#old ficlet

[robininthelabyrinth]

A Better Lie - ao3

Fandom: The Untamed Pairing: Jin Guangyao/Nie Mingjue Summary:

Wait. This wasn't the Lan sect, with all its strict rules and stricter morality. This was the Nie. (Meng Yao identifies an opportunity.)

----------------

It was only a better lie, in the end.

A stroke of luck – or perhaps, of genius.

When he first heard Nie Mingjue’s shout, Meng Yao was still holding the sword he'd just used to kill the Nie commander, but he could feel it slipping out of his nerveless fingers. He could feel his mouth opening with instinctive denials - it wasn't me, it was Xue Yang, I didn't do it - all ridiculous, of course. It was him, and he did do it, and Nie Mingjue was staring at him with those horribly hurt eyes, already starting to fill with tears in a way they hadn't despite the strain of having his home attacked and his precious brother demanded as a hostage by the man who’d killed his father.

That hurt.

Not the tears, of course. Tears, Meng Yao knew well, were cheap. But he found himself displeased by what they meant: by the fact that he’d hurt Nie Mingjue, in a way even Wen Ruohan hadn’t, when Nie Mingjue was a man he’d come to…well, to appreciate. Nie Mingjue, who hadn't cared about Meng Yao's past or his mother even after he’d been told about it, who had given him opportunities beyond his wildest expectations, who – it seemed – had left an active battlefield in order to come find him because he was worried about him...

Nie Mingjue was going to have no choice but to find him guilty, Meng Yao knew. No matter what he said or did, that was Nie sect law, and Nie Mingjue believed in his sect’s laws the way he believed in the sun rising every day. He might be able to commute the sentence from execution into exile if Meng Yao did something brave, if for instance he used his body to shield Nie Mingjue from an attack that would no doubt be forthcoming because they were both literally standing there frozen in the middle of battle, but that was it, that was the best Meng Yao would be able to get. And exiling him would hurt Nie Mingjue, too, maybe even more than execution, because Meng Yao knew that Nie Mingjue loved him, even if the other man hadn't figured it out yet, and having to worry about him suffering would hurt Nie Mingjue even more than knowing he was dead.

And all because he'd broken the rules.

Rules. Hah! 

Meng Yao thought, briefly, about the Lan sect, that bastion of rules and inflexibility. Of Lan Xichen, who had been so kind to him during the classes Nie Mingjue had sent him to attend. Lan Xichen, who was a good gentleman, handsome and sympathetic. Who would make a reasonable second prospect to target now that Nie Mingjue was no longer an option...

No. What was he thinking? That was the brothel madam's voice in his head, not his own, not his mother, who had tried so hard to make him a gentleman rather than a whore.

Meng Yao didn't want to think like that. 

Of course, he didn't want to die, either.

So self-sacrifice and exile it would have to be, even if it hurt them both. Maybe he’d even go after Lan Xichen, too, if that was what it took - if Meng Yao couldn't have the love he really wanted, Nie Mingjue's unquestionable and unconditional affection which had been given to him freely when he had been at his lowest moments, then he might as well put his ambitions above all else. Over love, over morality, over all the stupid hypocritical loophole-riddled rules that nevertheless did not leave a loophole aside for him, because no rule allowed for murdering a man by stabbing him in the back, not even self-defense -

Wait.

This wasn't the Lan sect, with all its strict rules and stricter morality.

This was the Nie.

"Sect Leader, dodge!" Meng Yao roared, louder than he'd ever been in his life, mimicking to his best ability the stern grim-faced training master of the Nie sect who everyone listened to without question. 

Nie Mingjue was no exception, obedience to that voice boiled into his bones. He threw himself aside, causing Wen Zhuiliu's sword to miss and come hurtling towards Meng Yao himself. There was a split second where he could decide to just take the blow in some place that wouldn't cause permanent damage, just as there had been a split second for him to pick between throwing his body between Nie Mingjue and the sword instead of shouting him out of the way – a far more dramatic sort of rescue – but just as before, Meng Yao decided against it. 

He was taking a far bigger gamble. 

Meng Yao threw himself down, flat on his face, and Wen Zhuliu's sword went wide over his head. A moment later, as he'd hoped, Nie Mingjue rose up with Baxia in hand and murder in his eyes. Now that he was no longer being distracted by Meng Yao, he was able to see Wen Zhuliu turning towards him with deadly palm extended.

Meng Yao gritted his teeth and threw the Wen sword he'd picked up at Wen Zhuiliu's feet. It wouldn't get either of them much more than split-second of distraction, at best, but when you were fighting against a man like Nie Mingjue, you couldn't afford even that.

A split second later, saber met with palm, and Wen Zhuliu went flying. 

Clutching at his bloodied hand, looking shocked, the other man scuttled away not long thereafter, and with the real leader of the Wen forces humbled - it certainly wasn't Wen Chao they were following, no matter what he might lie to himself and think - the rest of them soon dispersed.

"My brother will not be going to any Wen training camp," Nie Mingjue spat after them, too genteel to follow it up with actual spit the way Meng Yao halfway wanted him to. "Not now, and not ever!"

Behind him, the rest of the Nie burst into spontaneous cheers, bellowing as loud as bulls. Even their guests, Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng, looked relieved and impressed - Nie Mingjue's fame was going to increase again, it seemed, as soon as they got back to Yunmeng and boasted of how the Nie, at least, certainly did not fear the power of the Wen sect.

"Meng Yao, with me," Nie Mingjue said when he was done with that, which was only as Meng Yao had expected. "Now."

Meng Yao bowed his head and scuttled after him into the receiving hall. Nie Mingjue threw Baxia over to her stand and sat heavily on the Nie sect throne, though not as heavily as he might have if he'd been injured and his sect the loser in the fight just now, burdened by his duty as sect leader and his worries as an older brother. 

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" he asked grimly. Or, well, he thought he was being grim, but Meng Yao could see the fear in his eyes - come up with something clever, Nie Mingjue was quietly begging, even though he would never know that that was what he was doing or admit it to himself if he did, please, please come up with something that means I don't need to kill you for your crimes. Don't taint this day with making me lose you. Don't make me have to lose you...

Meng Yao saluted deeply. 

"This humble Meng Yao admits his error," he said, hoping against hope that this gamble of his would work. "I should not have allowed my enthusiasm for a private duel to overcome my understanding of the bigger picture, putting myself over sect interests."

Nie Mingjue was stunned silent for a long moment. 

Meng Yao waited, hoping so hard that it hurt.

Please, he thought, now the one to beg silently. Please let him focus on the part that I need him to focus on, not the parts I need him to overlook. Please!

"...private duel?" Nie Mingjue finally said, and Meng Yao’s heart surged with elation. "You were – dueling?"

"Yes, Sect Leader," Meng Yao lied, using every ounce of guile he had to hide his joy behind a mask of contrition. "I formally challenged the commander yesterday in the late evening. He had tried to keep me from seeing to the prisoner Xue Yang at your order, contrary to protocol, and in doing so said something very rude about my mother."

That latter part was true, and of course there had been no one else around at the time. The Nie commander had always been good at making sure there weren't when he delivered his nastiest jibes, although he'd made enough milder ones in front of others that people would testify on Meng Yao's behalf if it came to that. 

He didn't think it would come to that. Nie Mingjue wanted to believe him.

"He accepted, but he was drunk at the time, so we agreed to postpone," Meng Yao added, adopting an apologetic tone. "Nevertheless, I admit that I let myself get carried away. A battlefield is no place to carry out private grudges -"

"He turned his back on you despite having accepted a duel with you?!" Nie Mingjue burst out, utterly incredulous, just as Meng Yao had hoped. "What was he thinking?!"

Probably that I was no threat, Meng Yao thought cynically, letting himself whole-heartedly lean into and believe the alternative universe where his lie had been the truth. That was the mark of a truly accomplished liar: the ability to genuinely believe, for however long necessary, that what he said was what it had really been. 

"What an idiot! Disrespectful, arrogant -" Nie Mingjue was raging, but he restrained himself after a moment, forcing himself to calm down. "Meng Yao, you're right, you should have known better than to proceed with a private duel while the sect was under attack. That is irresponsible, even if you got carried away by your feelings, and you will need to be punished appropriately. However, in light of your contributions in today's battle, I think we can reduce the number of strikes to - hm -"

"Two-thirds?" Meng Yao suggested, knowing that Nie Mingjue wanted to say half but couldn't quite bring himself to admit to that level of favoritism. That was the first thing Meng Yao had figured out about Nie Mingjue, in fact: he was dreadfully soft in the face of all he loved, but he desperately wanted to be a good man. And a good man, by the ancestral precepts of the Nie, was a harsh one, a just one, one who saw granting unnecessary mercy as weakness. "I can handle it, Sect Leader. It's only what I should do. As you said, Sect Leader, I should have known better. It was only that I got so angry..."

Meng Yao trailed off purposefully. 

As expected, Nie Mingjue picked up where he left off. "That's completely understandable," the man from a family and clan known for their uncontrollable rage said, nodding in absolute empathy. "But you must learn to channel your anger into the appropriate time and place. A considerable portion of Nie sect discipline and cultivation relates to that – ah, but you're still at the early stages there, having started as late as you did. Do not worry. Understanding will come in time."

Meng Yao bowed his head to hide his victory. 

