about cultural sensitivities in their story you are making assumptions that

your opinion is the mouthpiece for an entire disparate culture

the author should somehow already have known what you're telling them

that the author is in a position where they can do more with writing/fandom than just see a show they love and dash off a story about it

I will tell you, as a human, that humans don't respond well to feeling attacked: it often makes them dig in their heels and entrench themselves.

So how can you educate an author? Ask if they want you to. Honestly. If they don't, then it doesn't matter whether you say something or not, they're not going to hear you.

Although I've seen a few fics where authors say right up front, 'I don't want cultural feedback' (which is fair warning to just hit the back button), the vast majority of them say they'd love any input from representatives of the culture they're trying to depict.

But, unless the author invites it (either in advance or in response to your query), the forum for educating people isn't the comment section of an individual fic. It's within the community as a whole, and it's happening robustly here, as far as I can tell, with posts and conversations and exchanges of ideas.

I watched romance novels go from bareback to condoms (I love this example, it applies to so much) and it didn't happen because someone started telling individual writers how they should write. It happened because new people started writing new stories (with condoms), stories that were well-written and felt more modern than the older writers. It happened because outside culture was changing, and the people living in it were aware of that. It happened because people had friends who were affected by the AIDS pandemic (this was in the 80s).

My point is: educate the people who WANT to be educated and ignore the ones that don't. They'll lag behind the cultural curve and eventually look around and realize that they're pretty isolated in their corner. Or they'll change, at their own pace, privately.

Meanwhile, keep writing meta. (That's where I learn the most, anyway, by reading those posts.) If you want your viewpoint shared, ask bigger blogs who deal with the same thing to boost you. Saturate fandom culture with the need for change and awareness of those myriad tiny things that people do or say that are harmful. Write fic where your culture is handled 'right'.

AND... tag, comment and bookmark on fics that do it well. Instead of focusing on authors who do it wrong (whatever that may be), boost the authors who are doing their research, who have sensitivity betas, who state openly that they want feedback. Start a tag like #culturally sensitive (which is staying positive, but still having impact) and DON'T use it on fics that haven't earned it. This is how bookmarks can be informative without being negative.

This is the kind of thing that spreads through, and eventually dominates, a culture. It's happening right now, it really is! I've been on tumblr for 9 years, and out in the world for nearly 50, and things are changing. So contribute to that in positive ways. Especially in fanfiction, where you know nothing about the author - not their age, their background, their mental state.

A simple question if they'd like feedback, or if there's a way to do it privately, or if they'd like you to beta in the future... I think most of the time you will get a very positive response. And it keeps you from being hurt and frustrated by beating your head against the wall of someone who's not open to listening.

[professorsnape394]

The Potions Master’s Apprentice

Chapter Five: The Calm before the Storm

A/N: This is the fifth part to my fanfiction ‘The Potions Master’s Apprentice (Severus Snape x OC)’. Chapters 1-16 can be found already uploaded on Wattpad under the same name. Feel free to leave requests in my inbox for anything Snape related you want me to write. Leave a comment below if you wish to be added to my tag list.

Pairing: Severus Snape x OC (Dumbledore’s Granddaughter)

Summary: A talented young witch is employed as an apprentice professor at Hogwarts, but who will she be working under? Severus Snape is not best pleased with his new responsibility of taking on an apprentice, however she is relentless to create a friendship between them. Will she be successful? Or might the friendship just go a little two far? With the eyes of her grandfather constantly watching over them, an attempt at a relationship might not be in the cards for Aria Dumbledore and Severus Snape.

Word Count: 2128

Warnings: n/a

Credits to Gif Creator

Severus Snape spent the next two weeks drowning in fire whiskey. When he returned to his quarters after spending an evening with Miss Dumbledore, he could not get her out of his mind. He hated himself for it, but she had admittedly charmed him with her striking beauty and captivating personally.

Having somewhat sobered up from the evening drinks, Severus took it upon himself to crack open another bottle of Firewhiskey, downing glass by glass until he no longer remembered how he felt about the woman.

The days that followed simply became harder to forget about her, as she would often come calling to his office; private quarters and classroom in search for the brooding Professor. Each time she came knocking Snape shied away from her, keeping his doors locked, and poured yet another measure of the burning liquid down his throat in the hope that she would disappear from his memory all together.

This was not him. He thought to himself. His whole life he had resisted the temptation of women like her. This was not to say he had never felt the touch of another, he had in his youth had his fair share of women upon leaving Hogwarts. But never had he caught feelings like those that were threatening to surface, except for one other woman. The thought of his first love forced yet another glass of whiskey down his throat.

As of now his feelings for Miss Dumbledore were purely physical but he did not want to risk them developing into something much more complex. Vowing never to fall for Aria as he had for Lily Evans, Severus built his walls higher than before, making himself impenetrable to the charms of Miss Dumbledore.

Staring at the bottom of yet another empty glass the Professor knew the only way he could resist his urges and keep the woman away, was to use his feelings for her to fuel his (now) hatred. Every kind word she spoke to him was ammunition for mockery. Every question she asked him was an excuse to belittle her. Soon enough she would take the hint and keep her distance. At the very least it would surely provoke her frustration and spark disagreements between the two. No relationship with the woman would of course be better than a bad relationship, but if he had to settle, he would gladly take the latter.

Reaching the end of yet another bottle Severus dumped the vessel into nearby bin, finally retiring for the night.

Countless bottles of Firewhiskey and Nettle Wine later, the castle gradually begun to fill with numerous Professors and various other members of staff. The school year would resume in two days time and Severus needed to get his act together in order to once again face his new apprentice.

*

The night before the students were set to arrive via the Hogwarts Express, Headmaster Dumbledore sent out a formal reminder to the staff regarding the start of year feast. Aria was well aware the feast was a tradition here at Hogwarts where a ceremony was held and the new first year students were sorted into their respective houses. She was not, however, aware that the night before the official grand feast the professors sat down to a banquet of their own. It was stated in her letter than all staff were required to attend. Aria assumed this was included more or less for the benefit of Severus, whom she knew would try at all costs to avoid attending, possibly even more so now then any year before, though she wasn't entirely sure why the sallow-skinned Professor had been avoiding her these past weeks.

Admittedly, she missed the man, though they had only really spent a few days together, she was getting used his company and her loneliness only made the days longer. She had tried to talk to him, ask him why he had been avoiding her. However, after receiving no response when she sought him out, and due to their conversation at the Three Broomsticks detailing the man's introverted personality, she decided not to pester him further.  Instead, she chose to busy herself preparing alone for the school year. Until the past few days that is, when the castle begun to fill with Professors and she thought she may as well get to know some of them.

Almost instantly Professor McGonagall took Aria under her wing and set about introducing the girl to her fellow colleagues. The two witches got along so fast, Miss Dumbledore almost wished to become her apprentice instead. Sadly, Aria was not particularly skilled in the art of Transfiguration. After a few days of brief meetings with almost all of the staff, Minerva invited Aria to afternoon tea in her office. Getting on like a house on fire, Aria felt all the nerves that had been building up within her over the last month slowly melt away. Minerva happily chatted away with the young woman, feeling she too had found a great friend.

Sooner than Aria may have liked the subject eventually turned to the subject of her mentor, Severus Snape. Minerva couldn't wait to her Miss Dumbledore's thoughts on the man. Although she also considered Severus a close friend, she knew he would not be happy with the situation and was dying to hear of his reaction. It of course came as a great shock to her when Aria Dumbledore began to spill the details of her brief encounters with the Professor.

"He was harsh at first." Aria begun. "I knew he wasn't happy with the arrangement at all, he clearly resented me for coming here and invading his space. He seemed like a very foul man."

Minvera smiled knowingly at the young woman, never had she heard a description so accurate, though she secretly knew he was not all bad. Not that he would ever show it. She thought to herself, of course she was moments away from being proven wrong.

"Don't worry about it too much, my dear. He'll eventually get used to your position here and then he wont be so cruel... simply unpleasant." She chuckled to herself. "He's not truly as hateful as you might think. He does have a heart somewhere in there."

"Oh I know." Aria exclaimed. "It took a few days but we found a rhythm of working that suited us both. Eventually we were getting along quite pleasantly. That was, until the night we had a meal at the Three Broomsticks. Then I have no idea what happened, I haven't seen him since." Miss Dumbledore pondered.

"You and Severus had a meal at the Three Broomsticks." Minerva gawped, her eyes almost falling out of her head in disbelief.

"Yes, he didn't seem too keen on the idea initially, but he seemed to reason with himself and finally came around."

"Aria, my dear, dear girl." Professor McGonagall shook her head, trying to get a grasp of what the young witch was telling her. "You do realise Professor Snape, does not socialise with anyone." Minerva tried to state her point, hoping the woman would catch her drift.

"Yes, he did mention that. I guess he's coming out of his shell." She shrugged.

"No, no, no." Minerva shook her head once again, bringing a palm to her face. "You do not understand. I have known this man since he first came to Hogwarts at the age of twelve. He had rarely shown interest in any other human being his whole life, and he certainly does not go out for meals with his coworkers for a simple chat. Especially not one of your beauty."

"What are you saying?" Aria looked confused, not liking what the older woman was insinuating.

"I'm not saying anything, my dear." McGonagall placed a hand over Aria's, reassuringly. "Except... I consider Severus a close friend, and although he doesn't show it, I believe he feels the same. And never, I mean never, has he agreed to socialise with me just for the fun of it. The man never leaves his chambers, my dear."

What Minvera said stuck with Aria for the rest of the day.  She was even more confused than ever now. Why had Severus been avoiding her for so long, if he clearly liked her more than the rest of his colleagues. Why had he spent the time listening to her, talking to her and walking her back to her quarters, to only cut all contact the next day. She knew he was a mysterious man from the moment they met, but this was just plain confusing.

This thought circled in her mind even as she made her way to the Great Hall for the first meal of the semester. Although she knew Severus was required to be there, she presumed he would keep his distance, and with the overwhelming amount of staff and topics to get caught up on she did not expect they would have any conversation at all.

When she arrived the table was already more than half full, but still Severus was no where to be seen.

"My dear, sweet, Granddaughter." Dumbledore beamed. "Come and join us." He beckoned her over, gesturing to the empty space next to his at the top of the table. Thankfully she had been positioned next to Minerva, though she feared for who would take the seat opposite, knowing that almost everyone except one was present.  Embarrassed by her Grandfather's introduction she hurriedly sat down, and began talking with Minerva, hoping no one was staring at her too much.

Dumbledore wasted no time in waiting for the final seat to be filled, and it seemed the rest of the staff had forgotten that Severus even existed. That was until, half an hour into the meal, when the doors to the Great Hall, swung open violently, causing a loud and startling bang to echo through the gigantic room. Instantly the ramble of excited chatter stopped, everyone staring at the culprit. Almost immediately upon noticing the bat-like Professor enter the room, cloak billowing behind him, the chatter commenced once more. The Potions master's reputation was more than proven to Miss Dumbledore, as it appeared even the staff did not want to face his wrath. His presence was known and he was feared. This was more than enough to intimidate Aria into keeping her mouth shut for the rest of the meal.

"I'm glad you could finally join us, Severus. Please, sit." Dumbledore spoke softly, grinning at his friend.

Snape did not return the gesture, his features perturbed into an aggravated scowl.

"It is a wonder I even made it here at all, Headmaster." Severus sneered. "I suppose everyone else received a letter, detailing the time of the feast. However, sadly." He spat. "My owl must have fainted on the job, for I did not receive such a thing. Is it your intention, to excluded me, Professor Dumbledore."

The chatter had quietened now, everyone curiously listening in to the dispute. A dispute, which Dumbledore appeared to find rather amusing, evident by the growing grin appearing on his face. Taking a slow sip of wine, Albus let the Professor stand waiting on his answer.

"That is not my intention, at all, Professor Snape. But I assumed due to the ever expanding collection of empty FireWhiskey bottles in your rubbish bin, that you would be, shall we say, preoccupied, at this time." Albus shot him a disapproving look and a small frown before, turning his attention elsewhere.

"How dare you." Snape raged, ready to continue the argument Professor Dumbledore deemed complete.

"Take a seat, Severus, before you miss any more of the meal." Albus continued, like he had not just outed Severus' small drinking problem to the whole of the staff. This however, was the incentive Severus needed to sober up and act professionally once more. He knew this was a warning from his employer and if he continued his antics his job would be on the line. His replacement was already lined up. He thought, reluctantly taking his seat across from said woman.

As everyone had, Aria couldn't help but listen to the conversation unfold. Terrified of catching Severus' eye, she focused on the three rogue peas that danced around her fork. She thought about the Professor sitting alone all those nights he had ignored her, downing glass after glass of whiskey. Knowing him, he didn't seem the type to have a problem like that. He was clearly a very disciplined man with rock solid self-control. So what on earth could have forced him to act in such a self-destructive manner?

At least now she had an answer as to what he had been up to while avoiding her all this time but the main question still remained. Why?

Taglist:

@ayamenimthiriel

[unsteadygalaxy]

all is soft inside chapter 5

a miragehound multichapter fanfiction

Also posted on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26475064/chapters/64957384

previous | next

5. will i float or will i drown?

This city is much too loud, they think.

A lone figure perches atop a very high apartment building in the middle of bustling towers of grey. Talosian cities are loud and busy and choked with smoke, and Bloodhound misses the serenity of the forest. They miss the lush green of the trees, the gentle hum of the insects and creeping things in the summer, the sound of birds in the spring. They miss the rushing of the water in the creeks near their village, the far-off howling of the wolves at night. But most of all, they miss the comforting memories of home, and of their mother. Their father. Their uncle, Artur. 

If they squint, they can almost pretend the bright lights down below are fireflies, flitting around to their own whims, bound by nothing. Free. Sometimes, they miss the simpler times, when life did not consist of killing, sleeping, and killing again. But they know that they have consigned themself to this life for a valuable reason, and they will not soon abandon it.

They try with all their might to remember life before Talos. Life before the IMC. Life before they watched their parents perish before their eyes. But they were much too young- they had only been a toddler when their parents took them to Talos for their research. They had only been four years old when they watched their father get swallowed by a raging rush of ice and wind and death.

The ice slows just the slightest bit before it reaches their house, but they are still screaming. “Father! Father! No! Allfather, protect him!” A great shattering, splintering roar engulfs the air as the ice impacts their home. The windows crack and heave, but hold their shape, by some holy miracle. They are swiftly picked up and carried away from the windows right as the cold begins to rush in. Artur holds them in his arms, but he too is sobbing, praying to the Allfather, containing the child’s beating limbs, but only just.

A chill passes down Bloodhound’s spine, a sinister echo of the anguish they had felt. It had been many, many years, but the images of the ice burying their father’s body would haunt them forever. The way they’d cried when Artur told them their mother was dead too… Bloodhound could sometimes still feel the dizzying shock and grief in all its initial potency. When they had heard the new arena would be on Talos, their heart dropped straight into their stomach. It felt like a horrific violation, a slap in the face that such a broken and painful part of their past would be on display for all to see, even if the spectators did not know the significance. Setting foot in Epicenter for the first time, knowing that this was where their parents had come to rest… That match had not ended in a victory.

The air around them suddenly feels stiff and unyielding. It doesn’t seem to pass through their mask and into their lungs the way they would like for it to. Bloodhound removes their gloves, followed by their helmet, letting their long red hair fall freely. They sigh and remove the elastic holding the top half of their hair. Their fingers run across their sore scalp, massaging the roots till they no longer ache. The round goggles follow the helmet, and after a moment of hesitation, so does the mask. I am alone here, they rationalize. No one will disturb me. They lie down on the ground and gaze at the stairs as their mind begins to wander.

Ever since Artur died, Bloodhound had never been comfortable with letting anyone see their face. The injuries may have healed, but silver scars still stretched across their skin. They had never been one to obsess over looks or vanity, but these scars held a deeper meaning, a deeper story that they did not want to be bothered about. Breathing had been extremely difficult following the accident, but as the years passed, they could go longer and longer without the respirator. Their goggles had assisted them since they were very young; their eyes were unusually sensitive, and the lenses were tinted to dull the incoming light. But under the stars, they do not have to worry, because those far off supernovas could not hurt them.

They close their eyes, feeling the mild night air on their skin. Today’s match had been a particularly invigorating one, one that they enjoyed immensely. Their squad had taken first place after a tense shootout with the last remaining team. All of their opponents had been strong and worthy of praise. A sensation they can’t quite place starts in their stomach and expands to their chest when they think of Elliott. It’s like crystalized electricity, crackling and sparkling as it travels up their spine. Elliott was… refreshingly different. They had never met such a loudmouth, but he was proficient in his skill, and they had to admire him for that. His performance has suffered greatly as of late, they think. When Elliott was focused, he could be an incredibly valuable asset to their team. But now, for reasons that were his own, he was distracted and forlorn. He was not as attentive as Bloodhound knew he could be. Taking him down in a match had never been a problem. They always did what they had to in order to win and honor their fight. They never hesitated when killing an opponent. 

Until today. 

Caustic’s gas chokes the air around them, and for a moment, they cannot breathe. But the Beast of the Hunt propels them forward. They swipe their hands through the mist and break free of the cloud’s envelope, regaining their stride. They breathe deep, reveling in the Allfather’s gift of strength, and sprint down the hill. Scarlet footprints stain the ground like blood, leading to another kill, another victory. Who is at the end of them? They do not know, but they do not care. They flip Artur’s axe in their hands, passing it back and forth, and they itch to throw it. Their prey becomes visible, highlighted red, and Bloodhound’s heart stops. 

It is Elliott.

