#once again. I am stymied by blues

[thexstitchpokedexproject]

#258. Mudkip

The fin on Mudkip's head acts as highly sensitive radar. Using this fin to sense movements of water and air, this Pokémon can determine what is taking place around it without using its eyes.

Colour and symbol charts can be found here.

A note on colours: in my experience, floss looks different irl than in online pattern makers. If you think a different colour will work better, go with your gut!

[loser-hub]

All For One.

Summary: There needs to be more content for this gloriously sinister man and I am more than happy to provide! How does it begin? Will you escape his clutches or will you submit to his desires?

Warnings: Yandere Tendencies, Kidnapping, Mild mention of Starvation, Dubcon, Quirk use during sex, Mind-Break and a whole host of degeneracy.

Notes: I tried to make the reader as vague as I possibly could for insert pleasure! GN with as few details as possible so it could be anyone or anything! This is 18+, minors dni. If you'd like to block any content of this nature on my page please put Tw: Heavy Spice in your filtering options!

A/N: I really don't know if I should apologize for this or not, you can see the point it got out of hand so please be warned and take your tastes and limits into account while reading!

A terrible fate has befallen you, hasn't it?

Your meeting was rather innocuous. So easily forgotten despite the feelings time with him supplanted. Long before his debut in the Kamino Ward and before his defeat at the hands of the Symbol of Peace. He wasn't heavily deformed then, he could easily mix in with the crowds and disappear as quickly as he appeared. His shaggy white hair and piercing blue eyes matched only by his stature and smile, the consensus of the humdrum day-to-day passerby was that he was quite attractive. Not that he ever entertained their mindless and painfully obvious observations.

The fateful event happened rather cliché all things considered. It began in a library. Wonders never ceased and he was unsure what compelled him to enter the home of knowledge and entertainment but he never once regretted it. Wandering the sea of books he looked for anything that would pique his interest, he nearly gave up the search until his eyes landed on you. An innocent, tiny thing that perused the history section for your latest essay or project, he never specifically asked why you were there.

He was captivated, captured by your beauty. Staring there at the entrance of the aisle for so long that when you turned you shrieked, believing him to be a well dressed Weeping Angel that you had read about the night before. That was the most embarrassing moment of your life as you apologized to him and to the librarian that zipped to the location to scold you about being too loud. For once he found apologies endearing, cute even, adorable if you feel so inclined and the sheer shock that a creature like you could exist in this world was pushed to the wayside.

The encounter was swift but profound, for him at least. Using his towering height to pull a book from the shelf you were too short to reach and place with the over growing collection. You were stuttering and blushing something fierce underneath his gaze and he had to stop himself from smirking at your bashfulness. He asks for your name and once you divulge it he responds by insisting you call him Mr. Shigaraki. After more insistence from either side hearing his name fall from your lips was like he was graced with hearing the voice of an Angel.

Sadly that's where the meeting ended as your time was up for whatever was going to take up your time next and you needed to scurry away. You wouldn't be forgotten as your face was forever burned in his memory, a fondness churning in the pit of his stomach. He believed everyone else was beneath him, save for his brother, who were all ants that needed to be squashed. You were different and he needed to find out why.

Time passes, as it always does. You forgot your encounter with Mr. Shigaraki and life went on. The day started off oddly, you couldn't place why but the hairs at the back of your neck stood on end. A lingering sense of doom settled in your mind like a dense fog on a dewy spring morning but whatever the reason had yet to reveal itself. This too was forgotten as the day progressed until it was late, late enough for you to seek refuge in your bed. About to drift off to sleep when suddenly your whole room shook, no, the entire area shook like an earthquake had just opened the earth beneath your feet. Looking out your bedroom window you saw chaos, the entire area had been decimated and nothing but rubble remained. Heroes had appeared and began evacuating just in time for your home to collapse.

You drifted in and out of consciousness. The moments where your eyelids were opened you saw none other than All Might, the Symbol of Peace, face down a masked villain in a suit. Shock was written on the hero's face when you called out to him for help, accidentally gaining the attention of the villain as well. If he still had eyes they would be wide and manic, he had not forgotten you of course but there you were. He had searched for you so fervently and yet here you were right under his nose. Your presence, he could feel it using that quirk from the cat rescuer and he instantly knew it was you. What luck. The fight was abandoned when he saw this was his best chance, the rest of the heroes were too focused on fighting off his pawns and All Might was too wounded to move.

In an instant the masked villain moved the rubble that had been pinning you in place and whisked you away.

Your fear was intoxicating. The pleas, begs and sobs that you cried were more delicious than anything he had ever experienced. More euphoric than any narcotic, sweeter than ambrosia. The beats of your hands on his back drowned out by the drumming of his heart, his mouth was beginning to water. He could hardly wait.

Like any self respecting villain All For One had many, many hideouts and safe houses. Many hadn't been used in years, others were still unknown to the heroes, then there was one. The place he took you was far more special, the place he had planned to bring you after that fateful day but never used when you slipped away. Well, you wouldn't escape this time.