He had remembered at the very last second that Nie sect principles did allow for manslaughter under certain circumstances, the way the rigid Lan sect rules did not. A proper duel, the challenge formally issued and agreed on by both parties, could be resumed at any time, and death was always a possibility; acting dishonorably wasn't permitted, so sneak attacks virtually never happened, but you were supposed to act as though you were at odds with a true enemy, never letting your guard down. Turning your back on someone you'd accept a duel with was an insult of the highest caliber. It mocked not only your opponent’s competence and ability, but their bravery - it looked down even upon their honor. 

A provocation that no one could resist.

Least of all someone starting to train in the Nie sect style, and thereby to have trouble controlling their temper!

If Nie Mingjue believed them to have been dueling, then the scene he'd happened upon looked very different. Temporary enemies united in the fight against the Wen, Meng Yao helping in the fight only to be disarmed, but then once the Wen were dead, matters breaking into strife once more: the Nie commander starting the fight back up, perhaps, saying some sneering words instead of helping Meng Yao up, insulting him, turning his back on him in even more blatant insult, and Meng Yao reaching in his unthinking rage to find the Wen sword at hand -

The Nie sect were notoriously emotional. Meng Yao wasn't, being far more inclined to put ruthless logic above all else, but men always judged others by their own measure. Nie Mingjue would evaluate the situation by putting himself in Meng Yao’s shoes, and under such circumstances, even Nie Mingjue might have been hard pressed to stay his hand (though obviously no one would be foolish enough to do such a thing to him, and he was likely to shout a warning anyway just because of who he was). True, it would never have happened, mostly because he would have also have had enough discipline to keep from killing his enemy in the middle of a battlefield. But he could understand it when someone else didn't manage to hold back to that degree. He could understand.

He could forgive.

And that was what mattered.

Maybe I should cultivate myself a reputation as a hair-trigger duelist, Meng Yao mused. Nie Mingjue would probably find that charming. I’d be like some yappy dog that tries to bite enemies three times the size – embarrassing, perhaps, but it would leave me a lot more leeway to eliminate my enemies.

Yes, I think I will do that. Plenty of the Nie already treat me as halfway to being Nie Mingjue's wife; this incident of forgiving a murder will only increase their respect for me, and a few more of the same, under permitted circumstances, will solidify it. The Nie sect has always respected aggression and violence. Showing more of that will make it easier for me to get my way when I really am half-master of the sect, with Nie Mingjue at my side.

And then, when the war with the Wen begins in earnest, it will be the Nie that will come out ascendant - the Nie which have never bowed, the Nie which have kept the rest of the cultivation world free through their own blood and valor, the Nie who everyone will owe for their lives and for the futures. Lan Xichen is an old friend of Nie Mingjue’s, and that Jiang sect puppy just now, Jiang Cheng, looked halfway in love with him after today's performance. They will happily support Nie Mingjue to be Chief Cultivator when Wen Ruohan is gone.

And Nie Mingjue, who hates paperwork so much, will give it all to me.

Jin Guangshan - 

Father -

In the end, you will be the one at the bottom of the stairs, and me at the top. You'll be the one to come begging me, wanting me to take your name, pretending it to be a privilege for me when in truth it will be one for you. You'll be the one groveling and sniffing around for the chance to rub off a little of my honor and status, to add my shine to yours, and the only thing you'll have to trade with is the surname I have always deserved, the one you owed it to my mother to give me. I'll accept it, oh yes, I’ll accept it, because it is mine and always should have been mine. But I’ll accept it at the time that I choose, the place that I choose, the manner that I choose, acting from strength rather than weakness.

You will come to me. Not the other way around.

Yes, that is how it will be.

You and that bitch wife of yours, you who both looked down upon me, who looked down upon my mother who had more value in her little finger than both of you put together: you'll both have to see me bow to her on my wedding day, to see her honored in front of the whole world by a man better than all of you put together. 

Meng Yao smiled. 

"Thank you, Sect Leader," he said. "I will learn. I promise you."

Nie Mingjue had that transfixed expression that always came on him when Meng Yao used that particular smile, the one he usually kept buried deep inside his heart - the cruel, vicious, hungry one, the one that revealed his longing to dominate and devour everything in his path, cherishing only the selected few. The smile Meng Yao had once thought he would never be able to show anyone at all, least of all someone above him, because it revealed too much about what he was really like, not obedient nor submissive in the slightest.

The smile he had thought would only ever be met with repulsion and disgust, and certainly not looked upon with desire, the way Nie Mingjue did whenever he saw it.

"...you can call me by name in private," Nie Mingjue finally said. He looked half-hypnotized by his own fascination, and only grew more so when Meng Yao dropped the humble act and prowled towards him like the snarling vicious beast that he sometimes felt he was under his skin. "If - if you want."

"I do want," Meng Yao purred. "Thank you for the honor, Sect Leader...no. Nie Mingjue."

Nie Mingjue swallowed hard.

"We should celebrate tonight," Meng Yao said.

"...celebrate?"

"Yes, of course. It’s only fair, isn’t it? The whole Nie sect should have a chance to savor our victory. Your victory."

And mine.

[unopposablethumbsao3]

Med school student and noted old man fucker Julian Bashir taking his daddy issues to get drunk one night and running into noted old man Curzon Dax--Curzon, of course, is like "oh hey, free twink", and fucks him in a bathroom stall before heading out to continue his evening of, I don't know, head butting Klingons and both causing and resolving interstellar diplomatic crises. Julian never actually gets his name, and continues with his hot mess express voyage to salutatorian and Deep Space Nine.

Years later, Jadzia Dax on a ship to her new posting, only half paying attention to the sort-of-familiar twink CMO who's very awkwardly hitting on her. She knows she's seen this guy before, she just can't quite figure out where, like, this is his very first posting, he's a brand new graduate from Starfleet medical, and Jadzia's never actually been to Earth herself, in fact the last time Dax was in San Francisco was ... Oh. Oh no.

And of course, at first this is just a little awkward for her--she doesn't like all the things Curzon used to get up to, but like, they were mostly pretty harmless, and she certainly doesn't begrudge him a quick hookup with a very pretty young med student, even if he was possibly a little drunker than she'd like. And of course, it's not like Julian's ever going to know--he was wasted, and Curzon never even told him his name, so really, it's not a problem for Jadzia to put it aside and just be a professional. He's a colleague! No worries! That's that!

Except then she starts to get to know Julian. And beyond the fact that he's a damn good doctor and, it turns out, a deeply loyal friend, the closer they get, the more she starts to see flashes of how vulnerable he is under all the bluster and bravado--he puts on a hell of a brave front, but there's something wounded about him, and a deep, deep need for other people's approval, especially from potential father figures. All of which adds up to Jadzia feeling worse and worse about what happened between him and Curzon. But of course at this point, it feels like it's a little too late for her to say anything. What would it achieve other than embarrassing him, and adding a layer of complication to what's somehow become one of her closest, most important friendships.

Which is why she instead quietly swears a Klingon blood oath that she will protect this twink with her life if it comes to it--that's her pet twink now and anybody messing with him in any way for any reason is going to have to answer to her.

And yes this also means that when Julian and Garak start dating, Jadzia turns up at Garak's shop at closing time with some very pointed questions and an even pointier knife, and refuses to leave until she's absolutely certain that Garak's intentions are honourable (insofar as he's capable of honourable intentions) AND that he knows that if he hurts Julian, she will in fact be carving out his heart and eating it in the middle of the Promenade. Which of course means that Garak figures out what happened between Julian and Curzon because you can't go off on him like that without him instantly clocking the ulterior motives, so now they're at mutually assured destruction, which of course is how they also start to become very good friends (yes Worf hates this).

Also, Jadzia does NOT die during the war--she's Julian's best man when he marries Garak on Cardassia ten years later (neither she nor Garak ever tell Julian about the whole Curzon thing, or the whole I-will-eat-your-heart thing, though he lowkey knows SOMETHING is up because they won't stop exchanging meaningful nods every time they get a little drunk together).

[hylianengineer]

A aromantic prince has been turned into a frog

It's a curse only true love can break

So he spends months trying to fall in love, trying to stop being who he is because god dammit he's not a frog either!

After yet another unsuccessful date, he begins to despair for his future which is looking more amphibious by the minute.

A loud noise disturbs his brooding as something comes crashing through the undergrowth. He's barely gotten his little froggy feet underneath him before a tiny (but still quite big if you're a frog!) hand is scooping him into the air.

A little kid sees the frog on the grass.

They grab it before he has the chance to protest and kiss him square on his slimy little head.

He transforms back into a very confused human.

No, this is not a Renesme moment, gross. Not romantic love or even friendship, just the blind joy of a kid who thinks frogs are super cool. The child loves every amphibian she's ever set eyes on, but that doesn't make it any less real. And she grows up to be a biologist who studies frogs, because of course she does. The prince pays her tuition as thanks for returning him to his proper form. She was like 4 years old at the time and doesn't even remember the frog incident - there's just some random rich dude paying for her college because of something she doesn't remember, but she's not complaining because grad school is expensive as heck.

[little-annie]

T| WC 1k | Steddie | Uncle Wayne POV

"You love him don't you?" Wayne whispers, breathy, quiet, his voice cracking around the edges of something that feels like raw emotion.

It's then that Eddie turns his gaze away from Steve to look at him, the light never fading from his eyes and the smile never wiping from his face.

Steve's sitting on the trailer floor, in the middle of the living room, Eddie's clothes hanging from his body as he flips through one of Eddie's many monster manuals. Wayne knows the boy would never admit it, but he's just as interested in D&D as the other kids. He's helping Eddie plan his next campaign for christ sake.