Elliott hesitates for a moment, then raises his gun. Bloodhound pulls out their R-99 just as three Wingman shots connect against their head and chest. Their shields are down by a considerable amount, but they persist, and unload an entire clip into the top half of Elliott’s body. His shields are ripped away, and he dives behind a storage crate just as Bloodhound reaches him. They back off briefly, waiting and watching to see what will happen. Elliott runs off to the side, but no- it’s not him, it’s surely a decoy. The real Elliott jumps out from behind the crate, his back facing them. A brief flash of something- pity, maybe?- runs through their brain, but the hesitation is gone, and they fire the next clip of ammo into his chest as he turns around.

He falls to the ground, his head hitting the dirt with a painful thunk. A strange feeling takes hold in Bloodhound’s chest- a mixture of triumph, adrenaline, and sorrow. As their Ultimate fades away, so does the rush of aggression, and a feeling of remorse replaces it. Elliott lays on the ground before them, bleeding and battered, quickly fading away. Their heart constricts painfully in their chest at the sight of him, and they flip Artur’s axe once more. 

“Fyrirgefðu mér,” they murmur. They do not want to do this, but they must. 

A flash of silver, a spattering of blood, and Elliott is gone. 

Bloodhound finds themself clutching their chest, right over their heart. The discomfort of all of the conflicting things they had felt comes rushing back, splashing around inside them like children on a rainy day. Why do you care so deeply for him? they wonder to themself. Why now? What has changed? They had lingered in the hospital until they knew Elliott was going to be alright. They rarely did that with anyone that was not in their squad. So why Elliott?

The door to the roof flies open, flooding the area with a vast golden light. Bloodhound sits up in a flash, hastily grabbing their goggles as their eyes burn. A pair of running footsteps abruptly come to a screeching halt, and their owner says, “Oh sorry, I was just-”

Bloodhound fumbles with their goggles, and notices in a panic that their mask is still off. They look up to berate the person who had intruded upon their privacy, but when their eyes meet, Bloodhound’s heart tightens. 

It is Elliott, backlit by the glow of the bulbs from the staircase. He stands there for a brief moment, staring down at Bloodhound, his mouth hanging open. His eyes flicker to the goggles in their hand, then to the mask and helmet on the ground. “Bloodhound! Is that y-” He covers his eyes and begins to nervously pace. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to in- inch- barge in on you like this! Oh, god, I’m dumb, I’m so sorry, I feel like I just walked in on you naked? Wait, no, that’s not the same thing, I swear I don’t imagine you naked or anything- oh my god Elliott SHUT UP-”

“Elliott!” Bloodhound snaps. It comes out more like a bark than anything else, and it silences him immediately. “Please, Elliott, vertu rólegur. It is alright. Please give me a moment.” Shame and fear flood their body with no warning, and they shiver uncomfortably as they put the goggles and respirator back on.

“Bloodhound, I’m really sorry, look, I’ll just leave and pretend this never happened-”

“Elliott, it is fine,” Bloodhound insists, even though they feel horribly, deeply exposed. Their voice becomes modulated and slightly muffled once more as they flip the switch on the mask.

“Are you sure?” Elliott asks, still sweating visibly. His energy is nervous, frustrated, and strangely emotional, as though he had been in an argument or had a nightmare. “‘Cause I can just-”

“Yes,” they reply. “I am sure.” Despite his intrusion, Bloodhound does not want him to leave. But why? He is far too much of a liability right now. Why not ask him to leave? He certainly would like to. They stand swiftly, and gather their hair in their hands, not facing him. They begin to tie it back, but in their stress, they pull at the elastic too roughly and it breaks. They swear under their breath as their body shakes, and drop their hands to their sides, huffing in frustration. It is no use. “You may uncover your eyes.”

Elliott slowly removes his hands from his face. He looks at Bloodhound with extreme hesitation, and seems relieved to find that they are masked once more. He shifts his feet uncomfortably and coughs, then clears his throat. “So, uh… that was awkward.” He pauses, waiting for a response. When none comes, he continues. “Why are you up here all alone, anyway? You don’t like to hit the town after matches?”

Bloodhound ignores his nervous queries. They take a few deep breaths, trying to settle their shaking stomach. “First, Elliott, I must ask you to never speak of this moment. I have spent much of my time hiding my identity from those who could cause me harm, and from all of our fellow Legends. I do not wish for anyone to know who I am, or what harm has befallen me.” They meet his eyes and stare him down intensely.

Elliott visibly shivers and takes a step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture. Even though he cannot see their eyes, Bloodhound knows their seriousness has done the trick. “Hey, look, as much as I want to go blabbing about that gorgeous red hair of yours, I’m not going to tell, I promise. And it’s definitely not because I’m terrified right now, nope, not at all.” He lets out a half-hearted chuckle, but it dies as he quickly checks Bloodhound’s body language to try and get a read on them. 

“Elliott, I need to know I can trust you,” Bloodhound says sternly, turning to face him. He still looks completely stunned and nervous, and Bloodhound’s heart is pounding, the blood thumping in their veins louder than the footsteps of the Leviathan. But Elliott takes a deep breath, and the nerves seem to drain away from him, leaving the strange sense of frustration from before.

“You can trust me, Bloodhound,” he says. “I won’t say a word.”

Bloodhound stares at him, more nervous than they’ve ever been in their entire life. This all depends on him. Will he honor my request? The uncertainty bubbles up inside them like the lava on World’s Edge, and their knees tremble faintly. I must take a chance on him. Finally, they exhale, letting out a sigh. “I am counting on you,” they murmur. 

He still hasn’t taken his eyes off of them, and Bloodhound feels too seen, too exposed. They turn away, and move across the roof to the balcony, trying to put some distance between them. 

“Um… so... you never answered my question. What are you doing up here?” Elliott asks tentatively, and Bloodhound hears the door to the roof close. His footsteps approach them, and Elliott stands at the balcony, a comfortable distance to their left. 

Bloodhound searches for the words, weighs them in their mind, deciding how much to say. Keep things vague, they think. He does not need to know about your past here. Not yet.

“The city below is too loud and brash for my liking,” they say. “I spend time up here to get away from the noise. I did not grow up in the city, as many of you did, and living here is… an adjustment.”

“Where did you grow up?” It is an innocent enough question, but it gives Bloodhound pause. 

“The exact location is something I wish to keep to myself,” they say finally, “but suffice it to say, it was nowhere near cities like these.” In an attempt to steady their hands, they gather their long hair together and begin to braid it, starting at the top of their head. 

“Huh.” Elliott leans on the balcony railing, putting his weight on his elbows. He’s gazing out over the streets, but his eyes are far away, and Bloodhound is surprised that he is not babbling on like he usually does. They wonder where his thoughts are. Back at home, maybe? With a sibling or a friend? A lover, perhaps…?

“What troubles you enough to keep you quiet?” Bloodhound asks suddenly, ignoring the strange surge of annoyance they feel at that last thought. “I have never known you to be leynilega manneskju.” 

“What does that mean?” Elliott asks, looking a little baffled.

“It means… a secretive person,” Bloodhound offers. “You often speak your mind, even when no one is listening. What has changed?”

“Well, uh, that’s really perceptive of you.” Elliott’s voice is tight, and maybe even a little annoyed. “How are you able to tell? You did it just then, and then you did it in the hospital the other day after that shitty match of ours. How can you tell something’s bothering me?”

“Well… Your performance in the Games as of late does not meet the potential I know you to be capable of. You are reckless and run into fights without thinking. You broke a glass in the bar the other night because you were cleaning it too vigorously. Looking at the sunset in the hospital made you pensive and sad. I frequent this rooftop most evenings, and I have never seen you here. You clearly came up here to find a place to be alone.” Bloodhound thinks all of these signs make it obvious, but they decide not to say so. 

“Um, ouch,” Elliott says, feigning shock.“That’s r- ridi- uh, stupidly accurate. You know, a lot of rumors fly about you, but I didn’t ever think the one about you being a psychic extraordinaire would be true.”

“I am no psychic, Elliott,” they reply. They finish their braid, but realize too late they do not have anything to tie it back with. They sigh and let their hair fall loose. “Let the people think what they wish. I am simply observant.”

“Right.” Elliott does not sound convinced. He falls silent for a moment, then, “You said the other night that you’ve lost family members. What happened to them?”

Images of their parents and uncle and other tribesmen flood their mind unbidden, and they let them come, passing over the memories with a quiet acceptance. “They honored the Allfather with their dying breaths,” they say, their voice almost a whisper. “They fought bravely, but their path was made.”

“They died in combat?”

“...Not all of them. Some died because of the IMC’s meddling foolishness, but some died fighting, yes.”

“I’m sorry.” He is silent for a moment, thinking. “If… if they were still alive today, but they couldn’t remember who you were, what would you do?”

Bloodhound’s breath catches in their throat, and they look at Elliott’s face, searching for meaning. He is staring directly at them, making eye contact, even through the goggles. They have never seen any of their teammates quite so vulnerable, quite so trusting, and they don’t know what to do with it. “I suppose… I would make sure they knew they were safe and cared for.” They pause. “Elliott, I wish to make it clear that you do not need to tell me anything you do not wish to,” they say, turning to face him as they speak.

“Only seems fair,” he replies, a glimmer of his usual charm and wit returning. “I invaded your privacy, now you get to intrude on mine.”

Bloodhound mulls this over for a moment, but relents, half a smile crossing their face. 

“Fair enough.”

The bravado disappears once more, and Elliott sighs. He is silent for a long time as he thinks. His head tilts as he looks up to the sky. “It’s my mom,” he murmurs, and it feels like a confession, or a confirmation to himself. “She can’t remember me. She didn’t recognize my voice over the phone when we talked earlier. I knew this was coming, but I thought I had…” His voice trails off, and Bloodhound knows his silence is not because he is searching for words.

“More time,” they finish for him. They meet Elliott’s gaze, but he looks away quickly. The silence hangs between them awkwardly at first, but the discomfort dissipates as Bloodhound waits patiently for the man before him to regain his composure. 

“We are blessed to have loved so much that loss hurts us,” they murmur, once Elliott meets their eyes again. They weigh a choice in their head, mulling it back and forth. The desire to be open with him, the desire for connection, wins out. “As a child, my faðir and móðir taught me to honor the pain I felt. When they passed, I was plagued by grief and sadness for a very long time. Though there is still pain and anger at times, I allow myself to feel it so that I can let it pass.”

“But… how do you know when it will end? Or if it will?” Elliot asks. He looks guarded, but vulnerable all at the same time. Bloodhound knows the feeling. 

They consider his query, pausing to find the right words. “Pain and grief and sadness… These things are not bound by time. We all move through them at different rates. But if you allow yourself to be plagued by the ‘what if’s’, you will never see what is right there in front of you.”

The man beside him is quiet for a very long time, and Bloodhound begins to fear they have offended him. Mirage was never quiet, and they realize how unsettling it is that he does not have a funny quip or self-deprecating comment to make. He was always running his mouth, letting the most absurd things pop out. But not this evening. He is quieter than he has ever been. They almost… miss his voice. He has spoken to you much this evening, they think, a little bewildered at their own emotions. You have no reason to miss it. But it didn’t matter- a feeling of fondness grows under Bloodhound’s sternum, and for once in their life, they do not try to compress it.

“Thank you.” 

Elliott’s voice is soft and accepting and all the things Bloodhound had hoped to hear. 

“I am glad I could be of help to you.” The silence stretches between them again, comfortably this time. A pleasant breeze flows across the roof, and Bloodhound embraces it, inhaling deeply. They smell the usual smog of the city, but it is accompanied by something gentler. Something warmer. And as their eyes wander back over to their companion, they suspect...

“By the way, you’ve got a hell of a throwing arm,” Elliott remarks. “My forehead is still sore from this morning. Don’t worry though, I just shook it off like I always do.” His bravado has returned, and it makes Bloodhound smile.

“I do what I must to vinna,” they say, briefly adopting a tone much too harsh and serious for their current conversation. Elliott fake cowers, taking a couple of steps back. 

“Whoa, alright then!” he laughs. “You know, I can never tell what you’re thinking under there. You could be sc- sco- uh, frowning at me, and I wouldn’t know any better. Makes you look kind of scary.”

“I will admit, that is part of the reason I wear it,” Bloodhound says, smiling wider now. “Intimidation is a powerful weapon.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he says, raising his hands in a placating gesture, but laughing again. Bloodhound finds themself staring at him, at his smile, and for once they feel… seen. Comfortable. They know, for some unknown reason, that Elliott Witt is someone to be trusted.

“Hey, thanks again,” he continues. “And don’t worry, I won’t go telling everyone that the great Bloodhound is secretly a total heartthrob. The press would have a field day. They wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

Bloodhound stares at him, open mouthed- but it wasn’t like he could tell, anyway.

Elliott realizes what he has said much too late, and his eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. His cheeks darken as he blushes, and he immediately splutters, “I- uh- oh my God was that out loud? I’m, uh… I’m just… gonna go…” He dashes for the door to the roof, leaving a stunned Bloodhound behind. He twists the door handle, but it does not budge.

They are locked on the roof. 

And Bloodhound laughs. 

It’s a giggle at first, but it turns into full chested, dizzying laughter in no time. They do not remember the last time they had felt such joy, such freedom. It must have been when they were a child. But this man, this trickster, has managed to find that young one again and bring them forward into the light. Their eyes sting, and to their surprise, tears of laughter begin to fall and fog up their goggles. They turn away from a very bewildered and horrified Elliott in order to lift the goggles and wipe away the mist. 

“Fyrirgefðu mér, vinur minn,” they choke, the laughter beginning to constrict their scarred lungs. “I am not laughing at you. I am laughing at the poor luck we have had this evening.” They breathe hard, clutching their chest, trying to get some air in. When the laughter has settled to the occasional chuckle, they turn back to Elliott, and they are surprised to find him leaning against the door, his face buried in the silver metal. He’s mumbling to himself, and Bloodhound cannot make out any words other than “stupid” and “damn”. 

“You flatter me with your kindness,” they say. Still smiling, they walk to him and place a hand on his shoulder. “But I am afraid the press would be quite disappointed. I do not meet their standards of beauty by any means.”

Elliott mutters something that Bloodhound does not catch, but they do not get the chance to clarify. “What do those words mean? The ones you said?” he asks, still blushing furiously. 

“They mean… forgive me, my friend.”

“Your friend, huh?”

Bloodhound considers this. “Yes. I suppose so.”

Elliott takes a deep breath, and even though Bloodhound knows he must be tortured with embarrassment, he looks them directly in the face. “If you tell anyone what I just said, I’m gonna… I’m gonna kick your ass. In the arena and out of it.” 

This earns him another laugh. “I would not dream of it.” The both of them notice that Bloodhound’s ungloved hand is still on his shoulder, and the latter removes it gently, their fingers ghosting across the soft fabric of Elliott’s hooded sweatshirt. He notices their lingering touch, and only blushes more.

Elliott shakes himself out of his daze, pulls out his phone, and types a quick message. The chime of a returning text rings through the air faster than Bloodhound thought was possible. “There. Octavio is coming to unlock the door. You’d better put your helmet on quick, because he’ll be here faster than I can say ‘pork chops’.”

Bloodhound obliges, and crosses back to where they had left their helmet and gloves. They pick up their helmet and store it beneath their arm as they gather up their hair and twist it expertly atop their head. Once the helmet is fastened, they don their gloves once more. True to Elliott’s word, the rooftop door clatters and swings open. Octavio, still wearing a gaming headset, looks impatient. 

“You owe me for this one, amigo,” he whines, tapping his metal foot and glaring at Mirage through his goggles. “I lost my game for you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Elliot replies, grabbing hold of the door and waving him off. “Next round of drinks at the bar is on the house. How about that?”

“Sweet!” the shorter man crows, and he rockets back down the stairs.

“The last thing he needs is alcohol,” Bloodhound remarks, tucking a stray piece of hair away. They highly doubt Octane even noticed they were there, but they do not mind. That just meant there would be less questions toward the pair of them later.

Elliott rolls his eyes. “Don’t go all Ajay on me now,” he teases. “And we were just starting to get along.” A faux wistful look appears in his eyes, and he sighs dramatically.

Bloodhound just smiles. 

The pair of them descend a few flights of stairs and arrive at Bloodhound’s floor.  “Thanks again for the advice,” Elliott says. “I appreciate it.”

“You are welcome,” they reply. “Sleep well, Elliott.”

“You too, Bloodhound.”

[chapitre7]

In the mood for love

The Untamed [陈情令] | Mo Dao Zu Shi [魔道祖师] fanfiction

Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian (Wangxian)

Modern AU

Read on AO3

The very air of Yiling intoxicates him; more than the smoke of Wei Ying’s cigarettes or the alcohol coursing through his veins.

 “Ah, Lan Wangji,” Wei Ying says, the name on his lips like a curse, clouding the edges of Wangji’s vision in black. There’s a neon sign glowing behind Wei Ying’s head, circular like a halo. It’s a mismatch with the curve of his lips, upturned but crushing, crushing against his bones with pity. “What are you doing?”

 He’s stumbling through the bar, the world having lost its axis, and Wei Ying’s hand is pulling his arm, forcing him back on his feet. He’s not inebriated enough to miss the pressure of those fingers against his muscles, he’s hyperaware of it, indulging, drowning in the hope that Wei Ying is clinging to him as he clings to him, metaphorically, physically, pathetically.

 “I... You.”

 He frowns, hisses, frustrated and tired that the words still can’t come out like he wants them to, like he’s wanted to for years, but more alcohol would mean losing all sense of self and less would mean getting lost in a city of What If’s; what if he told him? What if he stayed? What if he loved? What if he left?