Next to Wayne, two cans of coke in hand and a love struck smile on his face, Eddie nods, his cheeks darkening as his smile ever so slightly fades. "Is that okay?" He asks, looking all the bit nervous as his eyes roam Wayne's face.

"More than okay, Son."

Eddie's smile brightens once again and if Wayne notices the small amount of tears welling in his eyes, he says nothing about.

"You ever going to tell him?" Wayne continues, nodding in Steve's direction, the boy still oblivious to the conversation being whispered behind his back.

"I don't know if I can."

Wayne says nothing to Eddie's reply as he watches the boy return to the living room where he sits down next to his best friend. Steve smiling bright as the sun upon Eddie's return.

Months go by and Wayne gets to watch as Steve falls too. It's there and so obvious to anyone but Eddie.

His eyes linger and his smile never fades. Soon Wayne sees as he sits a little closer and his cheeks grow a little pinker.

There's moments when Wayne catches what he can only describe as a love struck expression across Steve's face. Eddie's talking, because when is he not, and Steve's there, eyes wide and locked onto Eddie's ever changing expression. 

He looks fond. Fond in a way Wayne's never seen anyone look at his nephew.

There's moments when he sees Steve hesitant. Moments when he and Eddie are so close and Steve's hand twitches like it wants to reach out. Moments when Steve looks like he wants to lean in but bites his lip and turns away with rosy cheeks.

It's nearly a year into their friendship when Steve's standing at Wayne's side and whispers, "I think I love him."

"Tell him," Wayne answers easily, leaving out the 'please' he so desperately wants to tack onto the end of that sentence.

Please, he thinks again as he watches Eddie turn to face them from across the yard, a smile so beautiful Wayne thinks it's the first time he's seen it on Eddie's face. The boy's elbow deep in his van as his cheeks grow a little pinker as he says with a smile, "Stevie, come here for a sec."

Steve leaves, but not before whispering back to Wayne, "I think I will."

No more than a week later Wayne comes home to find the boys on the couch, Steve sleeping and curled into Eddie's side, snoring with his nose pressed to Eddie's neck. 

Wayne offers his boy a smile as he stirs from the sound of the door closing. He looks tired, arms tightening around Steve's waist as he smiles back and burrows closer, kissing the top of Steve's head before drifting back off. 

"He loves me," Eddie says one evening, weeks down the road, a rare occasion when Steve isn't over, and Eddie's actually home.

Wayne smiles, his heart so warm and full as he says, "I know."

Steve's been over for a few weeks now. Part of Wayne's convinced he's moved in, what with the new additions to their fridge and bathroom vanity. The idea doesn't upset him in the least. 

He's gotten to witness their love grow during that time anyway.

He's gotten to witness the way Steve kisses a grumpy Eddie good morning until he finally smiles.

Or the way Eddie lights up when Steve's arms wrap around his waist and he whispers an "I love you, Eds," that Wayne isn't sure if he's supposed to hear.

Or the way they giggle and kiss and love one another in such a beautiful and uninhibited way.

Granted too, sometimes that means Wayne's hears a bit too much. Eddie would be mortified to know there's been far too many occasions in which Wayne's had to leave the trailer to escape the gasping breaths that occasionally pour out from under his bedroom door.

Though this time, Wayne's inside as the boys are on the roof smoking and he thanks the lord above that all he can hear are the faintest of whispers. 

There's only parts of the conversation that he catches, but his heart swells when he hears Eddie's voice so clearly say, "I'm gonna marry you someday, Steve Harrington."

Wayne cries the day Eddie shows him the ring. 

And cries even harder when Steve shows him his.

Steve's hand is shaking where the single golden band lies on his ring finger, Eddie standing directly behind him, arm around his waist with a smile that matches Steve's in the way it resembles Sunshine.

They can't marry, not legally anyways. But that doesn't stop Jim Hopper from officiating a ceremony or Joyce Byers from walking Steve down the aisle. 

The backyard to Hoppers cabin is filled with faces Wayne has grown familiar with over the years. Young and old, smiling and crying all the same.

Dustin and Robin both write speeches, both as rambling and as funny as they are beautifully heart wrenching.

There's not a dry eye in the house.

The boys move into an apartment where they build a life together.

Wayne visits often for meals or a cup of coffee in the mornings, still delighting in the way his Eddie seems so wonderfully overcome with love and affection. 

He'd thought he'd shed enough tears for his lifetime at the wedding, but one evening, sat at the table with Robin Buckley and his boys, Wayne finds out he's gonna be a grandpa. 

Elaine Birdie Munson is her name.

Sunshine, they call her instead.

[luinquesse]

“I meant it. I do not yet know what that entails, but I meant it.”

[natalievoncatte]

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Kara looked at the chunk of oily black crystal sitting in front of her and said, “No, not really, but has that ever stopped me?”

Lena frowned. Kara’s levity was strained, brittle. There was a tension between them, like the invisible pressure formed by pressing the wrong end of one magnet to another. It made Lena more than nervous, she was scared. They had both seen so much since the cyborg returned to their world, carrying a dying copy of Lena, the same woman who was now waiting in a ship full of Lena dopplegangers, watching over the unmoving form of the love of her life, weighing the decisions she had to make.

“Something is bothering you, Kara. What is it?

Kara sighed.

Lena arched her brow. “It’s not as if you’re good at keeping secrets from me, now is it?”

Kara smiled wistfully. The big secret had almost destroyed them, nearly torn them apart. It had driven Lena down a dark path but Kara had never abandoned her.

“If it was you, if the only way to save me was what they wanted to do with that empty shell, would you do it?”

The major part of Lena, the part of her that wanted to believe in her own goodness as ardently as Kara believed in it, would immediately say no. It was grotesque and wrong, no different from, say, stealing an organ. It might even be murder.

Lena couldn’t say no.

“You know what’s been on my mind since… since that night?”

Kara meant the night that Lena had a few two-finger glasses of whiskey and flat out told Kara how she felt, the night when Kara, ever the knight in shining armor, refused to take advantage of Lena’s inebriation while making her reciprocal feelings very clear. The night that Lena felt those last pangs of dead and doubt flow away and she could finally sleep, a sleep so deep and so sound it was like the first real sleep of her life, sheltered in Kara’s loving embrace.

“Tell me,” said Lena.

“That I might be immortal and you’re not. That one day you’ll be gone and I won’t, and what that will mean for me.”

Lena swallowed hard, trying not to choke up.

“I have to find a way then, I guess, because I won’t let you live on without me. I can’t leave you.”

Kara blinked a few times and Lena saw she was crying.

“I don’t want my love to be the thing that destroys you,” Kara whispered, taking Lena in her arms. “I love you so much. I love you with every cell in my body, it’s etched into every fibre of my being like the sunlight of my new home. You’re more to me the a red sunset. You’re my everything.”

Lena choked back her own tears, burying herself in Kara’s powerful embrace.

They took a moment for themselves, alone in the chamber, and stretched it out while Lena helped Kara change. She unclasped her cape and folded in her arms, surprised by the weight of the dense alien fabric, and set it aside.

She then found the hidden zippers and catches and helped Kara strip until she was bare, her sudden vulnerability making Lena’s chest clench. For all her muscles and surprising number of scars, she looked soft, almost delicate. Lena found herself touching those scars, feeling the hurts that had been so terrible that not even Kara’s invulnerability had saved her from them. The worst was the long but healed gash that ran from above her hip to just under her breasts, a gift from Reign.

Lena then helped her slip into a simple, loose white dress.

Old Lena- she had rejected taking a number and called herself that- joined them a few minutes later.

“Are we ready?” She said.

“We’re ready,” said Lena. Kara nodded in assent.

The lab was set up with three beds, each with their head aligned to the pedestal that held the sample of Harun-El that Lena had synthesized just for this. Kara would lie on one, the cyborg on another, and hopefully, the third would be occupied by a new body in a few minutes.

“I’ll start bringing her in.”

The life support for the cyborg’s body came first, and then they brought her in, using the same stasis pod that had carried Old Lena here from the Fortress of Solitude. Once they disabled the stasis field they’d have minutes.

More Lenas piled into the room, most notably 938, who stood aside to merely watch, and 1610, who could hopefully guarantee that transference was possible.

Only Lena and Old Lena worked on wiring Kara up and preparing the bed for the cyborg.

Neither of them had spoken of it, but somehow they had mutually agreed that they didn’t fully trust 938 or the others that came with her.

It was time. Lena rushed to help Old Lena move the broken body of the cyborg, with Diana stepping in for the literal heavy lifting. Lena could feel her brow burning with sweat as they worked.

Finally, they were wired up and that extra bed was waiting.

“It’s time,” said Lena.

Old Lena nodded and threw the switch.

Power and alien radiation cascaded through the dark crystal and Kara arched on the bed, the cyborg matching her movements with mechanical whirring sounds and the grinding of damaged joints.

“Kara?” Lena said. “Are you alright?”

Kara answered her by screaming. Her entire body arched, heels and shoulders lifting her up, and she screamed a wordless cry of agony as the her skin paled and black veins thickened down her limbs, swelled under the skin of her face.

“Oh God,” said Old Lena. “We can’t do this! Shut it off!”

“NO!” Kara shrieked, “I can take it! I can take it!”

“Look,” 938 said, “Look!”

Something was happening on the third bed. A circulatory system was weaving itself through the air, black veins sliding through invisible flesh. Astonished, Lena watched a brain grow itself from thin air as a brilliant purple energy formed an aura around it. A skeletal structure soon followed.

1610 made strange gestures and her hands took on a strange glow as she concentrated on something Lena couldn’t see.

Kara was grinding her teeth. “I can feel her, I can hear her thoughts, it’s like when I touched Red Daughter.

A full on nude Kara lay on the third bed now. Her chest slowly began to rise and fall and her eyes twitched beneath their lids, as if she were breathing. Her mouth formed silent words.

The cyborg went totally limp, whatever left of the will and energy that kept her alive fading as her head tilted to one side and her form went slack, her remaining eye gone glassy and lifeless.

Finally, Old Lena broke the circuit and the machine powered down. The room was utterly silent except for Kara’s soft, pained whimpers and the steady breathing of an immaculate copy of her lying on the bed. Old Lena rushed to cover her, sweeping a blanket over her to her chin.

Kara slowly rolled off the bed, leaning on Lena. Alex and Diana rushed in, crowding in to support her.

“I’m alright, I’m alright,” she panted. “I’m okay, it just stung like hell.”

Lena felt a wave of relief followed by a sudden terror. What if it hadn’t worked? What if there was simply an empty shell lying there on the bed and the cyborg, after everything she’d experienced, after all that suffering as she combed the multiverse for her love, as just… gone? Over? Nothing left but a few chunks held together by old wires and broken bumps?

“I want everyone else out,” Lena said. “Kara stays. Everyone else goes.”

“You heard her,” Alex piped up.

It was Diana that herded them all out. 938 was the last to go, tears hot on her cheeks.

The clone was not moving, just breathing.

“Please,” Old Lena murmured between sobs. “Please don’t leave. Not when we’re so close. I can’t do this aga-“

She went silent, then looked up.

“She squeezed my hand.”

Slowly, the clone’s eyes fluttered open.

“Where am I? Lena?”

“I’m here, baby.”

Kara grabbed Lena’s hand and their eyes briefly met.

“I couldn’t see,” the clone whispered. “I was falling, falling, I could hear you but you were always slipping away but now… great Rao, I can feel. I can feel.”

Slowly, she opened her eyes. The pair looked at one another and Old Lena pulled her into an embrace, the clone lunging into her arms. Moments later they were kissing each other relentlessly.

“Let’s give them some space,” said Lena.

Neither seemed to hear them, or even recall that they were there. As they hurried out of the room, Old Lena was pressing the clone back onto the bed.

Lena stepped out into the warm air of a Themysciran hotel evening and took a deep breath, the sweetness filling her lungs.

“I feel like someone dropped a prison asteroid on me,” Kara said, wryly.

“You smell like burnt rubber, too,” said Alex. “You need a bath.”

938 stormed up to them. “Did it work? Did it work? Did it bring her back?”

“Yes,” said Lena. “It worked.”

938 looked frantic, almost manic. “Do you think you could do it again?”

Lena felt a pang of unease.

“It’s too much strain on Kara. I won’t let her risk it.”

938 swallowed hard. “Give me the formula. Or just a sample. Anything. Please.”

Lena looked at Kara.

938 grabbed her shoulders. “We could save so many Karas with this. We could help them. So many that wouldn’t need to die.”

“The Harun-El is dangerous,” said Lena. “It has almost magical powers. Honestly, after I saw you and your group being so nonchalant about mindwiping a Kara variant, I’m not sure I can trust you with it.”

938’s face fell.

“You don’t understand,” she pleaded. “I can’t watch any more of them die. Every time it happens it’s like I’m watching my Kara fall all over again. I need to help them. Please.”

The doors opened behind Lena and she turned. The clone, once the cyborg, strode out of the temple in bare feet and a plain white gown, her Lena walking proudly beside her.

Old Lena looked down from the apex of the marble steps.

“I’m older than most of you,” she said, her voice carrying over them all. “I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. I escaped the Phantom Zone myself and tumbled through more worlds than I can count, looking for my Zhao, trying to find her before she suffered the consequences of my actions. The woman I loved was a rotting corpse kept alive by science created to kill her, because I couldn’t let her go.”

938 scowled, her voice strained. “It’s not fair for you to lecture us. You got yours back. You got yours back. I’ll never see mine again, except I do, every time I close my fucking eyes I see her falling and falling and it’s my fault! I killed her! I KILLED HER!”

938 sagged to her knees, burying her face in her hands.

“If I’d just jumped after her instead of using her webs… if I hadn’t been so focused on beating my brother… I lost everything.”

Diana, who had been silent the entire time, walked over and towered above 938.

“Lena,” she said. “Look at me.”

She looked up.

“It’s not your fault.”

“But I didn’t catch her.”

“Did you throw her off the bridge?”

“No, but it was my fault she was there, any way you slice it. He killed her to hurt me.”

Diana knelt.

“You are not responsible for her death.”

“You don’t understand,” 938 said. “With great power must also come great responsibility.”

Resting a meaty hand on her shoulder, Diana said, “Perhaps, but you are not a god. You are not responsible for everything.”

Old Lena and her Kara strode down the temple steps and joined Lena and Kara.

“Fine,” 938 finally said. “I can’t make you give it to me and I’m not going to fight any of you. We’ll go, but take this.”

She offered Lena a small device, a copy of the one she wore on her wrist. Lena tentatively took it.

“You can use that to call us if you need us.”

Without another word, she turned and fell in with the others, boarding their ship. When she reached the top of the ramp, she stopped and took a long look at both Karas before disappearing inside.

The ship lifted silently into the air and then winked out of existence with a blast of air rushing in to fill the vacuum.

“We should start looking for a way home, as well,” said Old Lena.

Lena turned to her.

“Don’t.”

Old Lena looked her in the eye.

“Don’t do that to yourselves,” said Lena. She turned to the clone. “Especially you. Whatever debt you think you owe, Kara, whatever guilt you have from being the last survivor of your home world, you’ve paid it. You’ve suffered so much, and your kindness has meant so much to me. Stay here.”

“This world already has a Supergirl.”

“Exactly,” said Kara. “That’s why you should stay. I can handle the cape stuff. You can just rest.”

“You can remain here,” said Diana, rising to join them. “Remain here on this island, beyond the reach of man’s world.”

Old Lena and the clone looked at each other.

“I want to stay,” said Old Lena.

“That’s all I needed to hear,” said the clone. “I just… if you really need me, you’ll call, right? You’ll ask me for help.”

Lena looked at her Kara, then at old Lena.

“No. I don’t think we will.”

“Even the mightiest warrior dreams of laying down sword and spear,” said Diana. “Rest.”

“Yes, Kara rest. We’ll be taking your new body for a test drive soon enough.”

The clone blushed beet red. “Ah. Yes. I see. May I speak with Lena? Alone?”

“Come on, Kara,” said Alex. “Give them some space.”

The others left. Lena was alone with the clone, the cyborg, whatever she was now, the breeze tugging gently at their clothes.

“Am I really her?” said the clone.

“What?” said Lena.

“I can’t help but wonder. I remember Lex running me through with the harpoon. I remember fading out, then waking up with the machinery in my body and a sobbing Lena greeting me full of grief and joy. Then it happened again. How many times can I be remade before I’m not me anymore? What if-“

“Kara,” Lena interrupted. “Do you feel the breeze on your skin? Is that real? Is your love for her real?”

“Yes.”

“Then so are you. We’re on Paradise Island and the love of your life is waiting for you. Go get her.”

The clone smiled. “I’m going to. You go get yours.”

“I will,” said Lena.

She did.

[steddiehyperfixation]

still into you (steddie ficlet)

Eddie wakes to the mouthwatering smell of bacon and eggs and fresh-made pancakes. He stretches lazily and heads to the kitchen to find Steve at the stove making breakfast, moving expertly between flipping pancakes and scrambling eggs and checking the bacon. A stupid kiss the cook apron is tied at the waist over his bare torso and sinful pajama shorts, and he looks just as delicious as the food he's cooking. The whole scene makes something warm and fluttery bloom bright in Eddie's chest. 

He sits at the counter and sighs dreamily, resting his chin in his hand as he watches him. “God, I have such a crush on you.” 

Steve looks over his shoulder with an amused expression that crinkles the smile lines at the corners of his eyes. “We're literally married.” 

“I know,” Eddie gushes, so in awe of this fact you'd think it was a new development even though it very much isn't. He marvels at his husband of 34 years, admires every inch of Steve's middle-aged body, every place where his time-worn skin is creased with signs of age and a life well lived and well loved. The beauty of him still knocks the wind out of Eddie, a breathless giggle bubbling up his throat. “But that doesn't mean I don't still have a massive fucking crush on you.” 

Steve huffs out a chuckle before turning his attention back to the stove, a quick duck of his head as if to hide a blush. 

Emboldened, Eddie stands and comes up to wrap his arms around him from behind. He nuzzles into Steve's neck, breathes in his salt and pepper hair and smiles into the curve of his shoulder. “I’m serious. Even after all this time, you still give me butterflies,” Eddie says, resting his hands over Steve's stomach and pressing gently to demonstrate his words, “right here, like I’m a teenager again. My aged heart still does very youthful backflips just at the sight of you, and I feel that rush of falling in love all over again, again and again, like it's the very first time.”