 Oh, if they could see him now, how much he loathes himself, how he whimpers and crumbles and almost succumbs to his desire. It’s only desire. People lived with it, toyed with it, profited off it, and yet he almost comes undone when Wei Ying’s scent invades his senses, pollutes his lungs, nicotine with the burn of spices, of cologne, of sweat. Wei Ying is supporting him, has placed his arm around his shoulders and is calling him a cab and all he can think is that he wants to lick the skin on Wei Ying’s neck and taste the saltiness of him, to find out if the sounds he makes can live up to his dreams. More. He’s so sure it’s going to be much more that his nails dig into his palms painfully and his tears shame him, captured at the corner of his eyes.

 He doesn’t back away once they’re inside the cab. Wei Ying lets him look, his own gaze focused forward, but he must know Wangji traces every line of his profile as he’s traced a million times before. He must know, even if Wangji can’t say it, even if he’s so disappointingly bad at voicing it all, surely he knows Wangji stares at the birthmark at the curve of his lower lip like he wants to devour it. He must. Certainly—

 “Where are you staying?”

 Wangji has to back away when Wei Ying turns to face him. Was he leaning in that close? Why hadn’t he taken the leap and kissed him? Was that not why he had...

 No, that wasn’t why he had come to Yiling at all. He shakes his head, lowering his eyes, breaking eye contact like a coward. He still has an arm around Wei Ying’s and despite the full consciousness that he’s being an embarrassment, that he’s let his impulses stray him away, he can’t let go. The movement of the car in uneven roads shake him, makes a roller coaster of his perception, but he knows he can’t let go.

 “Fine,” Wei Ying throws into the air, not exactly at him, not exactly at the driver, but someplace out the window, into the forest of city lights. “I’m taking you to my place. Just don’t complain that it’s not up to young master Lan’s standards.”

 There’s nothing between here and there that’s a form or memory to him. There’s the thrill of holding Wei Ying’s hand, innocent, like they’re fifteen again, and Wei Ying is asking him to hold him as he jumps down from a tree. There’s the moment when their fingers intertwine, slow, atemporal, yet their hands are simply just there, in a lover’s lazy, intimate hold, once his consciousness is back in the car ride and the world seems less like the bottom of a pool, colors bleeding out, bright and blinding. Wei Ying’s shoulder is firm and reliable as he emerges and submerges from his stupor. There’s no left, no right, no wrong as Wei Ying manhandles him out of the car and they both trip and fall three stories up to his apartment.

 His bed is not soft. Wangji can smell dampness and mold and decadence, but still he curls around himself and breathes in, fingers closing around the stained sheets. They smell like Wei Ying smells, like he used to, before Yiling. He feels Wei Ying’s weight pulling him closer when he sits next to his head, beautiful fingers combing through his hair. He looks up at him and tries to blink his overlapping thoughts away, and Wei Ying’s beauty hits him like he’s not clad in cheap leather and provoking make-up but like he’s art, forever appraised, a reference artists return to over, and over, and over again.

 “Lan Zhan,” he says, and that name, oh, that name in his voice makes him exhale, makes the core of him tremble, makes him take hold of the hand that caresses his cheek. “Why are you here?”

 To breathe in thin air for you, to kill who I am for you, with my own hands, for you, only for you.

 His thoughts are a train on a spiral, downwards, upwards, like the games Wei Ying liked to play at carnivals and parks, and in the rise and fall of his heart on his throat, he rises. Bolts up to a sitting position to hold that face between his palms. He’s such a poor imitation of his usual self, or maybe this too is him, posture straight like he learned it should be, conviction keeping him gaze firm.

 “Come back,” is what he says. “Come back,” he repeats, and in his head he repeats it a thousand times more.

 Wei Ying’s laugh, usually a beacon of light, doesn’t meet his eyes. It’s high-pitched, akin to something primal, more animal than human, an instinct, a defense, like the strong hands that pry the ones holding him still.

 “Back where?” He asks, voice suddenly horse. He clears his throat, moving away from Wangji and looking out a black window that displays nothing but a lifeless world. “I belong here.”

 Back with me. You belong with me. I can keep you safe. They won’t hurt you anymore.

 “Wei Ying.”

 “You should go.”

 He doesn’t move from the window, from whatever it is he sees from there.

 “Wen Chao is watching me.” He knows. Of course he knows. It’s exactly what Wei Ying wants.  “It won’t be long until he knows you were with me and—”

 “And what? He’ll use me against you?”

 It’s awareness that clears his eyes, or maybe an unhinged, inappropriate kind of hope at the implication. He should feel wary or affronted at the idea of Wen Chao trying anything against him, blue Lan blood running through his veins, but it’s the thought that he can be used as a weapon against Wei Ying that he clings to like a drowning man.

 He knows he’s still drunk, after all, when the tears return, hot, uninvited, and revealing like his words could never be.

 Wei Ying has a heart bigger than his body, he knows. He’s seen him take a shining to many a soul in need, just as he’s doing right now, hiding away in a forgotten city besieged by Wen eyes in order to make himself a target and keep the ones he loves safe. But when Wei Ying approaches him, thumbs brushing his tears away, caressing the arch of his cheekbones, he imagines himself lucky enough to be worthy more than just kindness. Wangji is small in his selfishness, but big under Wei Ying’s unwavering attention.

 “You’re not alone,” Wangji’s manages to say. This time, Wei Ying’s smile is small but as real as ever, lightening up his whole complexion.

 “I really am not.”

 There’s something else to his phrase that Wangji can’t catch. But whatever it is, it’s too complex for that night, for the seconds that pass between them before the lights in the room flicker with an ominous buzz and die.

 In the darkness, he has the notion that Wei Ying looks up at where the light should have been. In the darkness, under Wei Ying’s touch, he picks up the remains of his courage, emboldened by alcohol, false hope and a disregard for his own future, stands on his knees, reaches up, and kisses him.

 He misses, lips touching at the wrong angle. It’s enough, once the lips meet, to adjust, to feel Wei Ying’s upper lip between his own, his own head tilting, his hands pulling Wei Ying’s face so they face properly. His lips pecking on unmoving ones. Wei Ying doesn’t seem to breathe, and for all of his bravado, he falls into stillness himself, breaking away with a small noise that only the two of them could possibly hear, in the no-space that keeps them apart.

 Wei Ying’s exhale is hot against his face the moment before they crash down on each other.

 His back hits the mattress without care, without mind, and Wei Ying’s whole weight falls down on him, his lips eager, much more than tentative against his, hungry, his hands moving to Wangji’s hair and closing around the strands, pulling too hard, without control. Wangji’s arms circle his waist, pressing him flush against himself, opening his legs, opening his mouth to accept him, accommodate him, a physical invitation for someone who has been living inside of him for such a long, long time. Wangji has no idea about Wei Ying but it’s his first kiss, his first real intimacy with anyone and surely Wei Ying must know, must have always known, and that must be why he takes the wet mess of their kiss, so clumsy, so needy, bodies arching into each other, choked, almost tearful sounds vibrating in their throats.

 When Wangji can finally breathe, when he dares to open his eyes, Wei Ying’s black hair, too long for his age, has fallen forward, perfectly framing his face, framing the look of his red-kissed lips, parted, panting. Those dazed eyes are darker than Wangji has ever seen them. Oh, the light is back on. How long had it been? How could kissing and falling into Wei Ying feel just like of one of his dreams, where eternity lasts just as long as it takes the sun to break through the night?

 Before he can catch his breath, Wei Ying jolts up with that legs that betray his natural grace, and he almost falls. Pulling himself up on his elbows, Wangji watches him with a black hole in his stomach. His eyes, still dazed, still captured, look at him but don’t see him; a hand touches his lips, not quite covering his mouth, and he laughs the laugh Wangji knows from when he’s hiding behind a mask. Wangji feels like he had him and then lost him at the whim of fate and the crushing sorrow, impossible to hide in his state, must show on his face because Wei Ying approaches him again, patting his hair back into place like he’s a child who’s played for too long.

 “Lan Zhan, ah, Lan Zhan,” he says, and Wangji loves it when he says it, loves him so openly that he must see. Can’t he see? “What are we doing? You’re drunk and I’m...”

 He sighs, leaving Wangji in the dark with his fogged mind, his desperate longing. I can’t let go. I can’t let him go. Wei Ying leans forward and presses a kiss to his forehead that reminds him so much of his deceased mother that the memory of it will haunt him for years. And he speaks his last words next to his ear, his cheek warm against Wangji’s own.

 “If the morning comes and we still feel as we do now, I’ll come with you.”

 With that, Wei Ying backs away, turns his back to him and turns off the light. He sits on the windowsill and lights a cigarette, which, in the past, never failed to make Wangji frown. Wei Ying has always assumed that he disapproves because it’s wrong, but Wangji disapproves it because it’s poison that Wei Ying willingly takes. Yet, without him wanting it, Wangji’s last memory of him will be that moment, before the alcohol and exertion and emotional distress knock him out; one leg propped up, foot resting against the window frame, the other stretched out, and the cigarette smoke drawing waves around Wei Ying’s face, hiding away his vulnerability, hiding everything away in gray shadow.

 When morning comes, the sun high in the sky, all Lan Wangji feels is pain and Wei Ying’s absence. Crossing the corridor beyond Wei Ying’s door to the stairs that lead down to the empty world, he shivers. Looking over his shoulder, he can see eyes peeking from gaps from all the doors he had walked past, and though his memory of the night before is his disgrace, his senses tingling with Wei Ying’s existence more than his words, he’s still aware that this is what he had meant then.

 “You’re not alone.”

 “I really am not.”

 So Lan Wangji walks away, leaving his heart to his decision and the city of Yiling, and resumes his life from an interlude louder than the sum of all parts so far.

 ***

 Time doesn’t stop for the broken-hearted, and like broken porcelain, they never come back together again quite the same. It is, however, their ally, the hands of the clock allowing patient souls to mend themselves until they’re ready to fall again.

 Time moves on, nothing remains the same.

 The proud Wen Empire crumbles, crashing under the weight of their own arrogance. They thought they could rule without consequence, yet they fall like pieces thrown off a chessboard, each revealing the rotten core underneath the flashing outside.

 The governor’s younger son, Wen Chao, dies. Not kindly, but he was not a kind man. There are enough whispers about the culprit; a no name servant who once lived in the main house with the Jiang family and who took a bloody vengeance after Wen Chao put the son of Jiang Fengmian, his father’s political rival, in the hospital for a heated, but mostly non-physical, scuffle. There’s no proof for either assault. The Jiang family sends the Wens no flowers for their dead. The supposed servant is never found.

 Before his second term is over, a whistleblower throws Wen Ruohan into the mud and nothing is left of the man who stood tall and blinding like the sun, just dirt, his crimes on people’s tongues like cheap gossip, and then he’s gone, behind bars, his older son on the run. They’re forgotten like yesterday’s news.

 Time moves on.

 The diligent Lan family, ancient, unsoiled, keeps the machine running with their honest, hard-earned positions that survive governor after governor, as it always has, and perhaps always will. Not everything changes, after all.  For better or worse, right is right and wrong is wrong, although it comes in many different colors, although it is not immune to cause and consequence. A choice is a choice is a choice, and we must live with them as our hearts mend, as we win or lose, as time moves on.

 The brightest jewel of the Lan family is forced out of the chessboard for its own safety, until Wen Ruohan’s son is found. Safety is almost like a prison, cold and lonely, but he doesn’t mind it much, in the end. He misses his brother dearly, his only companion, his supporter, his best friend, but he’s no stranger to black, moonless nights where the wind blows so loud, it’s almost a threat, a promise to take him away. In those days, ten years ago, he would have welcomed it. Now, he has no strong feelings either way. A day will come when he can live without borders again. Until then, he lives with his paintings.

 The mountains, though far and cut-off from everyone he had known, smell like home. That mother’s gentians still bloomed as they did in his childhood was a surprise and delight, but he couldn’t voice his questions to his uncle, who was even less likely to answer. So he just looked at uncle as he helped him settle within those glass walls, thin snow forming a blanket outside, letting his company warm him, choosing to believe that, although his relationship with his father was strained until his death, that there was still place for him in his heart. Love is most resilient, Wangji knows as truth. It lives through distance, through silence, through death.

 He lives with his paintings, and nothing more. Once a week, a servant he doesn’t know the name of, who only smiles and doesn’t speak, brings him provisions, checks on him. There’s no need to clean or cook anything, for Wangji has all the time in the world to know every corner of the house like it’s a part of him, and he has been taking care of himself for even longer still. He wishes he could say something to his sole visitor, but they’re always changing, and he’s never been good at chit-chat, that was —

 Wei Ying’s talent.

 — never his forte.

 He sighs, because in his seclusion, without anyone or anything to keep his mind focused, and against his will of years, he thinks about him. Always, always thinking about him, maybe even more than when they were teenagers and too young to know how precious being together, being part of a group is. After all Wei Ying fought for, sacrificed himself for, and all the ways Wangji fought to do him justice, treading the world of the corrupt as though he never knew fear, he allows himself to think of him.

 Love is resilient in the crystal house where his mother’s spirit seems to live, the sound of the wind and rustling leaves lulling him to sleep every night. Where there’s nothing but his foolish heart beating fast, euphoric, at the sight of Wei Ying running, the star of the track and field team. His brushes the canvas with Wei Ying’s colors, ever-bright, ever-striking, even when he doesn’t paint his facial expressions or those big, expressive eyes. He can draw landscapes and cityscapes, the sea and the sky and as many flowers as he can think of, but when he draws a man, it’s always Wei Ying. Wei Ying, eating an apple atop a tree. Wei Ying, running after the school bus he just missed. Wei Ying, running, running like he’s flying, limitless. Wei Ying, hidden in a shroud of smoke, neon lights flickering behind him.

 It’s not fair, Lan Zhan! You’re good at music and painting. How’s the rest of us supposed to compare?

 He stills his brush, smiling to himself at the memory of Wei Ying’s pout, even though the boy was skilled at music, drawing, sports and speech. He was the one who was never fair, but Wangji never told him that. He should have. If he knew they were never going to meet again, he should have said everything.

 He paints all of the truth of his heart, and once a month, the servant takes most of them away. Once spilled, what use had he to keep them? Let the world know. Even if he himself is now a shadow, let the world see his soul, laid bare.

 Wangxian’s paintings have been selling spectacularly well. I hope you have been faring well and that your days aren’t too long, writes his brother in one of the occasional, unsigned notes he sends with the servant. Wangji wishes the same for him, maybe even more so, the distance always setting so painfully against his chest. And in the safety of his studio in the second story of the house, from where he can see the past on one side and the blue horizon on the other, he paints his brother white gentians with white bunnies playing in the middle, just the image of what he remembers of their days with their parents, filled with laughter and embraces, even in the coldest winter nights.

 He signs Wangxian so naturally that he wonders, for a second, who he really is, right then. Is he still the dependable little brother? Is he the righteous civil servant who’s taking a deserved break for a job well done? Is he the enamored nineteen-year-old who traveled to a dangerous city with no plan but to chase after the love of his life for the first and only time, or is he a sad, almost thirty-year-old man who’s stuck in suspended time with nothing but memories?

 He gets up from his spot, giving his back to the painting. He’ll be back, of course he’ll be back, but he... Needs some water. And not to think about anything much. He still has a book forgotten by his nightstand, so maybe he can get on that. Whatever, whatever. He hears it in Wei Ying’s voice too; he’s more than a memory at this point, a part of him that’s more natural than his own biting, merciless conscience.

 He’s still holding his glass when he hears a small noise against the door in the kitchen. He frowns, because it is neither the time nor place for the servant to greet him, and nothing had captured his attention from the wide, stainless glass walls on the way there, so he cautiously, soundlessly walks towards the source of the noise. He uses a finger to peek through the blinds on the door and, upon seeing no one, unlocks it and pulls it just a few millimeters open.

 There’s a rabbit there, on the other side. Correction, there are two rabbits, one black and one white, and he’s too stunned to react at first, caught between the pleasant past and the very real present where the bunnies look up and sniff up at him, the three of them too timid, the meeting too sudden for any rash reactions. He smiles, just a fraction, almost childish, and breathes a “Hello.” After a couple of minutes where they try to adjust to each other’s presence, Wangji walks back into the kitchen to look for a few vegetables they can eat, making mental notes of what provisions to ask the next time the servant comes over. Wangji feels light as he watches his new fluffy companions, and he questions nothing, not where they come from nor if it’s right to keep them. Maybe he’s been alone for too long. Whatever.

 Walking back to his studio, he’s so taken by his mental plans for the bunnies that it takes him a second longer to notice that there’s someone there, standing in the middle of the room. His heart beats frenzied, terrified, his habit of leaving the door open during the day because this mountain is his safe haven finally coming around to punish him. But it’s... it’s not Wen Xu.

 His hair is long, reaching past the middle of his back. His red shirt is long as well, fashionably longer than his jacket, and his socks make no noise as he walks from one side to the other with slender legs, taking in every canvas laid against the walls. He could pass for an art critic for the time he spends on each piece, but when Wangji can finally see his profile and the natural light catches in his eyes, he’s art himself; beautiful, still beautiful after ten years, even without the harsh, piercing determination to fight that Wangji last saw in him.

 When Wei Ying finally sees him out of the corner of his eyes, his head turns in his direction, and he smiles.

 If Wangji hadn’t been leaning against the door frame, he might have fallen.

 “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, but his voice cracks, and he laughs, just as strained, before clearing his throat and trying again. “Lan Zhan, it really isn’t fair. You’re even more talented now, how can we mere mortals compare?”

 “Wei Ying,” Wangji says, and if he was lost before, he’s a mess now, the floor almost disappearing from under his feet, but Wei Ying, Wei Ying, looks up at him and he doesn’t look like he did when he was fifteen or nineteen, he looks like now, he—

 Wangji has both of his hands holding his face. He has no memory of closing the distance between them. His thumbs trace the arch of his cheekbones and Wei Ying holds his wrists, smiling up at him, all sunlight immortal in his eyes.

 “Wei Ying,” he repeats, because he can, finally, call to him again. Because he can’t say anything else without taking a moment to gather up all of the repressed feelings that are now spilled by Wei Ying’s feet.

 “That’s me, Lan Zhan.” He beams up at him and Wangji feels stupid with the absence of thoughts, experiencing nothing but a continuous rush of happiness. “You...”

 Wei Ying licks his lips and his smile falters. Wangji’s falls too, without him taking notice of it, and he must have shown something on his face because Wei Ying’s grip tightens.

 “Why, Lan Zhan? Why did you do it? You never wanted to follow into your uncle’s footsteps. You don’t belong in that world.”

 The conversation is ancient, the two of them breaking curfew during their high school field trip to Cayin Town. Standing side by side on a small bridge, the protégée of the Jiang family asked the youngest heir of the Lans about the future, and they discovered that neither could see very far. There were expectations and promises, both spoken and unspoken, yet they bared their secret desires on that bridge, under the stars. Naïve dreams that could never have survived, but that Wei Ying, after everything, somehow still remembers.

 The corner of Wangji’s lips curls up in a lopsided smile, both fond and amused.

 “You didn’t either.”

 One of his hands lose propriety and restraint and brushes Wei Ying’s hair, patting it down, (he’s real, indeed), tucking a few stray strands behind his ear. When Wei Ying speaks, he’s a whole step closer, and his hands have found Wangji’s waist.

 “I did what I had to do. If I hadn’t, how many people would have died on a single man’s whim?”

 Wangji hums and nods, his fingers running all the way down to the tips of that silken hair. It’s much too long, but Wangji can’t picture him in any other style, in any other way than how he simply is.

 “And so did I.”

 Wei Ying’s lips press tightly together, but he parts them again, closing his eyes for a second or two, when Wangji raises his hand again and brushes his thumb against his temple.

 “They could have killed you. If they had discovered you...”

 “Wen Chao too, could have killed you.”

 “You know what I did.”

 The statement, lacking the cadence of a question, widens Wei Ying’s eyes in a kind of wildness, an anticipation to a sudden move, a sudden blow. He’s still somewhat feral, ready to feel or cause hurt. Wangji finds that he still hates it, and that in this new chance that he’s been gifted, he’ll try his best to at least lessen the reflex.

 “I knew what could happen the moment you disappeared to Yiling. And I knew I couldn’t stop you.”

 “And you aren’t disgusted? You don’t hate me for it?”

 Wei Ying’s fingers close around the fabric of his cardigan. Fingers soaked in blood that could never wash away, and fingers that kept blood from spilling just the same.

 “You think I could?”

 Wangji tilts his head and Wei Ying’s gaze follows his, his surprise both breaking and mending Wangji’s heart.

 “Wei Ying, you think I can?”

 There’s not much distance to break between them; there had never been much from the start. Wei Ying doesn’t have to stand on his tiptoes and Wangji doesn’t have to lean down to meet him, both seeming to move at the same time, in the same breath. It’s chaste, hesitant, almost afraid, like neither have felt in ten years, in the back of that cab, their hearts in their intertwined hands. It’s brief, but it makes them shiver, makes tears well in their eyes once they part, only enough to look at each other.

 “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, and the way he sounds now is a sound he files away, along with all the other ways he says his name, all in their own unique taunting and provocations and invitations, but alike in warmth. “Morning has come. Do you still feel the same?”

 They’re still just as inexperienced as the first time, all those years apart doing them no favors, only now there’s a promise sealed in the kiss. Wei Ying laughs, and Lan Zhan smiles too, neither breaking away, coming closer, hands grasping tighter, Wangji’s arms circling Wei Ying’s middle and pulling him up, his feet off the floor, and Wei Ying laughs again, his own arms around Wangji’s neck and kissing him still, pecking, delighted.

 How stupid they both were. They could have been doing this since the first time Wangji thought about kissing him. It would have changed nothing of their history, wouldn’t have wiped the blood and the venom both had willingly swallowed to protect what they believed to be right, but a burden shared is nothing like the world upon your lone shoulders. And right then, Wangji feels weightless, Wei Ying is weightless in his arms.

 “Lan Zhan, put me down,” Wei Ying asks, lightly patting his shoulder, and he obliges. “You have to tell me everything. What was it like working with the Wens? How did you gather all that information? How did uncle Qiren take it? How’s brother Xichen handling it? You lost so much weight, have you been eating properly? Have you been sleeping?”

 “Slow down,” Lan Zhan prompts, chuckling, and the sound makes Wei Ying shine even when he tries to give him a disapproving look. “How did you get here? This place is guarded.”

 While he could see Wei Ying bypassing the guards a ways down the mountain with agile athlete moves, he can’t shake the unease the thought brings. Would he have to contact uncle? What would uncle have to say about Wei Ying’s reappearance?

 But Wei Ying gives him a grin, and his worries melt away before he even explains.

 “Brother Xichen gave me permission. The guards are taking care of my bike and everything.”

 “You talked to brother?”

 Wei Ying nods, one of his hands traveling down to take Wangji’s and intertwine their fingers.

 “Yes, I met him at a small art gallery and we talked over a few Wangxian paintings.”

 He can feel his ears burning, which is perhaps the most unexpected reaction he’s had to Wei Ying since he laid eyes on him again. So there are still well-kept secrets about his feelings that he can feel embarrassed about the other knowing. It is perhaps unwise to let Wei Ying know of all the power he has over him, but seeing the way he glows with the knowledge that Wangji loves him is enough for him to come to terms that he doesn’t care. Didn’t he want the world to know? And what is the world if not Wei Ying?

 “How did you come across brother at an art gallery in Gusu?”

 Wei Ying leans in, a mischievous smile that Wangji would recognize anywhere spreading across his kissed lips.

 “It wasn’t such a coincidence, Lan Wangji.”

 In a dark room, ten years ago, Wangji opened his heart but received nothing in return but a riddle. He admits he had given up on receiving an answer, accepting that Wei Ying had bigger things to worry about, so he had let the hope slip away as he grew up and focused on his own decision to bring down the Wens. But Wei Ying, squeezing his fingers, grounding him to his presence, smiles a smile just as expressive as his eloquent words, speaking his truth.

 The hand of Lan Wangji’s clock moves forward as Wei Ying pulls his hand.

 “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying sings in a childish tone. “I’m hungry. I drove all night to get here. Won’t you treat your best friend?”

 Wangji huffs in mock exasperation, gives Wei Ying a peck on the lips (which turns Wei Ying’s eyes into happy crescent moons), and guides him downstairs so he can cook them dinner while Wei Ying asks him all sorts of questions and he indulges him with all sorts of answers. He wants to ask just as much about Wei Ying’s past, where he had been and what sort of things he had been doing, but he can wait until Wei Ying is not yawning and his stomach isn’t as loud as he is. At one point, while the pots are busy with steaming and cooking their meal, Wangji hears a gust of wind stir his mother’s garden and decides to invite his new companions in. He doesn’t have anything settled for them, but neither did he have anything settled for Wei Ying, but he’ll make do. He can accommodate them. He’s waited long enough.

 Wei Ying immediately starts cooing at them the moment they reluctantly cross the threshold into the kitchen.

 “Do you like them? I chose them especially for you.”

 Wangji blinks and Wei Ying misses it, too busy crouching near the rabbits who want nothing to do with him.

 “You did?”

 “Yeah!” He looks at him over his shoulder. “You had rabbits as a kid, right? I thought they could keep you company.”

 “Wei Ying, you...”

 He’s not given any time to suffer the panic of those words as Wei Ying swiftly jumps back on his feet and walks to him, his hands cradling his face.

 “No, I mean–! I didn’t know how you’d react when I came back, so I brought them in case...” He sighs, hugging Wangji’s chest, shaking his head and hiding his face on Wangji’s shoulder. “I’m not leaving. Not unless you want me to.”

 “I don’t.”

 It’s not an option. The prompt answer makes Wei Ying laugh and squeeze him in his hold before hopping back, giving him space.

 “Then they’ll keep both of us company!”

 Wangji nods and smiles as Wei Ying tries, and fails, to make friends with the rabbits, before turning his back on him to finish their meal.

 His uncle had taught him that meals were not moments for mindless chatter or idle behavior. His first meal with Wei Ying after their reunion is anything but what he had learned; it’s as full of food as it is of Wei Ying’s laughter, that Wangji encourages with his own short quips, and everything nourishes him, feeds him. By the time they’re finished, he’s full and drowsy with Wei Ying’s presence, their rabbits slumbering in a corner where the light is dim.

 “When I was a kid, I used to live with my parents not too far from here,” Wei Ying says, resting his side against the back of his luxurious couch, Wangji mirroring him. “We used to move a lot but she stayed here for a while, I remember.”

 “Brother and I used to live here with our parents. I was six or so.”

 “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying scoots closer, never breaking eye contact. “To think we could have been friends, all those years ago!”

 Wangji scoffs just as Wei Ying reaches him, arms circling his middle, lying haphazardly across his lap, forcing Wangji to try and adjust them into a more comfortable position.

 “You don’t think we would’ve been friends?” Wei Ying asks with a pout.

 “You’d have bullied me.”

 “I’d never bully you!”

 “Wei Ying.”

 “...Nothing too mean.”

 “Jiang Wanyin might disagree.”

 “Jiang Cheng was a brat and his attitude turned me into a monster. My Lan Zhan would have been cute and we could have played with bunnies. That’s not fair. I want a do-over.”

 Wei Ying hums, content, settled against Wangji’s chest and between his legs, one of Wangji’s hands lightly scratching his scalp and the other running down his hair.

 “Lan Zhan, stop, I need to wash my hair. Don’t— stop smelling it, Lan Zhan.”

 Wangji kisses the crown of his head and Wei Ying looks up at him, face adorably red. Ah. So both still had plenty of sides to show.

 “Let’s wash up.” And then he adds, with an elegant eyebrow raised, after something flashes in Wei Ying’s eyes, despite the blush on his face, “I have more than one bathroom.”

 Wei Ying clicks his tongue.

 “You’re no fun.”

 Wangji chuckles, and despite his big words, leads Wei Ying to the bathroom connected to his own room, leaving him a set of his own pajamas on the bed for the other to change into, while he walks to one of the guest bathrooms. When he meets Wei Ying again, he’s drying his long hair with a towel and the scent of Wangji’s shampoo emanates from him like an aura. Wangji licks his lips, self-conscious of his own desire, but he moves to a different side, where he keeps a blow dryer.

 Wei Ying peeks at him through the mess of his hair, and though the vision makes him bite back a smile, his body is still quite warm.

 “Let me,” he says, sitting on the bed, and Wei Ying happily complies, shuffling closer, his back to him.

 The knots in Wei Ying’s hair give in to his administrations, soft to the touch. Wei Ying is quiet, and Wangji would have been thrown off by it any other day. So much was said, so much was felt, so many shields were broken after years of taking nothing but blows. Wei Ying’s back in front of him is hunched slightly forward, shoulders loose, fully trusting and unprotected. How did he appear to Wei Ying? Did he meet the expectation he curated for years? When he wakes up in the morning, would Wei Ying still be there, the sun illuminating the white of Wangji’s clothes on him, reflecting the brightness Wangji knew lived inside of him? So much was said, there’s still so much to think about.

 He sets the blow dryer away and Wei Ying immediately falls back against him, knowing Wangji would be there to catch him, to wrap his arms around his middle, to kiss his exposed neck.

 “I can sleep here, right? You’re not sending me to one of your guest bedrooms, Lan Zhan?”

 Wangji kisses his temple, long, lingering.

 “Of course not.”

 “Mm. Good.”

 In the dark, in his arms, Wei Ying feels boneless, and even their last kiss of the night is slow, tinged with placid calm, with sleep, with dreams.

 “Wei Ying.”

 A hum of acknowledgment.

 “Have you talked to the Jiangs?”

 A sigh.

 “Not yet. I was... I wasn’t sure how to do it.”

 He kisses his shoulder, pulls Wei Ying closer against his chest.

 “I’ll go with you. If you want.”

 “...You can?”

 His voice is a little more awake, a little surprised, a little hopeful.

 “I’ll talk to uncle. He doesn’t expect me to stay here forever.”

 “What are you going to do then?”

 “...What does Wei Ying want to do?”

 Wei Ying turns, his fingers touching, tracing Wangji’s jaw.

 “And if I tell you I don’t know?”

 “We’ll figure it out.”

 Wei Ying presses closer, and vaguely, through another kiss, Wangji thinks that it might be dangerous, how easy it is to take Wei Ying back in his life, to love the taste of his kisses, to plan his life with Wei Ying in it.

 “We can stay here a little longer,” Wei Ying says. What for, he doesn’t say. There are many reasons to stay as there are to go, but he doesn’t want to move, and neither does Wangji. Not yet. Not that night.

 When morning comes, Wangji wakes first. The sun is out, alive, and much higher than it is when Wangji usually wakes. He turns his head and finds Wei Ying there, still asleep, chest rising and falling in sweet tranquility, and Wangji, surrendering to his selfishness, this time with no boost in his system but boundless affection, kisses Wei Ying’s cheek, Wei Ying’s nose, and the birthmark by his lower lip, kissing him until his eyes flutter open and his lips form a sleepy, content smile.

 “It’s morning,” he says, and Wangji nods.

 “Good morning, lover.”

 Wei Ying whimpers, hiding his face on his pillow.

 “Are you trying to kill me?” His muffled voice only causes Wangji to smile, to kiss his shoulder and neck and marvel at the visible shiver that affects him. “Did you kill all your other boyfriends like this, is that what happened?”

 “No one else,” he whispers as he kisses a trail down Wei Ying’s jaw. “Just you.”

 “Lan Zhan, I meant to ask.”

 Wangji stops his administrations and backs off to look at him.

 “Is that...?”

 Wei Ying points to a painting safely kept in a spot on the wall where the sunbeams cannot reach. A boy is pictured, running, valiantly crossing a finish line. His feet don’t touch the ground, and he seems to want to fly away from the frame. His expression is detailed, eternally joyful in his youth.

 “Your first win for the high school tracking team.”

 He thought he’d be too embarrassed to say it, to show it, his oldest gift, his oldest treasure. But he’s not.

 “All this time...?”

 He could have been disappointed by the wide look in Wei Ying’s eyes but it’s morning and his eyes are clear and light and he’s warm and real to the touch, so Wangji only smiles, wiping away the stray tears that spill down into Wei Ying’s hair.

 “Wei Ying. You really didn’t know?”

 He should have known, but Wangji is glad to have him now, to kiss him now, their strength born anew, holding almost desperately to each other.

 When Wei Ying flips him over, straddling him, leaning over him, his hands traveling, slow, from his torso, up his neck, resting on his face as Wei Ying draws closer, he sees him. The man he missed in Yiling, whose eyes looked deep into him over weak, blinking lights. The man who held him up, who called his name with a rich, lost voice, who looked dangerously close to his own downfall. Now he looks at him, focuses only on him, not dark but bright, catching the sun, dangerously close to burning like a miraculous red bird.

 Wei Ying kisses him deep, open mouthed, discovering all the touches that feel good, saliva dripping from tongues, wet sounds replaced by moans, loud, their heads thrown back as Wei Ying grinds down, enough times to send Wangji growling, flipping them over again, and Wei Ying laughs, breathless, all the while mouthing, “Me too, Lan Zhan, me too,” and other nonsense about time and love and don’t stop.

 The morning comes, sealing a promise long uttered, long overdue. There’s still much to be done, so many amends, such a long future to trace. But it’s still only morning, a morning so long waited, with all of the mist finally cleared away, that they allow themselves to think of nothing but one other, crying all of the emotions left in their hearts, in the mood for love.

[flappypineapples]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23615143/chapters/58509889

Escapism Chapter 3

Matthew quickly swept Cordelia up into his arms and carried her into a side hallway leading into an ornately decorated retiring room.

Trying to grasp on to any control of the situation Matthew laid Cordelia out onto the nearrst loveseat and fell to his knees at her side.

He check first for a pulse; steady if not a little fast. And then he checked her temperature. She was sticky with sweat and flushed pink all over, radiating heat.

He couldn't drag her back out into the main room and drive home abandoning Anna and, subsequently causing a scene. He was on thin ice already for the last surprise Shadowhunter visit he didn't think an injured one on their hands would bode over well on anyone's side.

His mind was going a thousand miles a minute and none of the miles traveled were getting him anywhere. He cursed himself for not knowing what to do. He was usually reliable when push came to shove but here he was now.

Panicking. Helpless.

Matthew was debating going and looking for Anna when Cordelia started to stir. Startled Matthew jumped a little and pulled his hand back quickly from her forehead. However Cordelia's hand came up to grab his wrist before he could get too far.

Her glassy eyes peeled open slowly and gazed up at him through heavy lips.

"Matthew?"

"Oh thank goodness. Cordelia how are you feeling. Can you tell me where we are? How we got here?". Matthew contuned with every grounding question he could think up before noticing the far off look in her eyes.