Eddie remembers a conversation he'd had with his uncle once, when he was much much younger and Wayne was about the age Eddie is now.  When you get older, you don't feel that type a’ love the same way anymore, Wayne had told him. It ain't the same heart-pounding, all-encompassing, get drunk off of it sort a’ giddy head-rush you get in your teens and twenties. It loses that kind a’ thrill, gets quieter. 

Eddie had found that thoroughly depressing, despite his uncle’s insistences that this was not a bad thing. Don't mean that love and attraction ain't there or that you can't feel it anymore, Wayne reassured him, it's just different is all. He'd shrugged then, his face like leather, worn and fond and bemused by his nephew’s wild youth. Old hearts get tired, Ed, he'd said. You'll get it when you get to be my age. 

Well, Eddie has gotten to be his age and he still doesn't get it. He does feel that quieter love, the kind that comes from shared routines and easy conversation and even easier silences, made up of trust and familiarity, the kind that settles into his bones like it was always meant to be there. But the thrill is still there too, as strong as ever. Steve still makes his heart race and his head spin. Eddie's stomach still flutters at his smile; his touch still sets off fireworks beneath his skin. Even now, Eddie feels a little dizzy just holding him, heartbeat faster. 

“We may get old,” Eddie continues his declaration, “but the way I feel about you never will.” He holds Steve tighter, hooking his chin over his husband's shoulder after pressing a kiss to it. “I will never get over the thrill of you, and my heart will never get tired of it.” 

“You are a dramatic old sap,” Steve says through a suppressed smile, rolling his eyes as he plates the food and turns off the stove, but then he's turning around in Eddie's arms and pulling him into a spirited kiss.

Eddie's blood feels like it's made of champagne, bubbly and fizzy and utterly intoxicated as Steve fills his senses. They kiss with the same clumsy passion they'd had at 21, too eager clashes of teeth and bruising lips. It's messy, inelegant, perfect, broken within seconds when their smiles become uncontainable. They pull apart, pink-cheeked and laughing. 

Steve grins. His eyes shine with all the same giddiness of infatuation and warmth of love as he holds Eddie's face in his hands and tells him, “I have a massive fucking crush on you too.” 

[a-most-beloved-fool]

Kira has a nightmare, one night when she's staying at the O'Brien's. Miles and Keiko, sleeping in the other room, don't hear her get up - but Molly does.

And Molly, being clever and kind, knows exactly what to do when someone has a nightmare. (Or, at least, she knows what her parents always do for her.) So she sits Kira down and brings her a glass of warm milk, and sits by her side as she drinks it.

Then, she takes Kira by the hand and leads her - to her parents bedroom. "I always sleep with mommy and daddy after a nightmare," she explains, when Kira stops outside the door. "It helps! Mommy chases the scary things away. And Daddy is warm."

"Molly," Kira says quietly, a little embarrassed, "I don't think your parents want me in their bed. Even if I did have a nightmare."

"No, they won't mind!" Molly assures.

Then, of course, Miles wakes up.

"Molly?" he asks, voice rough with sleep. "Did you have a nightmare?"

"No, but Miss Kira did!"

And now Keiko's awake, too, sitting up and saying, "Nerys? Are you alright?"

Mortified, Kira says, "Yes, I'm fine, I was just - on my way back to bed. Molly brought me here. I'm - sorry for waking you. I'll just be-"

"You can stay, if you want," Miles offers.

Kira doesn't quite think she heard him right. "What?"

"You can sleep here, if you think it might help," Keiko says.

"Or even if you don't!" Miles adds.

Kira opens her mouth, then closes it again. "I, uh-"

Keiko gets up, and takes Kira, gently, by the hand. Her palm is soft, Kira can't help but notice.

"Brr, it's freezing out here!" Keiko says, tugging Kira along. "You'd better get in before you catch your death of cold. Miles is practically a furnace, so you'll be nice and warm with us."

"And, Molly, you'd best go back to bed, too. You've got school in the morning," Miles says, as Keiko bundles Kira into the bed between them.

As Molly makes her way out, Keiko swings a lazy arm over Kira's back. "Sleep," she hums. "We'll be here in the morning."

Kira, feeling warm and cared for and more than a little overwhelmed, does.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Descent - ao3

Pairing: Lan Qiren/Wen Ruohan Summary:

Lan Qiren was old. Lan Qiren was tired.

------------

Lan Qiren was old.

Lan Qiren had pain in his body that would never leave him. Lan Qiren had pain in his heart that grew worse by the day. Lan Qiren had one nephew in seclusion, still, and one who did not speak with him, preferring the company of his husband over everyone else in their sect – over everyone else, period. His obsession seemingly permitted little closeness to any of his blood kin, no cousins, no nephews, nothing; even the juniors who were no longer juniors were closer to Wei Wuxian than Lan Wangji, for all that they still idolized him. Lan Qiren had spent his entire life being his sect’s acting leader and exactly none of it enjoying it.

Lan Qiren was old. Lan Qiren was tired.

Lan Qiren was too tired to teach any longer.

Lan Qiren was too tired to live any longer.

Lan Qiren closed his eyes every evening and woke up every morning without fail.

Lan Qiren did not understand why.

He was old – too old, really. His cultivation was good, but nothing particularly special, and yet he kept on going, and going, and going, long past the point of reason. His peers in the other Great Sects had all died unnatural deaths, but at the rate he was going, he was going to outlive all of his peers, period.

And when they were all gone, he might keep it up, and outlive his juniors, too.

Lan Qiren was tired.

Lan Qiren was full of regret.

Lan Qiren went to sleep as he always did, and then he opened his eyes the way he always did –

But everything was different.

His body, which had ached ever since his torture at the burning of the Cloud Recesses, did not hurt.

His surroundings, which had been ever so subtly but distinctly wrong since the Cloud Recesses had been rebuilt in ways that tried but failed to match his memories, had resumed the appearance they had had in the first half of his life.

His nephews…

His nephews were still young.

Teenagers, though he could not tell on sight exactly how old; it had been too long. They pretended to be so serious, particularly Lan Wangji, but compared to their adult selves, they seemed in Lan Qiren’s eyes to be so very light. So unburdened.

He was in the past.

The Cloud Recesses had not yet burned. Lan Xichen had not yet based his emotional stability on the goodness of a young man he met while on the run. Lan Wangji had not yet loved and lost – or at least he had not yet lost, since it was entirely possible that Wei Wuxian had already come and gone and taken Lan Wangji’s heart with him while he was at it.

Lan Qiren was in the past.

Lan Qiren did not know how it had happened, but his every sense confirmed that it was so.

Lan Qiren had the chance to change everything.

He only needed to strain his memory and dig up everything he could about the Sunshot Campaign. He only needed to figure out what parts of the past to change and what parts to keep – what tragedies he could prevent, and which ones he couldn’t, and which ones had to be tolerated because to go another way would lead only to something worse. The burning of the Cloud Recesses, his brother’s death, Lan Xichen’s terrible flight and subsequent fateful meeting with Meng Yao, Lan Wangji’s broken leg and the indoctrination camp, the destruction of the Jiang sect, Wei Wuxian as the Yiling Patriarch, Meng Yao as spy…all that tragedy, all that sorrow, and every piece of it potentially inextricably connected to some other potentially invaluable piece, without which life might not be worth living.

Lan Qiren…

Lan Qiren was tired.

He was tired, and he was old.

He had to change things. That much was unquestionable.

But he did not have to change them like that.

“Inform the elders that I am going on a short trip,” he told one of the disciples with a no-longer-familiar face that passed by his door, doing his best not to guess whether this was one of the ones that died in the burning or in the war or thereafter. “I will be departing immediately. I do not require company.”

“Yes, Teacher Lan,” the disciple said respectfully. “I will tell them at once. Do you want me to summon your nephews so that you can bid them farewell?”

Had Lan Qiren done that, once upon a time, so long ago, and done it often enough that this disciple would know to ask about it? Had his nephews appreciated it when he did, or at least tolerated it, or had they treated his efforts to include them in his life as a burden, the way he knew they would in the future?

He could no longer remember.

“No,” Lan Qiren said. “It is a short trip. I will not disturb them.”

The disciple saluted.

Lan Qiren left.

He flew in the general direction of Qinghe for a while, no longer willing to blindly assume that his orders would be obeyed and that he was not being followed. When he had confirmed he was truly alone, perhaps because of how quickly he had departed, he turned his sword to Qishan instead, and went to the Nightless City.

“I do not have an appointment or an invitation,” he said to the guard that waited outside the gate. “But I wish to speak with Sect Leader Wen regardless.”

The door guard’s expression suggested that this was a very foolish thing to want.

Lan Qiren did not disagree, familiar as he was with Wen Ruohan’s current state of mind – to be more specific, his increasing lack of sanity and equally increasing ambition – but he did not falter or change his request. He did not leave.

He waited.

Even as the time dragged on and on, he did not mind the insult, and he did not lose his temper.

He waited.

In time, he was allowed in, and shown to the receiving hall.

Wen Ruohan was sitting on the Wen sect’s main seat when he arrived. There were no servants or guards in the hall, but then, none were needed to make his appearance more intimidating: just him, the most powerful cultivator of their age, and him alone, looming above all the rest.

It was enough.

It was more than enough.

In Lan Qiren’s entire life, he had never known anyone who could match Wen Ruohan in all his might and glory. Even Wei Wuxian in the height of his glory, with all his demonic cultivation, had only been able to contend with the Wen armies, rather than the man himself; Wen Ruohan himself had remained within the Nightless City, easily repelling them all, even when they had all tried to attack him all together at once.  