"Cordelia can toy understand me? Cordelia." Matthew was starting to become more urgent but Cordelia just lazily shifted her gaze from the wallpaper to his face. She blinked slowly and let a lazy smile play at her lips and giggled.

Good god. She was drunk.

Matthew had spent so many hours with experienced drinkers and sturdy part goers who held their drink well he forgot what it was like for someone to be newly intoxicated. And, as he was starting to theorize, Cordelia did not hold her drink well on a good day. Especially not today where she had been keeping up if not beating Matthew to the bottle.

But that was just the thing. With her he felt almost no need to reach for the flask. To have that poisonous touch stone. He, was not as drunk as he was used to and this made him uneasy. It was not like him to be in the other person's shoes.

"You're much prettier than him". Cordelia mumbled low in her voice, letting her head sway back.

"Pardon?" Matthew said furrowing his brown

"When he change back and forth I was so delighted to see him wearing your face. I thought I would have to look at James forever."

This must've been what Cordelia saw in the shape changing man, him and James. But why?

His thoughts were inturpted by Cordelia lifting her hand to his head. She ran her fingers through his hair. Rough and callous; they were warrior hands. He had never thought of worked hands as more beautiful than in this moment.

Cordelia widened her eyes and gave Matthew an adorably serious gaze given the circumstances.

"Angel", she stated matter of factly.

Matthew chucked despite himself, "who? Me? Maybe one of the tiny mischievous cherubs painted on some clouds but no most certainly not an angel."

Cordelia was beginning to look frustrated with him now, scrunching up her nose at him.

"Your hair Matthew. Its like", another chuckle slipped in, "angel wings, golden and feathery."

Matthew was no stranger to observations about his hair. Most were either mocking remarks by the Merry Theives or a flirtatious coming on from a gentleman or lady at the bar.

But because it was her it all felt brand new.

Cordelia raised her other hand to his left cheek as her right hand came down from his hair to squeeze his cheeks in.

"It also looks very hard to maintain, like an angel. Can you imagine keeping all those feather untangled? I shudder at the thought of how many boars brushes I'd go through."

Matthew's face lit up and he laughed a short loud snort that was muffled and distorated dude to Cordelia still gripping his face.

"Matthew?"

"Hm?"

Cordelia relaxed her grib but didn't let her hands fall. "If I asked you to do me a favor would you do it?"

"Mhmm", he mustered out. Her string gaze was making him sweat like a soloist under a spot.

"Please kiss me Matthew. I'm so tired of being someone's second choice. I want to have one moment of my heart that is for myself and not stolen away from me by careless childish men and distant drunk fathers and whatever other battles iudt fight. For once I don't want to be a hero I just want to love and not be hurt." Her eyes were begining to fill with tears as Matthew gathered her into his arms.

He brought her down to the floor with his and rocked her back and forth while she cried. He didn't think he had ever seen her cry. Not even when her leg had been practically snapped in half after the battle with Belial.

But she cried now and Matthew would never let her feel weak for her. All true hero's cried, for the world is terrible and without tears theirs no expression of grief for what could've been.

Cordelia stopped shaking after a few minutes and stilled. Still gripping Matthew's shirt she looked up at him. All golden hair and golden skin. With the torch back lighting him one would think he really was an angel.

"Cordelia whatever you need from me to make this better. Say the world and I will bend heaven." His face searched hers frantically as he hesitantly reached up with his hand. His fingers brushing aside some stray curles that had stuck to her lips and cheeks in thr past couple minutes.

"Matthew I want to kiss you". Cordelia looked for sober than she had been moments before. Her eyes more level, like the crying rid her of her initial euphoria.

"Cordelia please-", Matthew began but was cut off

Cordelia began to draw back into herself. "Matthew if you don't wish to the we can simply pretend this never happened and blame it on the-"

Cordelia never got to finish her sentence.

Matthew gathered her up in his arms and leaned down to cover her lips with her own. Cordelia was quick to respond. She leaned in close to his chest tilting her head up to meet him.

There was a slow and luxurious passion to the method in which Matthew kissed her. He did not take liberties or assume what she wanted. His kisses were long and hot, like lava rolling down an island.

They grew impatient with this careful passion however. Cordelia reached out and cupped the back of Matthew's necks, using this leverage to pull gersl further into his lap. Between kisses Matthew pulled back and dipped his head under her jaw and kisses lightly.

"Break my heart Cordelia", he kissed her jaw line, "strike my face", he feathered a kiss on her cheek bone. "You'll wish to forget me come morning but for now let me be yours in this world we've created."

Cordelia pulled back and looked Matthew with her eyebrows drawn. She looked as if she was going to make a reply but instead she cried out in pain gripping her stomach.

Matthew pulled back from her as he himself was pulled back violently into the cold water memories of his mom's illness.

Cordelia stumbled to her feet and met his gaze in a panic before she crumpled forward infront of him. He rushed to catch her as she fell but only succeeded in softening her fall as she took him down to the floor as well.

----

Anna had been having quiet the night of sideshow and talent. She had learned to juggle with one hand and mix a particularly strong cocktail from the new mixologist who had been entranced by her eyes and who Anna has thought in return had the most lovely monolid and sharp jawline.

Thought the night was getting slower and she too was starting to wish to retire to bed.

She set off quite some time ago to locate Matthew and Cordelia but was having a hell of a time wrangling them. She was now searching the east wing retiring rooms in a last ditch attempt to locate them. Even if it meant finding them in a surprising manor. Thought, Anna doubted, Matthew would ever have it in him to break Jamse's heart and confess his obvious infatuation with the girl.

Then again, love is a two way path.

What she didn't expect to find was a colapsing Cordelia and Matthew grabbing at her like a drowning man in rapids.

She watched as Cordelia's stumble three Matthew off his feet and into the ground cushioning her fall and landing him on his knees, practically crushing her in his grib.

Matthew looked like a young boy again. One who had just broke their favorite new toy and had come to terms with the fact that things break. It broke their hearts like this moment now broke Anna's.

She had no time to react before Matthew looked up at her, hair falling over his forehead in a drastically unfashionable way as his wide eyes bore into her. He looked 13 again.

He croaked out in a heart shatteringly desparate tone.

"Help me."

Notes: Hey guys! Thank you for your patience with me taking so long to get back on the horse. I took a one month legally blonde obsession break on accident. I've read about 418,786 words of legally blonde Fanfiction and I'm reading to get back in the grind 😤. This one's a little short but I plan on posting the next chapter soon (like actually soon) so stay tuned :-).

[cuddleslutloki]

I have a genuine question. How often do you actually deal with antis? I've been following you for a bit now and it seems every so often you bring up antis. I've certainly kept my interest about thorki shut and locked away in a box from my friends for the simple fact that all of them think it's incest. It's not an easy topic of conversation but you just seem to handle all the antis so well? Also on an off note about beast!Thor, his favorite pass time must just be rutting into Loki 24/7 🤔

when someone tells you that you're romanticizing abuse [bc i made a stockholm moodboard for a fic] I don't know what I'm supposed to say other than I don't condone it but I write about it? Is writing about abusive relationships bad in writing??? you're the only person i ask for advice so thank you for anything in advance

i’m honestly really glad you came to me. i really do like discussing this topic in this kind of way bc i’ll never reblog an anti or answer an anti ask. even if you’re arguing against them, i don’t think it’s worth it to argue against them if it means also spreading what they’re saying

the basic premise of all anti behavior and ideology is censorship. that’s all it is. 

“i don’t like this topic, you need to stop writing it and making art for it. if you don’t stop there will be consequences.”

that is censorship and that is the kind of shit fandom has had to fight ever since there’s been fandom. women, poc, lgbt+ folks have been dealing with people telling us what we can and can’t write and enjoy for... well, probably forever. but we’re still here, creating the kind of content we want to see and indulge in.

as far as how to deal with antis, my advice is to ignore, ignore, ignore. they want what any bully wants: attention

you stop paying attention, you stop giving them time they don’t deserve from you, they’ll die off. there’s no point in fighting them directly. produce the content you want to see and enjoy what you want to enjoy. drown them out. you don’t owe them a response just because they come to you. they don’t have any qualms about being rude to you, so be rude back and just ignore them. i love blocking antis, personally. take out the garbage, y’know?

antis use the words ship and support as synonyms because they think that shipping is some radical call to action for lgbt rep instead of entertainment

shipping is not activism. shipping is about entertainment and enjoyment, nothing more

so this is why i have this very blasé attitude about antis. i just don’t give a fuck about them beyond making posts trashing their idiocy. because that’s what it is. it’s idiocy, but going deeper it’s puritanism at its finest. antis use fox news scare tactic logic under the guise of some pseudo feminist agenda because they don’t understand and don’t want to understand that enjoying dark fiction as entertainment isn’t equivalent to some greater moral stance

they use the same argument about shipping and fanfiction that WASP moms use against video games and loud music: that enjoying and consuming it will make you think it’s normal and there’s nothing wrong with it irl

okay, well, vlad the impaler never played CoD or far cry and caligula never watched hentai but we know why i’m bringing them up in this context without even heading over to wikipedia, don’t we?

they use the words abuse and pedophilia waaaaaayy too liberally and they’re doing more harm than good because they’re twisting and warping words that should have very specific meanings by using them so goddamn vaguely and irresponsibly 

my own personal theory is that these people are terrified that if they don’t yell in opposition to these topics 24/7 and actively attack content creators that they’d probably enjoy it, and they’ve been so programmed by the echo chamber of tumblr and twitter that they think this means they’re bad people. 

spoiler alert: that’s not what it means

i literally watched a circle jerk on twitter where screenshots of some mafia starker au got tweeted and retweeted w/ pictures of someone pouring bleach into cereal and people had asked to see more of the post. if you really don’t like something, you shouldn’t hate-read about it. it’s not productive, it does more harm than good if that’s the actual issue rather than some reverse psychology-style enjoyment they’re probably getting out of it.

they claim to hate this shit so much, but they’re reading hundreds and thousands of words and putting these images in their heads of their own free will. i don’t do that with shit i genuinely dislike. i avoid it.

i see antis say they enjoy thorki fanart because they think it’s cute, then they see it’s tagged thorki and they have an over the top reaction because the nature of anti ideology states you should never enjoy something like that, so if you do then you have to make the excuse of ignorance to prove that you’re still innocent and pure. enjoyment is apologism to them because they aren’t content to simply attack fan creators, they want to try and drive away the people who consume our art as well because they know you’re the cornerstone of fandom. consumers are why creators create. yeah, i write because i enjoy it, but i also write to connect to my readers and have people commenting on my fics when they like them.

it’s also worth noting that antis only ever talk about shipping. they only talk about sexual and romantic ships. i’ve never seen an anti talk about (often extreme) levels of violence in canon source material for the ships and characters they want to froth at the mouth over. 

seeing someone bleed out and choking on their own blood after being stabbed or shot or bludgeoned? meh

seeing a character who was once a child have a sexual thought about a character who was also once a child and is also their close friend? omg why are we trying to make fandom unsafe for people?

personally, i’ve also noticed that fandoms with darker canon material tend to have more chill fandoms most of the time. i think it also depends on the average age in a given fandom. there’s a major difference between fannibals and steven universe fans, let’s just say that.

creating a moodboard for a dark fic is not “romanticizing abuse” and at this point antis honestly have no fucking idea what that phrase is. they use those words the way a bored CEO uses social media buzzwords and hashtags in a staff meeting

if antis want to see true romanticizing of abuse then they can go to serial killer thirst tags and spot the fucking differences between shippers and people who forget that ted bundy was weak, flaccid, cowardly piece of shit

writing something dark or violent or whatever else and condoning the act or doing the act are different. this is why stephen king isn’t under government surveillance or in prison.

make no mistake, this anti shit only applies to fandom. they’re attacking creators here because creators out at the professional levels don’t give a fuck. they’ve tried, and they’ve failed. 

creators at the professional level understand something antis don’t: that being able to reconcile your enjoyment of dark media can be a sign of emotional intelligence and good emotional health. it’s cathartic. it’s allowed to be cathartic.

the most common consumers of dark fiction are members of minority communities and people who’ve been emotionally and/or sexually repressed for one reason or another. 

antis want to say that fiction doesn’t exist in a vacuum and they are 100% correct! because writing fanfiction and original fiction that relates to parts of my life that nearly killed me gives me control over something that was beyond me in the original context. writing about fucked up codependent, violent romance allows me to process my shit in a way that’s healthy and produces something fun and enjoyable.

my therapist knows i ship thorki, she knows i write thorki. i’ve had her read pieces of fanfiction i’ve written in addition to pieces of original fiction. y’know what she said? “wow, baylen, that’s vivid. you have a way with words!”

i read her a line out of smart boy and told her what the story was about and this trained professional said “well it’s a productive way to process some emotion that you clearly need to let out”

but you know what? if someone doesn’t have the trauma i have? let them write it, too! let them create and enjoy the fictional content they want! more cake, y’all!

finally getting around to one of the first parts of your ask, lol. thorki is incest. thor and loki are brothers. they were raised believing they were blood brothers, even. loki being adopted doesn’t change a thousand years of personal history where thor looked at loki and thought that they came out of the same woman, y’know? 

that’s his brother and in the comics his attachment to loki is even more intense. the mcu nerfed that shit. loki’s life has been intrinsically tied to thor’s ability to feel a full sense of joy. 

enjoying an incest ship isn’t some sign of moral depravity. writing abusive relationships isn’t bad. gone girl was made into an award winning movie. art should look like life, and sometimes life fucking sucks. dark stories, sad stories, fucked up holy shit idk if i can go to sleep after i read this stories exist for a reason. we need them. we have to have an outlet for our frustration, our anger, and especially our fear.

so which is the healthier option of these

to write up a piece of fanfiction where two siblings are in love in a way that might be cute and soft or might be destructive, depending on your mood?

or

attacking strangers you don’t know online and threatening violence against anyone who doesn’t think like you do?

i know what kind of person i want to be.

ship and let ship, thanks for reading my doctoral thesis office hours are always

[formerlyrunephoenix6769]

Goal!

Summary.

Domestic Widowtracer. Lena gets a delightful surprise when Amelie watches the World Cup.

--x--

Lena sat crossed legged on the sofa, cosy in her pj bottom’s and England jersey as she slurped on her noodles, watching in fascination as Amelie yelled in French at the TV. Lena thinks Amelie is swearing now, having been on the receiving end of similar sounding words many times. Who knew that the refined French woman would become so unravelled over 22 grown ass men chasing a ball?

One of the players dived to the ground putting on a performance that an academy award winning actress would be proud of!

“Get up!” Amelie screamed, as she ran her hands through her hair, causing her usually pristine pony tail to become slightly askew. For a brief moment, Lena was convinced she could see a flush come to her partner’s cyan skin.

So this is what got the former sniper’s dander up?

One of the opposing team’s players tripped up a French striker in a way that even the former Overwatch operative was willing to agree was a wanker move. Widow jumped off the sofa screaming,

“Come on Ref!!!! Are you blind???”

Lena stopped mid chew, noodles dangling out of her mouth, chop sticks paused in mid air as Widow turned, a slightly terrifying look on her face, demanding,

“Lena, did you see that?”

Lena nodded wide eyed, not willing to admit that she had given up on following the match a good while ago having found something else far more entertaining.

“Gaaaa! Sacre bleu.”

Throwing her hands up in frustration and her pony tail bobbing, Amelie stalked from the sitting room disappearing into the depths of the apartment.

Lena returned to stirring her noodles with her chop sticks, brown eyes glued to the tv screen as the ball continued being passed back and forth. Minutes passed before suddenly a French striker, taking advantage of a Croatian mistake, broke through the opposing defence to sweetly chip the ball into the top left corner of the net. The roar of celebration in the stadium filled the sitting room.

Suspicious of Widow’s sudden quiet, Lena called out,

“Babe?”

Curiosity getting the better of her she placed her noodle bowl on the coffee table before padding barefoot through the apartment. “Babe?” she called out a little louder noticing their bedroom door slightly ajar, soft light spilling into the hallway. Peering through the door the former pilot stated,

“Babe, you just missed a goal.”

Widow was hunched over, seemingly in a world of her own, typing furiously on a light screen the back light casting her features in an eerie glow.

“Luv,” Lena asked with piqued curiosity, “Whatcha doing?”

She entered the room peering over Widow’s shoulder quickly reading the screen before in one swift move she slammed off the lightpad, exclaiming, “You can’t assassinate the referee!”

Widow’s eyes narrowed as she huffed,

“I can’t see why not! He is an idiote!”

Lena grabbed the lightpad dock holding it behind her back,

“Nope! You can’t just off some geezer willy nilly cause you don’t like their call.” Attempting to mock scald her, Lena added, “Besides I thought we said no more killing?”

Amelie pouted, “Not even a little bit?”

Lena grinned, it was a rare sight to see French woman pouting as it was usually the English girl’s tactic. God, is this what Amelie had to deal with every time the pilot gave her the puppy dog eyes when wanting to get her own way?

Widow suddenly towered over her attempting to reach round for the lightpad dock as she coaxed,

“Just let me find out where his lives.”

Lena backed up slowly, her shortness putting her at a slight disadvantage as Widow advanced, devilment in her yellow eyes grinning that wolfish grin that made Lena weak at the knees. She retreated untill her back came dead against the wall as Widow continued to stalk towards her. Still attempting to keep the last vestiges of her dignity, the British woman defiantly raised her head as Amelie leaned over her, pressing closer and cutting off any chances of escape.

Lena tried not to gulp and remained resolute as Widow’s other hand attempted to reach behind the smaller woman and craftily sneak the lighpad dock from her grasp. Plump, moist lips hovered dangerously close to Lena’s ear,

“Will you not let me play cherie?”