In the end, he had only fallen to a strike from within.

“Sect Leader Lan,” Wen Ruohan said. His voice was rich and slow, thick with menace and unspoken threat. “And without any advance notice, too…What an unexpected surprise.”

Lan Qiren saluted politely, but did not apologize.

“What emergency brings you here?”

Here of all places, Wen Ruohan meant. His gaze was as steady as a snake about to strike its prey.

“No emergency,” Lan Qiren said steadily. “A question.”

“A question?” Wen Ruohan didn’t so much as blink. “How interesting. One that only I can answer, I suppose. By all means, then, go on, tell me: what is your question?”

Lan Qiren looked up at him, meeting those blazing red eyes with his own steady, unshaken gaze.

“What will it take?” he asked.

Wen Ruohan arched his eyebrows. He seemed unmoved, even bored, as if he had anticipated all the potential paths this conversation could take and found them all equally dull. “What do you mean? What will it take – what will what take?”

“What will it take,” Lan Qiren said patiently, “for you to stop?”

Wen Ruohan frowned.

Apparently he hadn’t anticipated everything.

Strange. To Lan Qiren’s mind, it was all perfectly logical.

“I do not want to burn,” Lan Qiren said, and Wen Ruohan’s eyes abruptly narrowed. “I do not want to be tortured, to lose my home, or for my family to suffer unimaginably. I have come here to ask you how I can prevent that.”

Wen Ruohan was silent for a long while.

“Now that is indeed a question,” he finally said. He seemed thoughtful. “Doesn’t your sect have a rule against making assumptions?”

“It is not an assumption,” Lan Qiren said. He had forgotten much about the past, but he would never forget the smell of smoke, the crackling blaze, the screams. Nor would he forget upon whose orders it had been that it had happened at all. “It will happen. I do not know if you have already drawn up the plans or if that is still to come, but if we continue along our present path, it will happen. You will send your army to burn the Cloud Recesses as a demonstration of your power and as warning to all the Great Sects, telling us to bow before you or face the consequences.”

Wen Ruohan did not deny it. Perhaps the plans really were already in place.

“I do not want to burn,” Lan Qiren said once more. “Tell me what I must do to prevent it, and I will.”

Wen Ruohan seemed to be waiting for him to continue, but Lan Qiren did not. He had no more to say.

“What, is that all?” Wen Ruohan finally asked. The faint traces of surprise on his face made him seem oddly human, in a way he had not been earlier. A sign of hope, perhaps, though maybe that was just Lan Qiren deceiving himself; he had grown far too good at that. “No conditions? No restrictions? ‘Tell me what I must do, as long as it’s not’…?”

Lan Qiren shook his head. He had come with no conditions.

“What if I asked you to surrender your sect to me?”

“I am only acting Sect Leader, and lack the authority to bind my sect,” Lan Qiren said promptly. He’d expected the question. “But I can submit a proposal to the elders asking them to agree to it and put forward all my strength to argue for it, if that is what you wish.”

“What if I asked you to murder someone for me?”

“I am a scholar, not an assassin,” Lan Qiren said. “But I have a sword, and I can use it if I must.”

Wen Ruohan’s gaze was thoughtful, and heavy.

“What if,” he said slowly, “I asked you to give yourself to me?”

Lan Qiren frowned – not in refusal, but in confusion. He did not understand.

“Is that not what I am already doing?” he asked, a little hesitantly. “I am here, asking for you to instruct me. I have made no conditions, imposed no restrictions, set in place no limits. If you ask me to violate my principles and my family’s rules, I will do so, though it breaks my heart. If you ask me to give up my sect’s freedom and autonomy, I will do so to the best of my ability, though I cannot promise to succeed. All I ask in return is that you not harm my family or act in a way that brings harm to them. What part of myself have I not already submitted to you? Or is it my life that you want..? If you want it, you may have it, freely offered.”

“I do not want your death, if that is what you mean,” Wen Ruohan said. “But I admit to having unexpectedly developed some interest in your life. Come here.”

Lan Qiren approached the seat – the throne, if he were being honest. Wen Ruohan saw himself as the ruler of the cultivation world, and the Nightless City reflected that belief. In his past life, Lan Qiren had visited this place a number of times before it had finally fallen, and he had never been permitted to approach as he did now; Wen Ruohan was too paranoid for that.

Perhaps Wen Ruohan no longer considered him a threat.

He was right not to.

Lan Qiren approached, then stopped at a respectful distance, only a few large strides away.

“Closer.”

Lan Qiren came closer, stopping only a small step or two away.

“Closer.”

Lan Qiren came to within arm’s length, until he was very nearly standing right before Wen Ruohan, their knees very nearly brushing against each other.

“Kneel.”

Lan Qiren knelt. He was too close to the other man to go into a full kowtow, as he knew Wen Ruohan preferred his servants and disciples to do, so he did not do so.

“Look at me.”

Lan Qiren looked up and met Wen Ruohan’s eyes.

“You never answered my question,” Wen Ruohan said, and Lan Qiren frowned. “If I agree to ensure that your sect is unharmed, your family does not suffer, your home does not burn…will you give yourself to me?”

“Yes,” Lan Qiren said. He still did not understand what exactly Wen Ruohan wanted, but that was immaterial, as long as his goal was obtained – as it seemed, impossibly, that it would be. “I will.”

“Good,” Wen Ruohan said. “Then we are agreed.”

And then he kissed him.

[bone-trash]

COD Headcanons #3

Old Man Hobbies

Johnny loves plants

When he had the tiny flat in Glasgow that he only kept for his leaves, he had a little window box for herbs

His quarters on base always featured a few succulents squeezed in on the desk amongst his notebooks

Even when it’s been rainy and his bad knee acts up (Simon got him a floral print knee rest and he silently cherishes the extra padding) he diligently trots out in his rubber clogs and tends their garden

He really enjoys nurturing the little shoots and sprouts and researches fertilizer types and soil airation and drainage and recommended pruning techniques

It feels good to use his hands. Hands, once soaked in war and blood and devastation; now only muddied with dark sweet earth of their home

Johnny’s yields aren’t much, certainly not enough to live on, but Simon always seems to have a recipe for whatever he can grow

…

Simon feeds the birds

He used to golf with Johnny’s Da but his arthritis really cranked up the last few years and he needs a hobby that requires less fine motor control

He sits on the porch, often a couple hours before Johnny’s awake, cuppa steaming and watches the day come alive over their garden

He starts with bread because he’s Manc as hell and has only dealt with the kind of streetwise pigeons that don’t even run away from people anymore

He learns online that songbirds love sunflower seeds and grains and he experiments with different blends, eventually hanging up a few feeders within view of the windows

Unfortunately this encourages squirrels, Simon hates the squirrels

Johnny is endlessly amused by this

——

Hey y’all! Another idea inspired by @bringinsexybackk69 maybe someday I’ll get my own ideas ✌️💀

[zairaalbereo]

Happy Pride — Crazy couple climbs Chrysler Building to hang pride flag, evades arrest.

On Ao3

Want me to help you up?” Joe asks, looking down at his love, who is clinging somewhat precariously to the head of the eagle gargoyle, to which they have just managed to attach a large pride flag. Below him is nothing but 61 floors of thin air. 

Nicky’s gaze is serene and completely unconcerned, though. “Nah, I’m good,” he says. “This is very comfortable.”

His cheeks are flushed, his hair is ruffled, and he looks ridiculously handsome, with his arm muscles bulging from holding the whole of his weight up. Since there’s nothing for his feet to find purchase. It’s certainly impressive, and yet Joe’s heart beats a little faster when he imagines Nicky losing his grip. Nicky falling.

“Yes, I can see that,” Joe lies, squinting down at Nicky and the yawning abyss below. “And yet… up here, I could kiss you.”

“Really, Yusuf,” Nicky’s eyebrows are raised, and there’s a grin pulling at his lips and sparkling from his eyes. “Are you telling me, it is too difficult for you to kiss me right now?”

Joe’s eyes narrow. Oh, it’s so on. 

Joe is way too old to have anything to prove, but this is a challenge he will never back down from. Raising his eyebrows to mirror Nicky’s own, he lowers himself to his knees and feels smug satisfaction curse through him when Nicky’s eyes widen just a fraction. He leans further forward, over the edge, while one hand reaches out to curl around Nicky’s neck.

When he captures Nicky’s open mouth in a kiss it makes his heart pound wildly, always does and always will, the thrill of it heightened not so much by the danger of their position, but the moan escaping Nicky’s lips. The eagerness with which he opens up further, raising his chin to deepen the kiss. It’s perfect—

Until Nicky’s fingers start to slip, and Joe’s heart is suddenly in his throat. 

His hands grab Nicky’s wrists, and he clings to the gargoyle with his thighs, as he leans back and drags Nicky up until he’s pressed against his chest.

“Stupido,” he chastises breathlessly against Nicky’s lips, his arms wrapped securely around him. But Nicky only smiles at him.

“I knew you’d save me,” he murmurs, and kisses him: an apology and an old, familiar promise that makes Joe relax, relief and love washing over him, washing everything else away.

He could have kept kissing Nicky like this, just the two of them above the world. 

But unfortunately that’s when the police helicopter shows up.

(Later Copley will look at the article and picture Nile has sent him with a row of emojis attached 🫠😍🫣 and wearily shake his head. At least they didn’t get arrested this time. Small mercies.)