The hot air ghosting her earlobe, that raspy voice, caused Lena’s skin to goose bump and prickle with static. Lena squeezed her eyes shut mutely shaking her head.

“Not even a little bit?” Came the seductive growl.

Lena caught her own bottom lip between her teeth as she slightly turned her head only to find Widow’s blown yellow eyes watching her in predatory amusement. Lena’s own raked down over Amelie’s fine features finally alighting on those enticing full lips.

She could have some resolve, god damnit!

It was as if Widow could sense her weakening as she pressed her body further into the smaller woman.

“Come now my pet, don’t be foolish.”

Lena nuzzled Amelie with her nose, those alluring lips just millimetres from her own. If she didn’t do something now she was a goner. Quickly she caught Widow’s lips in a kiss, feeling how the french woman grinned into it. Just as she felt Amelie beginning to relax Lena pulled away, impishly bopping her on the nose with her fingertip,

“Nope pop!”

In the split second as Widow’s features gave way to baffled disbelief and confusion, Lena wriggled out of her position before speeding through the apartment waving the lightpad dock over her head, only to have Widowmaker hot on her tail tackling her into the sofa with an Oof, causing Lena to collapse into giggles as Amelie poked her in the ribs.

“No fair!” Lena squealed in delight.

“All is fair in love and war my cherie!” Amelie triumphantly declared, as straddling her, she wrestled the lightscreen dock from the Londoner’s grasp.

Two could play that game, Lena thought as she gripped the front of Amelie’s jersey pulling her in for a searing kiss, the lightscreen long forgotten as hands dipped below the hem of grey yoga pants only to grasp firm ass cheeks. Amelie’s eyebrows shot up and her eyes narrowed playfully, smirking down at the younger woman.

“Ah, this is how it is going to be is it?”

“All is fair in love and war!” The mussy haired pilot cheekily repeated.

Amelie laughed, it was light and breezy, a sound Lena would never stop trying to illicit.

“You win!”

“You surrender?”

“Oui!”

Lena couldnt help herself,

“Just like the French,eh? Always giving up!”

Amelie wrinkled her nose in a mock scowl,

“Right, you’re in for it!” She announced, as once again she began tickling her tormentor with earnest.

Lena let out a delighted shriek, laughing and wriggling beneath her captor before exchanging soft fluttery kisses that quickly devolved into to long and languid ones. Somewhere the Croatian crowd booed in dismay and Lena didn’t notice as one slender hand reached out activating the lightscreen and began quickly tapping away. She certainly didnt notice as later, slick with sweat, her own screams and curses coming quicker and louder, loud enough to drown out the forgotten match, a digtialised sugar skull appeared followed by an address somewhere in Moscow.

Collapsing bonlessly against the sofa, Lena snuggled closer to Amelie, sleepy eyes half lidded, she smiled that lazy smile as a French striker scored the winning goal and Amelie continued to card her fingers through her messy hair, caressing her scalp in the way that Lena liked.

“Lookit that luv, your lot won!”

Lena’s smile widened as Amelie drew her closer, lips ghosting her forehead.

“Oui, I most certainly did

(all ow fanfiction tagged under formerlyrunephoenix6769 ow fanfiction,  feel free to comment/ like/ share.. written for @call-signtracer )

[rike-with-love]

Kagura’s birthday fic 2018 (chapter 4)

Pairings: Okikagu, Soyoshin

Rating: T for bad language

Disclaimer: I don't own Gintama or its characters, Sorachi Hideaki does. I only own this story.

Author’s notes: I have a link to my fanfiction masterlist on my profile. Please check it out for more chapters and fics!

Chapter 4 – First kisses taste the sweetest, but those are only the beginning

Kagura watched as the man disappeared from her sight and she huffed a little. ”Damn those madaos without anything better to do,” she said and glanced at Sougo who was standing behind her. He was surprisingly silent, but his eyes were doing all the talking for him.

Kagura realized that she hadn't let go of his hand. She felt flustered and quickly loosened her grip on him. His crimson orbs were still strictly on her. ”Uh, sorry...” she mumbled.

”Are you apologizing for holding my hand or letting go of it?”

”Huh?” Kagura gasped and turned to fully face him. She was feeling even more flustered after his question. ”I-I...”

Sougo laughed a little. ”I'm kidding China, calm down”, he teased.

Kagura rolled her eyes at him and smiled bashfully. She knew they were both fully aware of the situation. Before that random man, they were inches away from kissing.

Kagura felt her legs getting tired from all the running and standing around. She rubbed her calf on her right leg and grunted a little.

”Are you okay China? Did you hurt yourself?”

”Ah, no. I just need to rest my legs, yes.”

There was a dry spot under the bridge. Sougo watched as Kagura walked past him and settled down on the dirt. ”Do you want to sit down-aru?” she asked as she stretched out her feet.

Sougo shook his head. ”I'm good”, he said and leaned against the foot of the bridge.

”Okay”, Kagura said and fiddled with her fingers. She felt frustrated, the tension of the intimate moment was still lingering in the air, but Kagura didn't know how to get back into it.

”You know China, I want to confess something to you”, Sougo spoke all of a sudden, breaking the unbearable silence and drawing her full attention.

Kagura swallowed and tried to keep her voice as calm as possible. ”Yes?”

”When hime-sama invited me to be your date, I said yes without really thinking about it.”

”O-oh?” Kagura said and stared into his eyes.

”The truth is, I've really wanted to go on a date with you,” he said, emphasizing the last word intentionally.

”Well why haven't you asked me stupid?” Kagura asked and blushed.

Sougo laughed. ”Think about it China, you would've said no and told me to launch myself into space.”

He was right, not in a million years would she have said yes. Kagura had always held their bond important, but all the bickering and fighting came first, overshadowing everything else. ”You have a point there, uh-huh.”

”Anyway, then I tried to think how to make the date nice and everything. So, I planned the bet.”

”You had that ready? How were you so sure that I would agree to the bet?”

Sougo cocked an eyebrow and smiled. ”China...it's you, winning is what drives you.”

”And food-aru!”

”Yes, food too.”

He knew her so well. Kagura tried to feel a little agitated by him and failed instantly. She smiled for him. ”I guess.”

”Then I tried my hardest to treat you nicely at the restaurant and-”

”Wait!” Kagura interrupted him. ”Are you saying, that for you, our fake date was all...like...real?”

”Yes.”

”You're so twisted Sadist,” Kagura said as her heart jumped a cart-wheel. She had a hard time taking in all the new exiting information. Then she giggled.

”What are you laughing China?”

”It's just that, maybe I forgot the bet because in reality you weren't being fake about anything. Maybe I felt it coming from your heart, yes.”

Sougo smiled widely at her words. ”Maybe.”

”You're so stupid, uh-huh”, Kagura stated. Sougo laughed and shook his head.

Despite the warmness she felt from his words, Kagura felt the cold night air surrounding her again. She hugged her legs to warm herself up. Sougo's eyes shifted from jolly to worried instantly. He stepped in front of her and kneeled down. Kagura felt him testing the skin on her arms and legs.

”You're freezing China.”

”A little yeah.”

”A little my ass, you had your bare feet in cold water and you don't have enough clothes on. And where are your shoes?”

”Well I wasn't planning on running around Edo so late at night, okay!”

Kagura stared at Sougo, who wasn't worried anymore, he looked like he felt guilty.

”So this is indirectly my fault.”

”Well no, I didn't say that dummy!”

”But it is my fault.”

Kagura didn't know what to say to him, he was dead serious about everything he said.

Sougo stood up and sighed a little. ”I can't really do much to warm you up, but I'll do what I can.”

”It's okay, I'll get over it and-” Kagura's words drowned at the instant she saw what he was about to do. Sougo opened his shirt and stripped it off. Just like that, he was half-naked. Kagura's eyes were wider than the moon. Her whole face flushed bright red, but she couldn't take her eyes off him.

Kagura knew he trained meticulously and it showed. His bare upper body was fit and firm, certainly inviting to her. ”Y-you you, what are you..?” she stuttered.

Sougo lowered himself to her level and looked into her ocean blue eyes. He wrapped his shirt over her. ”Sorry if it's still a little damp, but I don't have anything else.”

Kagura grasped the shirt resting over her. She pulled it tighter around her and the clothing felt perfectly warm to her. ”Th-thank you.”

Sougo smiled a little and got back up. He returned to his spot next to the foot of the bridge.

The situation felt surreal, but dammit it made her heart race. He had given her his ”jacket”, he had wanted to go on a date with her, he hadn't faked anything. All of those things made her heart truly wild, but she was pretty sure his lack of clothes had something to do with her rapid heartbeat. Kagura smiled and fumbled the soft fabric of his shirt.

Sougo sneezed a little and Kagura realized she wasn't the only one who had stood in the cold water. He must be freezing too, dammit, Kagura thought to herself. ”Oi Sadist!”

Sougo lifted his gaze. ”Mmh?”

Kagura took his shirt off her and offered it back to him. ”You're freezing too and this belongs to you, yes.”

”I don't need it, it's not that cold”, Sougo said and crossed his arms over his bare chest.

”Stop being so stubborn dummy, take it!”

”No!” Sougo huffed, but Kagura saw him shivering behind his words.

Kagura picked herself up and forcefully shook the clothing in front of him. ”Take it!”

Sougo sighed and took couple of leaps to get to her. He grabbed the shirt and wrapped it back around her. He pulled it tightly around her. ”You need it more than I do dumbass.”

Kagura frowned, she felt giddy because of his selflessness, but she felt annoyed from his constant stubbornness. Luckily, she had an idea. ”Let's share it then.”

”What?”

Sougo kept the shirt firmly closed over her, but somehow Kagura managed to wiggle her hands out. He observed as Kagura's fingers wrapped around his wrists. She looked up into his eyes and lured his eyes to her with a gentle smile.

”Let's share it, yes.”

Without saying anything else, Kagura returned to sitting position, clumsily pulling Sougo down with her. He almost fell, but Kagura kept him in balance. Sougo was on his knees in front of the smiling Kagura. She was happily sitting on her butt, still holding his wrists.

”Sit next to me,” Kagura said and released his hands.

Sougo knew refusing would only lead into a brawl and neither was really in the mood for that. He crouched next to her and sat down on his butt. Kagura didn't waste any time and threw his shirt over both of their shoulders.

The clothing covered them both only if they sat right next to each other, arms in full contact. His skin felt really cold and Kagura wanted to warm him up. As both settled down on a comfortable position their eyes locked again. Kagura's blush was still there and his face wasn't exactly colorless either.

She turned to look down on her lap. ”Are you feeling any warmer Sadist?”

”...”

”Sadist?” she asked and looked at him.

”...”

”Hellloooo!” she called

”Uh, yeah. I am, but...” he mumbled and seemed to be a little hesitant to speak.

”But what?”

”It's just that...” Sougo said and looked at her from the corner of his eye. ”Can you come closer?”

Kagura's mouth gaped open a bit. ”Closer? How?”

”Like this,” Sougo said and moved the arm closer to Kagura. He lifted it up and rested his fingers on her shoulder. ”Come here.”

He didn't have to tell her twice. Kagura nudged closer to Sougo as his hand tried to reach her other shoulder over her back. Kagura rested her head against his smooth chest. She kept her hands strictly on her lap, just thinking about touching him made her head spin.

Sougo's hand found the shoulder it was looking for and he pulled her as close as possible. His skin felt amazing against her cheek, soothing and sexy at the same time. Kagura felt his small gestures, he stroked her shoulder with his fingers, he rested his chin on her head, he adjusted the shirt to cover her better, she felt all of that.

That was it for her, she yearned to kiss him and nobody was going to stop her. ”Sadist?” she whispered against his skin.

”What is it China?”

Kagura clenched one of her fists loosely and softly pressed it against his chest. She pushed herself off him a little bit and tilted her head upwards. Sougo had to pull his head back as she changed her position.

Sougo studied her eyes, she had a mysterious glow in them. Kagura parted her lips and her heart felt fiery. ”So-Sougo?”

Never ever had this happened before. Sougo's eyes widened, he clearly wasn't expecting that. Kagura wanted to use his name to throw him off a little, so she could finally make her move.

Kagura leaned closer to his lips, leaving maybe an inch or two between them. His lips parted instantly. Before closing the distance, Kagura gave him a look that made him clench his other hand into a fist.

Kagura felt his heavy breaths on her lips and she knew he would kill anyone who dared to interrupt them again. She closed her eyes slowly and with the smallest movement their lips found each other.

It felt so good to kiss him. His lips were soft and full, just perfect for kissing. Kagura felt the rush all over her skin, she unclenched her fist on his chest and spread her fingers wide and open against him.

Kagura pulled away from the tender kiss to breathe a little. She opened her eyes and saw his still shut close. Slowly with few drowsy blinks his eyes opened too. Their eyes connected instantly. Kagura sucked her lips a little, just to taste him again and Sougo could only watch.

”So, h-” Kagura began.

”Shh...” Sougo hushed her calmly. He relaxed his other hand and brought it up to Kagura's face. Sougo slid the hand on her neck. She gasped at the contact, she didn't know her neck was so sensitive, but she wasn't complaining. ”Come here,” he husked and his tone sent a jolt right down her spine.

Sougo pulled her to meet his lips again. Kagura found herself surrendering to his whims quite easily. So annoying, but so irresistable. Tasting him again even made her skin tingle, like kissing him was magical.

The second kiss was eager but tender enough to make her heart melt. Sougo pulled back from the kiss and opened his eyes. Kagura slid her eyes open as well. He was still there, almost on her lips, just heavily breathing into her mouth.

Sougo brushed his lips against hers a little more, just to get a small nibble. Kagura watched him with half-lidded eyes, torn between wanting more and not wanting to rush things any further. ”I...” she breathed and not quite sure what to say next.

He seemed to read her like a book. Sougo dropped his hand off her neck and tucked her back to rest against him. Kagura felt his chin on the top of her head again and it made her smile. He didn't want to rush anything either. Then he snickered a little. ”You used my name China.”

”No I didn't, your hearing sucks, yes.”

”Yes you did.”

”Shut up...”

A little banter on top of their first kiss, it felt just right for the both of them. Sougo grabbed Kagura's other hand, the one still on her lap and claimed it as his. He interlaced their fingers and held their hands over his thigh.

”China?” Sougo asked quietly.

”Mmh?”

”Happy birthday.”

Kagura hummed as an answer. It had been one hell of a rollercoaster of emotions today, but dammit if it wasn't her best birthday, she didn't know what was.

The night was still young and Kagura didn't know what the time was. Still, the day had taken a toll on her in many ways and she felt her eyelids getting heavier by the second. She felt warm in his arms, she felt safe in his arms, she felt like just him being there could lull her to sleep.

”I had fun, I really did. Thank you...mmh...Sou...go...” Kagura mumbled before she fell into a deep slumber. Kagura began snoring in his arms and Sougo shook his head with an overjoyed smile.

”Who falls asleep right after kissing for the fist time...you're such a weirdo Kagura,” Sougo said and chuckled a bit.

*

*

Few hours later, Kagura woke up. Her surroundings were very dark, but very familiar. She rubbed her eyes and sat up. After her eyes got used to the darkness, she began to recognize everything around her. She was in her closet, she was at home.

Kagura usually slept in her pyjamas, but for some reason she had a short white cheongsam on. ”What the hell happened last night...” Kagura asked herself. Then she put her brain to work.

It didn't take long for everything to come back, the date, the bridge, the kiss. Kagura slapped both of her hands over her mouth and blushed fiercely. ”I kissed Sadist...and he kissed me...oh shit...”

After the brief embarrassment, Kagura felt her heart fluttering at the memory. It was totally unexpected, but at the same time, the most natural thing that had happened in her life. Now to the burning question in Kagura's mind. ”How did I get home and where is he?”

Kagura decided to ask Gintoki, maybe he would know something. She slid her closet door open and snuck out of her room. It was still very quiet at the Yorozuya. She could see through the windows that it was still early, the sun hadn't even risen yet.

A soft snoring sound attracted Kagura's attention. She saw someone sleeping on the couch. It wasn't that rare for Gintoki to pass out on the couch after some drinking and gambling. But there was something different about this snoring.

Kagura walked next to the sleeping person under a white blanket and her eyes darted at the flaxen-hair. Her eyes lit up immediately. It was Sougo, no doubt about it. Kagura smiled and sat softly on the edge of the couch. She wanted to ask him about how they had ended up at the Yorozuya, but she didn't want to interrupt his sleep.

Sougo mumbled something in his sleep and rolled on his back. He was so cute, so kissable. Kagura covered her face with her hands for thinking about kissing him again. She breathed for a moment and dropped her hands. Then she turned to look at Sougo again.

Kagura was temped to touch him. Maybe just a little bit, she convinced herself. She leaned her hand over his face. With feather-light touch she pushed his hair back.

”Oi, it's a little rude to touch a sleeping person?” a smug voice of Okita Sougo said.

Kagura startled and pulled her hand back with the speed of light. Sougo muffled his laughter with his blanket. He slowly dragged his eyes open, still looking sleepy as hell. ”Well you weren't apparently sleeping, were you now?” Kagura snarked.

”Don't be so loud China,” he said. ”Danna is still sleeping.”

”Oh...” she said and nervously played with her fingers.

She dodged his eyes, it wasn't a good idea to get too mesmerized by them. ”So...care to explain what are you doing here?”

Sougo slid his hands under is head. ”To put it simple, you fell asleep at the bridge so I carried you here on my back.”

Kagura's eyes darted to him. ”You carried me-aru?”