[travelingtwentysomething]

Prompt: “Pick a god and pray” they said, and you did, praying to every god you knew. And as you did this a name popped into your mind, one you didn’t recognize, yet you prayed to them all the same. In response the air stood still, like even the world had forgotten their name.

Devotion Tastes So Sweet On Your Lips (AO3)

It was another one of those nights- Steve was running through the dark trees, waking nightmare chasing him down.

He prayed his footing stayed true. He prayed that his breaths didn't falter. He prayed that the hungry darkness falling fast in his shadow didn't catch him.

He prayed to all the gods. Every deity he had ever learned of, all the new gods, and the old. He prayed until the sweat burning his eyes blinded him and he felt a root leap up in front of his foot.

He stumbled but did not fall.

But the sound of a snapping maw was closing around the dust he kicked up.

Suddenly, in his desperation, a name floated from the depths of his erratic heart to the tip of his bitten tongue.

"Eddie the Banished, of the Fallen Forest— Please- Please," Steve huffed, a force behind the name punched through his diaphragm and left him no air to plead with.

No sooner had the name fallen from Steve's lips, than the ground fell away beneath him- an embankment, steep and unforgiving in its angle. He rolled past tree trunks, slid over rough roots, and scraped jagged rocks loose for gravity to bring along for the ride.

His body hit the bottom and bounced.

Steve was dazed, his ears felt muffled as if he had landed underwater. He sat up so fast his vision swam, leaving trails of light where the stars shone down on him under the glare of the full moon.

He tried to stand, but his stomach protested- knees, shaken and unsteady, refused to hold his weight. He fell, once again on his back, trying to catch his bearings.

When his head cleared enough that the moon ceased it's dance in the sky above him, Steve sat up slowly, taking stock of his surroundings. He strained his ears to hear the snap of twigs or the slide of rocks down the slope he had just ridden as his pursuer followed him into the gorge.

It was silent as a ghost.

Steve pressed his palms to his ears and felt no blood, squeezing to try and pressure shock them into working.

He listened again—

Not even a whisper of wind in the trees.

Steve picked up a twig from the soft bed of moss that had saved his limbs from the worst of the abrupt impact and snapped it between his fingers- the sound sharp enough to startle him.

His ears worked just fine, it seemed- it was the forest that was broken.

As Steve got one knee under him, prepared to make another attempt to stand- a shadow fell over him.

Steve kept his head lowered, subdued under the charge in the air- the unmistakable aura of predator.

He slowly raised his eyes, and only his eyes.

There, standing tall above him, was a Wild God.

"It has been... So long-" The voice was grinding stones carried on the wind, "I'd forgotten what it sounded like." The Wild God lowered his body into a facsimile of a bow. A hand that shadows cling to like smoke, finger tips black as the night and ephemeral, ghosted under his chin, raising Steve's eyes to meet the darkness shining in the Wild God's own. "My name on some desperate tongue."

Steve was struck with a lightning heat deep inside his belly that rose like a plume of ashes from the mouth of a volcano, his face burning under the gaze of the most beautiful and terrifying wonder he had ever witnessed.

"Say it again." The Wild God demanded, voice deep enough to shake the ground Steve knelt on.

"Eddie the Banished, of the Fallen Forest." Steve moaned, unabashed.

Eddie's eyes rolled and the whites flickered behind shivering lashes as he savored the taste of devotion.

[zvahlne]

headcanon: shadow knights can't cry.

it takes him a long while to notice. he had never considered himself much of a crier. it wasn't that he thought there was anything wrong with crying. he was just one to keep moving, keep doing, show the people around him and under his care that it would be alright, no matter what had happened. some might accuse him of bottling for this, though whether it was selfless for others (so they wouldn't worry; so they could cry while he carried it) or selfish (so he wouldn't have to think about it, wouldn't have to feel it), up for debate. either way, he would disagree, and had whenever someone close enough to him to notice the pattern mentioned it (usually cadenza).

...the last time he remembers crying was with cadenza. it was about joh.

he didn't cry in the nether (no water can last long there; how could he? your eyes could never get wet enough. every blink in the nether is stinging).

he didn't cry when he was brought back, not for his sight, not for ungrth (more surprising, but he was in shock. nothing felt real in those days, and after, he had things to do, people to care for).

it's when he loses 15 years and he comes back to his father's death and can't shed a single tear that he finally thinks he really ought to be crying. but he isn't. he can't?

he goes to ungrth's grave and he thinks of ungrth and he thinks of hayden and he thinks of joh and he thinks of garroth and he grits his teeth, he digs his nails into his palms, he gets a headache from how tight his brows furrow, he feels an ache so intense in his chest he's gasping for breath, but his eyes are as dry as they've since the day he died (he wants to cry, he should be crying, why isn't he crying?).

his life is taken from him, replaced with facsimile. the man he trusted more than himself betrayed him, and is now lost a dimension away. he's lost fifteen years, his father passed without him present, his friend's grave has been desecrated, the places he lived in and loved and protected fallen and rebuilt, all in his absence, all to be discovered all at once. he loses nearly everything, he watches helplessly as he loses even himself. and yet...

laurance can't cry.

[shares-a-vest]

While my shoulder has been fucked up I've been watching a lot of football AND sports commentary shows, which I have found myself enjoying??? As always, I've kept the actual sports ball details vague seeing as I barely know American sports.

Eddie walks into the living room to find Steve on his feet and standing far too close to the television. He has the phone to his ear and his shoulders are tensing.

"I cannot believe this," he says to Robin, who Eddie knows is on the other end of the line and probably just as agitated.

She must say something Steve vehemently agrees with because he nods, all stern and vibrating in agreeance. But he soon scoffs, holding the phone away as the Sportsman on the television says... Something about something baseball-related.

Steve swooshes his hand through the air in disapproval.

"Rob, are you hearing this asshole?"

The oven dings and Eddie decides to take his chances and step forward. He tip-toes quietly, making sure to keep his distance as he moves into his husband's field of vision and boy, is Steve mad about... Whatever tonight's Sports Problem is.

It's a big enough to-do that it is being discussed on (Eddie knows this much) Sportscenter.

Steve's frown deepens and his mouth down-turns to a cute – albeit grumpy – pout that has only become more accentuated with age and wrinkles.

"Dinner," Eddie mouths, adding an innocent, wiggling hand wave.

Steve props a hand on his hip and nods at him before he turns his attention back to the television. He heaves in a breath and now Eddie frowns. Because yeah, sure, Hellfire still gets his heart a-fluttering every once in a while, but these days he and the boys carry out quieter, more laid-back campaigns that would make their former selves gasp in horror.

And, Sport Problems, or not, he doesn't like the idea of Steve getting so worked up that he's wheezing.

"Rob!" Steve scolds in disbelief down the line, "What? Ugh, fine... Fine!" he looks at Eddie, "My dinner is ready too... Alright! Call me back... Mhmm," he pinches his nose, "Yes, I'll do the three-way call thing with Sinclair instead... Fine! Okay, bye."

He ends the call with a forceful pressing of the Talk/End button and murmurs to himself, practically sneering as he shoots the panel of sports commentators a look.

"Okay-p," Eddie says, clasping his hands together as he decides to charge for the remote.

He points it at the TV and gleefully reduces the group riling up his husband's undead universe-induced asthma to black nothingness.

"Calm down, Stevie-bear," he says, discarding the remote on the couch so he can rub at his back, "No more Sportscenter for now."

"But, Eddie, can you believe –"

Steve cuts himself off as Eddie loops an arm around his middle and leads him to the four-seater dining table.

"I know your hip is too bad for you to play ball these days, sweetheart, but you gotta calm down," he bargains, relieved when Steve's breathing begins to even out, "Dinner time is our quiet time."

"Yes..." Steve glances around.

Eddie narrows his eyes the moment he realises his partner has located their iPad on the breakfast bar. He tilts his head, hoping to block Steve's view of it and they soon become engaged in a silent stand-off despite standing in the middle of their living space attached at the hip, arm in arm.

It only stops when Steve purses his lips, no doubt readying himself to bring out the big guns and say something with the deadliest of bitchy lilts.

"Nope," Eddie says, chopping his hand through the air, "You're not rewatching that... play you are so cranky about on the iPad. I'm sure you are right about it anyway."

Steve says nothing. Hell, he probably saw straight through that ever-so-slightly condescending attempt at deflection. But Eddie can't bring himself to be all that worried about his tone as some very real panic sets in at the sound of the pot on the stove bubbling up a little too much.

He detaches himself from his partner, thinking that ruining dinner and taking Steve away from the television will start up a World War III, the likes of which he hasn't seen since the time he brought a stray cat into the apartment, who promptly hid in the closet and pooped in Steve's new Nikes.

"I am right," Steve says, all perky and chipper now as he pulls out a chair, "Can you, uh... Do the, uh..."

He trails off, looking at the phone's keypad and gesturing to the buttons.

Eddie reaches forward and plucks the phone from Steve's hand.

"I'll set up the three-way call for you later," he says, reading his mind. He presses a kiss to his forehead and sets the phone down on the table, "Promise."

"Lucas will be ready to talk at – "

"Eight o'clock," Eddie nods, "Just in time for the replay, I know."

He pats Steve on the shoulder with reassurance. When his husband finally takes a seat, Eddie heads off to the kitchen just in time to salvage their dinner.