”Of course, I wasn't going to leave you there.”

”Thanks-aru.”

”No problem,” he said and smiled a little. ”Anyways, when we got here Danna was still up.”

”Oh no...”

”Right. He almost skinned me alive because you had my shirt over you and...well Danna's imagination did it's thing.”

”Gin-chan has a dirty mind, he can't help it, yes.”

”When he finally believed me that nothing happened between us-”

”Nothing?”

Sougo looked at the innocent Kagura asking a stupid question. He lifted himself halfway-up to rest on his elbows. ”Don't be silly China, I prefered to keep my life over telling Danna the truth.”

Kagura smiled. ”Good, I just wanted to confirm that Gin-chan doesn't know anything, nothing else, uh-huh.”

”Sure, okay China,” Sougo snickered quietly.

”Moving on. Why are you still here?”

”Danna told me to sleep on the couch because it was so late and he didn't want the Shinsengumi to be all over his poor-ass if something would happen to me.”

”What an earth could happen to you, you're an almost unbeatable bastard.”

Sougo sat up fully and stroked one of Kagura's arm. ”Thanks China.”

”I said almost,” she snorted but couldn't hide her smile.

”China...?” he called softly, his voice making her heart jump. Sougo gathered her hair and pushed it to rest on her other shoulder. His fingers made her neck tickle as he consciously brushed them against her skin.

Sougo kissed her shoulder through her cheongsam. He planted kisses like he was making a trail, a trail leading to her neck. Thankfully she had her high-collared cheongsam, otherwise she wouldn't be able to keep herself in check.

”Mmh...what are you doing?” she almost moaned.

”Nothing...” he murmured.

Kagura grunted like she was bothered by him. ”Oh really...”

Sougo laughed in between his kisses. He leaned higher to kiss her jaw line and lower cheek. Kagura had closed her eyes as soon as his lips had touched her, it was easier to concentrate like that. Sougo placed his other hand on her cheek. She felt him guiding her closer to him.

Kagura opened her eyes and saw him looking at her, eyes hungry and inviting. She licked her lips once and allowed him to pull her into a kiss. The kiss was just as good she remembered.

She didn't know was it her or him, but they sort of began to descent on the couch. Maybe he pulled her a little or maybe she pushed him, maybe both. Kagura found herself crouching over him, letting her bodyweight softly push him against the couch.

Sougo grunted into their kiss as his back hit the couch, making Kagura's kisses more demanding. His hands settled on her waist and Kagura's were on his neck. She rested her body over his, which he wasn't resisting at all.

Kagura broke their kiss to take a breath. Both narrowly opened their eyes to gaze one another. Sougo's lips were parted and ready for her to continue. Kagura swallowed and leaned on to his lips.

She knew that kissing involved tongues and she wanted to see how it worked. First Kagura licked his lip to get a taste. She closed her eyes and sort of kissed his upper lip. Then she nibbled his lower lip, still figuring out what to do with her tongue.

Luckily, Sougo was more than happy to help her. As Kagura was about to nibble on his lip, he copied her action. Kagura dragged her fingers to loosely cup his cheeks. She felt his tongue as he gently  kissed her lower lip. It was Kagura's turn to copy him and she began to get the hang of it.

Kissing was like eating something super delicious. The craving only grew the more they did it. In the midst of it all, their tongues touched. Kagura couldn't hold her moan in, so she had to release it into their kiss. She wanted more of that feeling, more of the exciting sensation his tongue gave her.

Kagura still didn't want to rush with things too much, but she couldn't help herself, the temptation was too great. The dancing of their tongues continued and Kagura felt Sougo's hands roam around her waist, stroking and squeezing her.

Out of nowhere, a crack of the wooden floor froze both Sougo and Kagrua still. Their eyes opened up and Kagura's head popped up to listen closely. The noises were coming from Gintoki's room, slow footsteps, a yawn, lazy scratching sounds.

”Shit,” Kagura gritted.

Sougo still wanted to live another day, he understood what would happen if Gintoki saw them right now. Swiftly as hell, Sougo managed to plant a hand over Kagura's mouth, lunge himself into a sitting position while Kagura was still on him. She felt his muscles tense up as he lifted both of them. Kagura knew there wasn't time to get excited for something like that, but who could blame her. Sougo reached for the blanket and pulled it over both of them.

Before Kagura could fully understood everything he did, she found herself under the blanket, curled into a fetus position right next to Sougo. His head was outside of the blanket and all he did to communicate was to softly press a finger against her lips under the blanket.

Gintoki came out of his room and yawned loudly. He walked by the couch and found Sougo, sleeping on his side, comfortably burrowed with his blanket. Gintoki had decided earlier that he would kick the tax-robber out before the dawn. He looked so calm and harmless sleeping like that, so Gintoki left him alone.

Sougo and Kagura listened as Gintoki disappeared into the bathroom. Both sighed silently. Kagura didn't see Sougo's face under the blanket, but she saw something else. He still didn't have his shirt. That perfect abdomen was there right in front of her eyes.

Kagura bit her lip and traced her fingers on his abs. Not a second after, Sougo's hand grabbed her by the wrist. She startled a little, why was he so quick to reject her touch. Then Kagura noticed him lifting one finger at her. He signed her a sharp 'no-no' and she almost couldn't hold in her giggle. Maybe it was hard to act like a sleeping person if someone was fondling him under the covers, Kagura thought.

Gintoki returned from the bathroom and walked right back into his bedroom. It didn't take long for him to start snoring again. Sougo dived fully under the blanket to meet up with Kagura. Both felt relieved for not getting caught red-handed.

”That was close, yes.”

”Sure was, you were being too loud China.”

”Huh! No I wasn't-”

Sougo shut her rambling up with another kiss. She giggled into his mouth and kissed him back. Sougo cupped her cheeks and she latched her fingers on to his neck. They were in their own little bubble under the blanket, but both knew they couldn't be there for long.

Kagura forced herself to break their kiss. She took in a few calming breaths and prepared to act rationally. ”I think you should go home Sadist, Gin-chan won't be sleeping forever-aru.”

Sougo stroked her cheeks as his eyes studied every inch of her face. ”I know.”

”Yup, let's get up now, yes.”

”...”

”...” Kagura waited for him to answer something. His eyes sulked a little and Kagura couldn't deny that she was feeling exactly the same as him.

”I don't want you to go either-aru.”

Sougo hummed. ”I didn't know you can be that cute China.”

”Oi bastard, what do you mean by that?”

”Jeez, you're too easy tease,” Sougo murmured. Then he pulled her into a hug. ”You've always been cute, a weirdo definitely but a cute weirdo.”

Kagura huffed as she wasn't even slightly amused by him, but he knew she was blushing like a fire truck.

”So China, a quick question.”

”What?”

”Do you want to go on a real date with me?” His voice was so casual that it annoyed her as much as it flattered her.

”But we are rivals, yes?”

”So?”

”Is it even allowed to date a rival?”

”I don't really care what other people think, I just care about what you think.”

”Well, I don't think Gin-chan and papi are ready for that.”

”So, you're declining the date. Do I launch myself to space now?”

”No stupid, I actually have an idea.”

”I'm all ears China.”

”Let's say to everyone that we are having a fake date competition, uh-huh,” Kagura suggested and tilted her head to look at Sougo.

He looked at her back an smiled. ”But it's really not huh?”

”Yeah.”

”That sound really lame you know.”

”Well...why don't you suggest something you-”

”Did I say I wouldn't agree to it?” Sougo asked to stop her rambling. He hugged her a little tighter. ”I think it sound perfect.”

Kagura hugged him back and smiled. ”Good-aru.”

*

*

It took a minute more for Sougo and Kagura to get up from the warm couch. The sun rose and it was now or never if they wanted to escape Gintoki's watchful eye. Sougo found his shirt and was ready to go back to the compound.

Kagura walked him out of the Yorozuya. She closed the door behind  them and turned to look at Sougo. She tapped her hands on the sides of her thighs and smiled awkwardly. She didn't know how to send him off, how does one send off a rival/bastard/sadist/kissing-partner/fake-but-not-really-dating-contestant. So confusing.

”So...” Kagura mumbled.

”Yeah, I guess I go home then.”

”Yup.”

”Yup.”

”Yupyup, go now, yes.”

Sougo grinned at her tsundere demeanor. He took one of her nervous hands and lifted it up to his chin. Kagura stiffened a little, what if someone saw them, how could she explain it to anyone. He clearly didn't care at all.

”See you later...” Sougo said and planted a soft kiss on her palm. ”...Kagura.” With that he let go of her hand and began to walk down the stairs.

”Wait.”

Sougo turned to look at the tomato-red Kagura.

”S-see you, S-soda-kun,” Kagura grinned.

”Oooh, thank you so very much for that China, really appreciate it.”

”Anything for you,” Kagura snarled, and thought did she really mean that.

”Later,” Sougo said and went on his way.

Kagura watched him for a moment longer before returning inside.

Inside the Yorozuya hallway was a silver-haired madao, arms crossed over his chest and a grumpy look on his face. ”Morning Kagura-chan.”

Kagura jumped a little from surprise. ”Oh! Morning Gin-chan.”

”Where's Souichiro-kun?”

”I just threw him out for being godly annoying-aru.”

”Good, good. I would have done it myself, but you beat me to it.”

”Uh-huh, so what's for breakfast Gin-chan?”

Meanwhile, a young lady and dashing glasses were eating dango for breakfast in the Kabuki district, actually not too far from the Yorozuya shop. To be more specific, the dango shop had a perfect view to the Yorozuya's balcony. And not too long ago, on that balcony was a certain pair of people seeming to be quite intimate with each other.

Shinpachi crossed his arms and shook his head in disbelief.

Soyo giggled at him. ”I told you Shin-chan, didn't I?”

”Yes you did, I always thought they were both too chickens to act on their feelings.”

”They just needed a little push to the right direction,” Soyo said.

Shinpachi took Soyo's hand and interlaced their fingers together. ”You're such a good friend sweetie.” Shinpachi's words were rewarded with a giggle and a soft peck on the cheek.

[icypantherwrites]

I am a big fan of ACFA. To be honest it was a bit intimidating to take on because it had so many chapters, but that’s also why I loved it. I love a well-fleshed our story with deep development. You did an amazing job showing the process of Lance’s torture/trauma affecting him without skimming over the important stuff that so many people do. And the recovery arc! I don’t remember what chapter you had thought about ending it there but I am so glad you didn’t. Recovery is so important to me and

2/3 a massive guilty pleasure. You handled it so well! Too often people end the stories with the rescue but I want to see how their trauma changed them/the way they interact with the world and the struggle to “go back to normal” without glossing over important things! I’m sad to hear that you’ve had a decline in readership with that fic because it’s a masterpiece. I wish there was more long fics and people spent more time in these universes they create. You are definitely one of my favorite fanfic

3/3 authors and will continue to read your stuff. I really enjoy your writing (especially the characterization) and I’ll also commission you once I figure out what else I’d like to see from you. Please keep up the great work and try not to get discouraged by a drop in numbers-there is always someone out there who enjoys it even if they don’t leave a review (even though you deserve them!) I am often one of those people much to my shame, as I dabble in writing too and understand that frustration.

--

Thank you for the kind words love. I personally adore long fics (if I can spend a few hours in one fic then my week is pretty much made) because you just get to immerse yourself so deeply into a universe. It’s beautiful. I’m glad you gave Color a chance :) It’s certainly approaching epic lengths although it going to fall just shy of 400k. 

No matter what route it was taking there would have been a recovery arc, no worries there! I too hate fics that brush over recovery and the pods of the VLD universe have not helped in that regard. But the worst injuries, unless they are permanently debilitating, are not often physical. Color would have been a shorter 30 chapters (ha, shorter) with a full recovery arc... except that I went and added in the idea of this quintessence obsession by Haggar at the end of... 13? and that is the reason why I am in this 80 chapter mess. Had I not gone that route, stuck with just wanting to use Lance as a bartering chip and possible information source, there would have still been the drowning scene but Lance would have never sunk (haha, oh dios, kill me) to the levels he did because he was not being turned into some sort of weapon against the universe. It would still be an awful situation but not as awful as Haggar turned it into. 

I try my best not to be discouraged but it’s harder than it sounds. I’ve heard the advice “write for you” but if that was all it was I’d have files upon files on my computer for my own perusal and on one else’s. I do write for others; I’m a people pleaser and love to make others happy. I’m happiest when others are happy. But when I don’t see those people, happy or not, then it’s sad and that makes me sad.

I made a pledge to myself as a reader that I will always review/comment on any fic I have read and enjoyed. I hate the excuses I see of “too tired, too busy, ran out of time,” because no. If I find the time to read a fic -- no matter a 3k oneshot or a 200k chaptered fic -- I can damn well find the time to leave a comment and express my thanks to the author for their work and time and effort and how much I enjoyed their story and why.

As a fellow author I’m sure you understand the importance of comments like those. While I am always grateful for anyone who takes the time to leave a comment, there’s something disheartening about spending hours on a fic and getting the “update soon” or “write more” or the keyboard smash (only) it’s just... that’s what you took away from hours upon hours of work and thought? It’s why when I see people I know who are authors only drop a kudos or stick a story on an alert or leave one of the above comments I get a little sad because those people *know* how amazing it feels to get a thoughtful comment and how the lack of make you feel on the other side.

This got a little long, forgive me. I will still write for sure as I can’t seem to stop. But I am trying to figure out how much of my life I want to continue to pour into fanfiction. Perhaps when VLD ends that’ll be my last farewell. I guess we shall have to see what the future holds. But in any case thank you again for the kind words and if you read a fic (mine and all others) I do hope you can drop a comment for the author. As you can see, we really appreciate them ♥

[mingyus-noona]

Corner, chapter 1 (Tao)