[buckys-sam]

[Post TFATWS pre BNW]

--

Bucky had been to Louisiana before.

He’d helped fix up a boat there, sat on the dock with a beer in hand, laughed at Sam arguing with his nephews, eaten his fill of home-cooked food, even let the warmth of the place settle into his bones just a little.

But this time? This time was different. This time, there was no skirting around whatever this thing between himself and Sam had grown into.

There would be no pretending. No excuses.

Before, it had been easy to hide behind the work, to let the warmth of the sun and the ripples of the water mask the fact that something had already been pulling them together.

But now? Now everyone was gonna see it written all over him and that... that made something in Bucky’s stomach twist in a way he wasn’t used to.

He wasn't ashamed. He truly wasn’t - he’d made his choice. Sam was his choice, his only choice.

But Bucky hadn’t belonged anywhere in a long, long time.... and Louisiana? Louisiana wasn’t just some place. It was Sam’s place. His home - a place full of people who loved him, knew him and cared about him.

And Bucky? Bucky was walking straight into it with his heart on full display.

--

The plane finally touched down and Bucky sat silent, staring out the window as the marshes and open sky stretched beyond the runway.

Sam nudged him gently with his elbow. “You good?”

Bucky grunted, shifting in his seat. “Yeah.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, that was real convincing.”

Bucky shot him a look. Butterflies raked iron claws along his insides but he ignored them. “I said I’m fine.”

Sam arched a brow, clearly disbelieving that response. Then his lips curved into that infuriating smirk Bucky loved so much. “You always get this tense before vacations?”

Bucky huffed, rolling his shoulders like he could shake it all off. It didn't work.

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh, damn. You’re nervous.”

Bucky’s scowl deepened. “I am not nervous.”

Sam grinned harder. “You totally are.”

Bucky sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “I fought in a world war, I got brainwashed for seventy years, I've taken on entire armies with my bare hands, and now I gotta—what? Worry about meeting your family like some kind of high school boyfriend?”

Sam bit his lip, trying hard to hide his amusement but his voice dropped and his eyes sparkled in an infuriating way. “You wanna hold my hand through it, Barnes?”

Bucky glared. “I swear to God, Wilson-”

Sam laughed, clapping a hand on his knee. “C’mon, man. It’s just Louisiana. You already survived it once.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Yeah, but last time, we weren’t... Ya know-”

He cut himself off, lips pressing into a thin line.

Sam’s expression softened just slightly. “Weren’t what?” he prompted, voice low, even and knowing.

Bucky didn’t look at him.

He didn’t need to. Sam knew what he was getting at.

Before, they’d been dancing around it - now there was no dancing. No hiding. No pretending they were just friends... Just a pair of men who happened to share space and time and nothing unspoken inbetween.

Now.... Everyone was gonna see it - Sarah. The boys. The locals who’d already given Bucky side-eyes last time, wondering who the hell he was to be hanging around Sam Wilson’s dock, and what the hell was up with that metal arm.

This time, there’d be no question.

This time, Bucky wasn’t just some guy helping to fix a boat.

This time, Bucky was Sam’s.

Sam must have seen it. The way Bucky was chewing on the inside of his cheek, the way his fingers curled tight against his thigh because he didn’t tease this time. He didn’t push. He just reached over, slid a warm hand over Bucky’s, steady and sure.

Bucky stared at it.

At their hands, right there in the open, no hesitation, no fear.

And Sam -damn him- just held on.

“You know,” Sam mused, casual as hell as he leaned close, “We could turn right back around, catch the next flight to New York, never leave this airport.”

Bucky snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, that’d be real subtle. Besides, Sarah would kill us."

"She would," Sam grinned, squeezing his hand once before letting go. “You got this, Barnes. Louisiana ain’t gonna bite.”

Bucky exhaled, letting the tension in his shoulders loosen just a little.

Sam was right.

It was just a place.

Just people.

Just a home Bucky was stepping into, not running from.

And when Sam led the way off the plane, walking ahead with his bag slung over his shoulder, Bucky didn’t hesitate to follow.

[lsunstreakerl]

ACTUALLY id love to see your take on kimi (raikkonen) and seb. those two move me in ways that are unexplainable

(yes i know its kinks prompts not pairings prompts but what if i say please)

this didn't really end up being a kink prompt, sorry. they were captivating, even if I don't really write the older drivers- I hope I got some characterization right :) slight mature content- about two lines worth. 950 words, Seb POV.

pairings: kimi raikkonen/sebastian vettel

relevant heads up: not really any!

"You are staring, Vettel."

Seb startles, averting his eyes. It's not his fault Kimi looks so good in the fireproofs- but Ferrari is weirder about their drivers fucking than Redbull had been.

"Sorry- lost my train of thought."

Kimi continues looking at him flatly.

"My eyes just happened to land on your chest."

That's reasonable- it's a thing that happens. All the time.

Kimi looks away from him back to the briefing packet.

Seb still can't tell if he likes him or not.

------

Kimi goes insane at a good party, and Seb knows that because he's currently on his knees, using all his Redbull experience to take his cock to the base, and Kimi isn't even looking at him- too busy sucking face with some engineer, and completely ignoring him.

Seb runs his tongue across the side, tracing out veins as he teases at the head, and then Kimi's hand is pulling him further in as he gags, fingers tight in his hair while cum spills down Seb's throat.

Prick.

------

"Drinking alone is boring."

Seb scowls as Kimi steps into his hotel room.

"Get out."

Kimi does not. He sits on the end of the bed, raising his own bottle to his lips as he watches Seb, who is currently pressed back into the headboard, well on his way to plastered.

He's having a bad time. He's having a bad time, and a bad career, and he shouldn't have left-

"You think you are shit."

Seb almost chokes on his beer.

"Fucking- get out Raikkonen, if you are here just to tell me what I already know-"

"Shut up."

Seb's mouth shuts with a click.

"You are not shit. The team is shit, and the car is shit, but you-"

Kimi looks over at him, eyes fierce and intense and alive.

"You are one of the best we have ever had, Sebastian."

------

Seb falls in love with Kimi in the middle of a rained out qualifying, watching him try and work the hotel waffle maker. It's not anything monumental or world shattering.

It's a quiet moment. A soft acceptance, that this is something that has happened to him that will irreversibly fuck him up for life.

Kimi with his stupid short haircut, race suit low on his hips as he glares at the batter.

Kimi, who speaks very little but means every word.

Kimi, who has been quietly crawling his way into Seb's life, smoothing out his rough edges where the transition from Redbull to Ferrari has rubbed him raw.

Kimi, with his dull sense of humor, blunt and deadpan.

Seb is going to be in love with him forever, probably. He can tell already.

It's going to be a thorn in his heart until he dies, pulsing in time to his blood and his brain, as deep a part of him as racing.

He wishes he could talk to Michael about it.

------

Unintentionally, it's actually Dan who finds out- mostly because he walks into Sebastian's room after qualifying, buries himself underneath his duvet, and refuses to move even when Seb snaps his wet towel at him.

"You are not a rookie anymore, why are you hiding in my hotel bed?"

Daniel rolls onto his back, groaning. His eyes are wet.

Sebastian immediately stops smiling, sitting near his knees and resting a hand in his hair.

Daniel's not a fresh faced baby racer at this point, but he'll always be Seb's.

Daniel sighs.

"I'm in love with Max."

Oh.

Seb pauses- Dan doesn't like empty platitudes, and he's definitely in some deep shit if he's in love with a teenager.

Not the craziest thing their sport has seen.

"I'm in love with Kimi?"

Daniel laughs wetly, fist bumping Seb.

"Something in the Redbull water then, I guess. Makes you hopelessly in love with something you can never have."

------

Kimi is leaving. Sebastian is getting a rookie kid, Ferrari's new pride and joy- already more loved than he's ever been.

He can see the writing on the wall.

Charles wiggles his way into his heart anyways.

------

Seb isn't sure what he's doing at Kimi's doorstep, other than the fact that he's falling apart, he's never been this bald in his life, and it feels like Ferrari and the tifosi are rooting for him to fail.

Kimi swings his front door open, looking at Seb with a blank expression.

Seb shrugs helplessly. He's not sure how to condense everything he's feeling, how to make it digestible and bite sized- he hasn't even processed it himself yet.

He blurts the first thing that comes to mind.

"We're getting old."

Kimi laughs, loud and long- completely taking Seb by surprise.

"You are only noticing now?"

------

"Oh shit- Kimi!"

Sebastian is gripping the side of the four-wheeler for dear life as Kimi sends them flying through the mud, squeezing his eyes shut behind the helmet even as he starts giggling.

Kimi is grinning, and when his eyes shift over to look at Seb they're fond.

"Nothing like the formula cars, yes?"

Seb grins at him, can't even contain the way it feels like joy is leaking out of him.

"Not even close!"

They're driving some shitty repair vehicle Kimi had bought- "It was a steal!" "So? You're a millionaire!", flying through muddy backwoods in a state Seb hadn't even known was part of America.

He's having the time of his life, more fulfilled here than he's been anywhere else.

He never did get to talk to Michael about it- but he thinks maybe now that's okay. Even when he sees him every time Mick calls, or when he thinks about the past too long, lingers on his helmets on the wall of the garage.

Sometimes the younger drivers will ask him for advice. He doesn't know how to give it- there's only one Kimi, the axis around which Seb rotates, his rock, his muse, his other half.

The kids will just have to find their own.