Title: Corner Member/Pairing: Tao x Reader Fanfiction type: Story, multi-chapter Genre: Angst, Drama, Romance Chapter: 1 Word count: 1,671 Chapter 2 can be found here. A/N: I wrote this sometime in the spring, probably May, so it's been quite a while since then! There will be a second chapter after this. Please enjoy! ============================================================ It was supposed to be a care-free day. None of the guys had schedules. It was nice outside. And Tao even planned to pay you a surprise visit later that day. He certainly did not plan to have a dozen people present for one of the most awkward, embarrassing conversations of his life. He'd woken up early, did some yoga, and even got a little shopping in before the shops would be filled with fans. He returns to the dorm with a smile on his face and an iced coffee in hand. "Guys, you have to try this. Starbucks has a new flavor." With his eyes closed as he takes in what is perhaps the most perfect sip of coffee known to mankind, he vows to himself that he needs to get a temporary job at Starbucks, at least long enough to find out how to make the drink. He's more than surprised as he's brought out of this happy state when the cup is suddenly knocked out of his hand, the straw poking him in the gums before falling to the floor along with the rest of his drink. "Yah, why would you do that?" he yells, assuming it was Baekhyun or Sehun trying to ruin his day off. But then he sees the manager's stone-cold expression and he profusely bows and addresses her accordingly before bending down to pick up ice cubes. Telling him to leave it, she slaps his wrist away, making some ice and drops of coffee fly over onto Kyungsoo's pants. He brushes it away quickly, the ice cracking as it hits the floor, several segments spreading out further and making an even bigger mess for someone later. Tao allows himself less than a second to mourn his lost drink, which, sixty seconds ago, he thought he'd still be drinking. He then apologizes again, taking a seat next to Baekhyun on one of the couches. All eleven of the other guys are there, so he knows it must be some sort of meeting―one not called by Suho this time. He looks around to see if he can gauge the reason for the meeting from anyone's expression, but they're all looking at the floor or anywhere but at him. The manager, however, stares right at him, her lips pressed into a straight, tight line. “What’s this about?” he asks calmly, so as to not anger her any further. She holds up a magazine, turning it to face Tao. "This came out today, and there's more online.” His eyes settle on what's depicted on the cover, and he squeals, immediately blushing and throwing his hands over his eyes when he recognizes a somewhat grainy photo. It was a nude he'd sent you months ago, from when he was still on tour. Sure, his naughty bits were blocked out with bright neon stars, but he was sure that the online version wasn't so generous. Who knows how many photos are out there, how many people have seen them? “Tao.” The manager clears her throat. He apologizes again and bows further than he has in his life―further than touching his toes in gym class. “Tao,” she says again, wanting him to look up at her. When he doesn't, she continues. “This is going to take a lot of damage control." He weakly nods, his eyes still glued to the floor. “Yeah, like, next time, make sure to take your nudes as a Polaroid,” Baekhyun says, clapping his hands together in front of his chest, thinking he's hilarious. One glare from the manager and he's next to Tao on the floor, his face practically pressed against the exact spot where some ice had melted. * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ A painful forty minutes later, Tao's in his room, the door shut and the other bed empty―Xiumin realized that Tao needed some alone time. His face is pressed so tightly into his pillow that he's surprised he hasn't died yet from lack of oxygen―or, alternatively, from drowning, thanks to all the tears his pillowcase has collected over the past twenty minutes. A ping from his phone makes him sit up―just barely―and he sticks his hand out and starts to feel around for his phone. He has to rub his eyes several times and blink a lot to begin to be able to read the text that pops up. Hey baby! Since you're free today, how about you come over and I can cook you something special? He hiccups and another round of tears refuses to be contained. He slams his eyes shut, pressing the lock button and putting his phone back on the bedside table. There's no way he's seeing you now. He faces the wall, not moving his gaze from a spot that looks like a bolt of lightning until his phone starts ringing. He bites his lip. It could be a manager, so he checks the caller i.d., but he has no intention of answering if it is. He sighs when he sees your name, number, and photo pop up. He can't ignore you, because he knows how you worry, and a text remaining unanswered for five hours on a day off is just unheard of for him. But he presses decline and starts to wipe at his eyes and clear this throat. A string of mucus is dripping down his face, and he wipes it with a tissue before tossing it into a wastebasket. He tries to calm down and breathe deeply to ensure that he won't cry again. With a final clearing of his throat, he dials your number, then presses end again, hoping the call didn't go through yet. His lips quiver and his tears come back. He grips a fistful of hair in frustration. You'd probably call again, and he couldn't ignore you all day without you thinking something was seriously up. Communication with you is important to him, and his busy schedule only makes that harder, so he always updates you at least weekly, but sometimes daily, letting you know when he'll be able to talk and when he'll be too busy to even send a quick text. You hadn't received anything like that in regards to today. Quite the opposite, in fact. (Free day on Thursday, yesss followed by a string of emojis, including the sunglasses face, the dancing girl, and the sick face, which you assumed he hit on accident in his violently happy emoji tirade. Totally free? you'd texted back. He'd texted a pigeon back, and it took you a second to realize that he meant free as a bird.) It takes almost another twenty minutes of calming himself down, but he calls you back at 4:43 p.m., practically six hours late to responding to your initial message. “Hello,” you say, and he can hear the concern in your voice. “Hey, baobei. I'm sorry I didn't answer earlier.” He feels bad, picturing you waiting patiently for him as he just acts like a big baby. “But I'm here now. Well, not here, but―you know what I mean.” He nervously chuckles and scratches at the back of his neck. “Did you have dinner yet? Knowing you, you probably spent your day off shopping, and you must have worked up an appetite toting around all that Gucci.” He laughs a bit. The truth is, he hadn't eaten anything all day. He'd had some tea before yoga―and the coffee of course. He planned on eating a late breakfast after he got home, but that plan was obviously rerouted. “I'm fine, Y/n. I'm a grown man." He scoffs in his head. A grown man who cries for hours straight and can't even manage to respond to his girlfriend, not even by text. “You know, I ate my usual bowl of solid steel for breakfast, followed by a delicious lunch of the tears of everyone I can wushu to death.” You roll your eyes. Does he not know about the pictures? You'd gone straight to Google when he not only didn't answer your call, but also declined it himself before it stopped ringing. “Besides your oh-so-manly diet, did you do anything fun today? Anything interesting you want to tell me about?” “I got that new coffee flavor at Starbucks, but Baekhyun had to be a little bitch and steal it because it was so good. I hardly got any of it.” He pretends to sigh. “Anything else?” “No, baobei. Why? Is there something that you want to tell me? It's not your birthday.” He thinks for a second to make sure, then confirms it again. “It's not your birthday, it's not our anniversary. What is it?” You sigh. “Tao,” you say, a mixture of sternness and concern laced in your voice. You don't want to make him talk if he doesn't want to, but you also know him trying to act brave all of a sudden is not good either. “The pictures, Tao,” you finally say. He sucks in a brief, but sharp, breath. “Oh. I guess I shouldn't have been thinking with my dick then, huh?” “Baby, please don't do that.” A knock on the door grabs Tao's attention, and he looks over to see Suho standing there, two cups of coffee in hand. “Suho's here. I have to go, baobei. But I'll talk to you later.” He hangs up the phone and grabs a cup from Suho's outstretched hand. “This is for you too.” Suho holds up the other cup. “I thought it was the least I could do. Let me know if you want another one.” “I think two coffees is enough for one day.” Tao sips at one of them, but isn't as enthusiastic as he was earlier. “Did I not put enough sugar in it? Kyungsoo-ah, is there any sugar in the kitchen?” he calls, stepping out into the hallway. “No, it's fine.” Suho clears his throat. “Are you okay?” he asks with a look of sympathy, but also like he wants to scold Tao. Tao nods. “You have to be careful.” “I know,” he says. He knows Suho doesn't mean anything bad by it. He's being absolutely reasonable. Celebrities have to be extra careful with these matters. Anyone can be targeted. Having millions of fans and albums sold does not come with immunity to embarrassment or hackers, unfortunately.

[themusesofmars]

Fanfiction Preview - Final Fantasy XV (work in progress)

@ignoctweek Ignoct Week Day 3, Prompt B: (Situational) Reincarnation/Time Travel AU Title: “Time Warp” (tentative) Rating: General (thus far) Warnings: N/A NOTE: This is just an excerpt of what is quickly turning into a novel-length fanfic. Up to this point in the story, all you need to know is Noct has wound up on Earth. He awakes in a hospital where his doctor is none other than Ignis Scientia. But Ignis doesn’t recognize him. And he doesn’t believe there is any such place as Eos, or that Noctis is a prince, or that the two of each other have ever met. The excerpt you are about to read is in rough draft format. I’m too tired to edit it and there’s no point right now because the story is incomplete. Follow The Muses of Mars on Tumblr, Archive of Our Own, or Fanfiction.net for updates!

They drove down unfamiliar streets, past unfamiliar buildings, and suddenly it began to rain. Ignis turned on the windshield-wipers and adjusted his glasses, slowing down as the road began to glisten.

“You can pull over if you need to. I don’t mind taking the wheel,” Noctis offered. “I know you hate driving in the dark, and now it’s raining, too.”

“You know no such thing,” Ignis snapped quietly. His hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.

Noct watched him for a moment. He could tell Ignis was tense, and wasn’t sure if the reason had more to do with the darkness or with the fact that he’d known Ignis didn’t like it.

One thing he did know what that a little conversation always seemed to help calm him down. Ignis didn’t like having the stereo on after the sun went down because he needed to focus on the road. But if he just sat there rigidly with his guard up the whole time, he’d have a killer neck ache in the morning.

“So, how far are we going?” he asked, to get the ball rolling.

“The rain might slow us down, but I live about fifteen minutes or so from the hospital,” Ignis answered, already sounding less grumpy.

Noct helped keep a watch on the road, though he had begun to doubt daemons were even roaming this world. “I really appreciate you letting me crash at your place,” he said.

“Temporarily,” Ignis reminded him. “I’ll help you get back on your feet while we search for someone who might know you, but then we’ll have to say goodbye.”

Noct’s hands balled into fists. Damn it, Ignis! he mentally cursed. You do know me, better than anyone! Why don’t you remember?

Ignis softly sighed. “Don’t be frustrated. I’m sure you have family or friends somewhere in the city. The police have your photograph, but we can do some searching online—Facebook or something—and see if there’s anyone you recognize.”

“You really still don’t believe we know each other, do you?” Noct murmured disappointedly.

“I’m still quite certain we never met before you became my patient,” Ignis said sternly, “and I will ask you just once more to please stop pretending otherwise.” He suddenly put on the turn signal and a moment later pulled into a parking lot.

“Wh-what gives?” Noct demanded, sitting up straighter. Worriedly, he asked, “You’re not kicking me out, are you?”

“Don’t be absurd.” Ignis parked the car in an empty spot and cut the engine, then pulled his keys from the ignition. “You can’t just keep wearing my things; they don’t fit you at all. Plus you’re going to need your own toothbrush, a razor… And I’ve no idea what you like to eat, so I suppose we’ll need to stock up on groceries, as well.” He unfastened his seatbelt, opened the driver’s side door, and climbed out of the car. “Well? Are you coming?”

“R-right.” Noct hurriedly scrambled out of the car and Ignis locked it from a remote on his keyring. The vehicle made a beeping sound and then Ignis walked up to the front doors of a large building whose sign read: “Walmart.”

Noct looked around in confusion as Ignis procured a large shopping cart. “What is this place?” he asked as they walked past racks of clothing, an unexpected jewelry counter, and then a pharmacy. “It’s like they’ve got everything here.”

“Essentially,” Ignis agreed. He pushed the cart down an aisle in the health and beauty department and then stopped, perusing the selection of personal care wares. “Do you have any brand preferences, or are you still playing the ‘foreign royalty’ card?” Noct looked at him blankly. “All right, then. Leave it to me.” He sounded only mildly annoyed this time. “It’s probably faster if I do this myself, anyway.”

Noctis followed the other man blindly as Ignis selected a stick of deodorant; a shaving kit with a razor, blades, and shaving cream; and a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste. He left Noct to choose his own shampoo while he did his physician’s duty and went to find the boy an age-appropriate multivitamin.

Next they returned to the clothing department. “I got this, Specs,” the prince said nonchalantly. Ignis shrugged and had a seat on a bench outside the changing booths while the boy chose a few outfits and tried them on. He seemed drawn to graphic T-shirts, and while they were blessedly inexpensive, Ignis also dragged him toward a rack of flannel shirts and sweaters for something more suitable for winter. Noct found some jeans he liked and grabbed several pairs, then they found him a comfortable pair of tennis shoes and some nicer boots. Finally came socks and underwear. “Briefs?” Ignis sounded surprised. “I’m a boxer man, myself.” At last they were finished.

“Satisfied with these?” Ignis confirmed. “Then let’s pick up some food. I don’t mind cooking, but you’ll have to tell me what you like.”

“I like your cooking,” Noct commented. When Ignis glared at him suspiciously, he corrected himself to say, “I’m really not big on veggies, so…anything else is fine.”

Ignis muttered to himself about kids today and their unhealthy diets, and though such comments had warranted an eyeroll or two in the past, right now it made Noct smile to hear the other man complain about his eating habits like the good old days.

Eventually they headed for the registers to check out with their puchases. As Ignis plucked his wallet out of an inside pocket on his coat, Noct suddenly seemed awkward.

“Um, so, Ignis…” the boy began, then he had to stop and start again. “Uh, you know I don’t have any gil, right?”

“Any…what?” Ignis was giving him that look again, like he’d said something crazy.

“Don’t tell me you guys don’t have to worry about money here!”

“Oh. We use dollars and cents in America,” Ignis said, but his tone was more sarcastic than explanatory. “And I know perfectly well you haven’t got any money—gills, or whatever you called it. That’s my entire reason for taking you in for a time. I just couldn’t very well turn you out on the streets of Manhattan, could I?”

Noct still felt guilty. “I’ll find a way to pay you back,” he promised.

“Think nothing of it,” Ignis said dismissively, opening his wallet and selecting a credit card. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a doctor; here, at least, physicians are rather well-paid.”

“Oh. Cool.” Noct still wasn’t sure, but after the items had been tallied up and bagged, the man didn’t even bulk at the price tag, so he must have been telling the truth.

Outside it was raining heavily. They raced to the car and Ignis unlocked the doors. They had to toss wet bags into the trunk, and then Ignis jogged back to the store with their shopping cart. When he returned, Noctis was sitting in the driver’s seat.

“We don’t have time to argue about this,” Noct said insistently. “Get in before you drown!”

With a frown, Ignis did as he was told. He finally handed Noct the keys and then strapped in. “I have a feeling I’m going to regret this,” he mumbled to himself. “I know you haven’t a license. You don’t have any ID!”

“I have a license,” Noct corrected. “It’s just…lost. With everything else.”

The prince started the car, then began backing out of the parking space. “Just try not to get pulled over,” Ignis warned. “If the police insist on arresting you, I’ll leave you in their care.”

“Don’t worry, Specs,” Noct said with a grin as he adjusted the mirrors. “You always let me drive at night.”

Ignis watched Noct as the boy expertly pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main highway again. It really did seem as though Noct knew him, somehow. But it made no sense, because things the boy knew…he’d never told anyone. He’d never thought about them, really. So how did he have such intimate knowledge?

He almost wondered if the boy knew where he lived, but he seemed so unfamiliar with even the most mundane things. And he certainly did know how to handle a vehicle during a nighttime storm. But it soon became apparently he had no idea where they were going, and Ignis had to direct him sharply before they missed his turn.

They passed by a low stone wall engraved with the name Honeysuckle Terrace and entered an affluent suburb where the houses were huge and their well-kept lawns were sprawling.

“That’s my house,” Ignis said, pointing. “Third one on the right.”

Noctis whistled. “Very nice, Iggy,” he said in awe. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

Ignis seemed a bit flustered by the compliment. “Well…it’s comfortable enough,” he said dismissively. “Just pull into the drive and I’ll open the garage.”

Noct slowed to a stop in front of the garage doors. Ignis leaned in close and reached toward the steering column. Noct gasped softly in surprise, turning to look at Ignis. The other man’s face was nearly touching his. “Pardon,” the blond muttered, fidgeting with the keys until he found the garage button on the keyring and pressed it. Noct’s eyes didn’t leave Ignis’s face until the other man had settled back in his seat and ordered him, “Eyes forward. Then pull on through—carefully.”

“…Right.” Noct did as he was told, surprised when he pulled the compact car in next to a black SUV. He shifted the gear to “park,” then cut the engine and turned off the lights. He slipped the keys out of the ignition and handed them to Ignis, their fingers touching for just an instant during the transfer. “Are you sure if it’s okay that I stay here for a while?” Noct asked, quietly folding his hands in his lap.

“Of course,” Ignis replied, taken aback. “Why ask, now that we’re here?”

Noct gave a slight nod in the direction of the other car. “Well, I didn’t think about it before, but…I’d hate to intrude on your family.”

“My what?” Now the man was genuinely startled. He turned his head to see what Noct was looking at. “Oh, you mean the other car?” He chuckled softly and unfastened his seatbelt. “They’re both mine.”

“Oh.” Noct was equally surprised, and not only a little relieved. “Oh! Well, okay, then.”

They climbed out of the car and gathered their shopping bags, then Noctis followed Ignis back out of the garage and along the sidewalk toward the front door. The walkway was lit up with garden lamps, and faux candles shone all the windows. The house was a single story but looked enormous from the outside. Noct was surprised that Ignis would live alone in such a big place, but it was a relief. He still thought this was the same Ignis he’d always known, and that something crazy had happened to them, but if he’d found a wife and children in the house…well, not only would it have been a hundred times more awkward staying here, but that would also have shattered his already thin hope that Igis would regain his memories of their life on Eos.

Noct shivered on the concrete porch while Ignis put his key into the lock on the front door. “Just a moment,” he said, and then he was turning the knob and pushing the door open, gesturing for Noct to enter the house first.

Nervously, Noct crossed over the threshold. Ignis followed to shut and lock the door behind them, then turned on the light.

Noct looked around curiously. They were standing on a stone tile entryway, beyond which lay a cozy, carpeted den with a large fireplace along the far wall. The kitchen was located straight ahead and hallways stretched to the left and right. Everything looked clean and polished—just as he would expect any space of Ignis’s to be.

“A hot bath would do you some good,” Ignis said, momentarily setting his armload of shopping bags down on the floor. He peeled his jacket back over his shoulders before hanging it up on a coatrack next to the door. “I’ll take that coat,” he offered, reaching out for the white lab coat he’d lent the boy from his office, “then if you’ll step out of those oversized shoes, I’ll show you where the bathroom is.”

Noct set down his bags and shrugged off the white coat, then gave it to Ignis, but didn’t even have to untie the shoes he was wearing to step out of them. He followed the other man down the hallway to the left. “Laundry room,” Ignis pointed out on the left, “and bathroom,” pushing wide a door to the right.

“What’s down there?” Noct asked, nodding his head to the last door at the end of the hallway.

“My bedroom.”

“Ah.” The answer gave rise to another question. “Where am I sleeping, anyway?”

“The guestroom.” Ignis reached around the wall and flipped on the bathroom light, revealing a large room done in chocolate and mocha with bronze and ivory accents. He handed Noct his bag of personal items. “I’ll prepare supper while you wash up. Take your time,” he added over his shoulder on his way back down the hall. “The towels are under the sink.”

“‘Kay.” Noct stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. The tiles were cool under his bare feet but the glow of the lamps on either side of the large over-the-counter mirror gave off a warm feeling, and suddenly nothing sounded better than immersing himself in a hot tub. How long had it been since he’d had a proper bath? He’d been in the hospital for, what, three weeks? This was going to feel amazing.

He found a large towel and a washcloth in a well-organized cabinet under the sink counter and carried them over to the bathtub, setting them down on the rim. Noct plugged the drain and turned the hot water tap on, then he stripped out of Ignis’s oversized clothing and unpacked his shopping bag.

The tub was large and heart-shaped, but the water was gushing with such force that it was more than halfway full when Noctis climbed inside. The heat of the water felt fantastic after being out in the cool night air in such loose clothing. He sank into it like he was melting, leaning back against the reclining wall and closing his eyes. He felt cleaner already, and the steam was doing marvels to clear his head of confusion and distress.

He was on Earth, not Eos. Conventions were much the same, yet there were no daemons here. People went driving and even shopping at night, fearlessly. The world seemed safer, yet he took no comfort in that assumption; having been born and raised in an era where day-to-day living became more perilous with each passing hour, he could not help but feel suspicious of this world. What darkness was it hiding?

The water was beginning to lap at the rim of the tub. Noct felt it rising above his shoulders and forced himself to sit up and turn the tap off. He was still bruised from his accident and his ribs ached to lean forward, but he reclined again a moment later and let the water soothe his aches. With his arms stretched out to the sides and his whole body relaxed, he felt almost comfortable enough to fall asleep. His head hadn’t ached in days, so that was a good sign. It might take a while longer, but the rest of him would heal, too.

But what then? What had brought him here, and how? When could he go home? What if he couldn’t?

Those were mysteries he would have to solve in time. For now he was only certain that in spite of the blow to his head, he had not dreamed his life up to this point, and he wasn’t crazy. He was Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, born and raised in the Crown City of Insomnia on the planet Eos. But who was the man in the kitchen?