For a place that hadn't seen life in years it was surprisingly well kept. Not a speck of dust laid on any surface, a few lightbulbs had died or exploded when he flipped on the lights but the water still ran and there was heat, it would do nicely for the time being. During the short trip via warp gate you had passed out, the silence when it had been delicious begs was disappointing but his signature smile appeared. There would be plenty of time to hear you cry while he breaks you into the perfect doll.

After your "retrieval" he places you on the never before used emperor sized bed and retreats to the lounge chair at your bedside. He sits perfectly still, staring at you much, admiring how much you changed and grew in his absence. A hint of pride bubbles up, he's pleased to know the lovely being he remembers became even fairer and more perfect. The feat would be impossible for any other person but you were made for him, you're his, and you had to be for a man such as him.

When you wake up those beautiful, blissful begs are heard by his worthy ears once again. Behind his life support helmet he sighs, a heavenly breath that you take for annoyance. You cry. "Please don't kill me", "Don't hurt me", "I'll do anything" but oh sweet thing, you're going to do anything he says regardless. You're his. Why would he hurt or kill you? If he wanted you dead, you'd be dead.

It comes as a surprise that he's afraid to remove his facial cover. He might be the Symbol of Evil with plans of world domination but there's a portion of him that is a slave to your desires, just as the world is a slave to his. A sliver of doubt appears as you ask who he is, if he reveals his identity and you ask for proof, his disfigured appearance would revolt you. No blue eyes to see you blush, no hair for you to run your hands through, no lips to feel yours on his.

"Mr. Shigaraki" was the clue he gave you. It was adorable seeing your face go blank as your mind was wracked trying to remember the face. He watched with bated breath as your eyes showed recognition, you remembered him. You remember his face, his smile, his feeling. That wasn't helpful, now you had a face to the person who kidnapped you. Who was holding you captive for...what? Ransom? To be tortured? To be his plaything? Every possibility was worse than the last, each one more dire and inescapable and bleak.

He did his best to comfort you albeit in a deleterious manner. The Emperor of Darkness' weight was displaced from the lounge chair and moved to the bed, his near gigantic form towering over you. Knee pressing into the mattress, causing your body to naturally shift into him. You couldn't move. There was no gap to dash through if your body would get over being paralyzed in fear. The hand that could cover your head was placed on your cheek with uncharacteristic gentleness, a soft gesture that was masked by the sinister appearance staring down at you.

"Fear not, My Sweet." His voice is slightly muffled by the life support, the emotions were unbridled, intense and all together unhinged. He's wholeheartedly delusional, diluted enough to believe he's going to the the greatest Demon Lord who ever lived and would dismantle the world, rule it all the while having your love. He craves it, he needs it, he's desperate for it. It drives him mad and being this close to you sends him to the brink of insanity.

Your limitless stubbornness is as wonderful as it is infuriating. All For One can't have the object of his love be a pushover from the gate, at least not yet. He has to experience the pleasure of breaking you, making you submit to him before you're allowed to follow his orders. He has to make you his Doll first, his obedient, beautiful Doll. That's a tall order and as the days pass his desperation grows. The itch in the back of his mind needed to be scratched and it was becoming clear his tactics were having the effect he desired. You stymied his every attempt, reacted the exact opposite of how he expected. He loved it, the last flame of your fighting spirit getting snuffed out in his raging insistence. He was beginning to wear you down, headway was being made and the inevitable end result was near.

All For One's machinations had increased in cruelness, once he had left you enough water to last a week and nothing else. The food vanished and all you were left with were bottles of water. He was gone for two weeks, it only took ten for you to teeter on the edge of sanity. Devoid of any interaction from the outside world. Only you, your thoughts and the dwindling "supplies". When he returned he was pleased he was greeted with showers of affection, your touch was smothering and your body was pressed to his as close as humanly possible. The last of your will had fled in his absence and now his Doll was in the perfect state to mould to his liking.

That night it begins. You're so needy, so greedy. He decides to indulge you and removes his helmet, confident you wouldn't be repulsed by his scarred visage. He's correct of course, when you were met with the invitation to express your desperation you take it. Your lips wander. Pressing messy and half-opened kisses to his neck, jaw, and whatever remained of his own lips as his massive hands lead you towards the bed. You don't notice until the back of your knees hit the edge and suddenly you're falling.

He's on you in an instant. The bed sinks with his added weight and the heat he radiated replaced the warmth provided by your clothes. Before you knew it his thick yet dexterous fingers were pushing into your hole unprompted, sheathing them down to the knuckle before they were retracted. He was going to take immense satisfaction by making you climax until you were babbling incoherently before even preparing you for his villainous cock.

Which was exactly what he did, denying you orgasm until you were red in the face and sobbing. All For One sat back on his knees in victory, smirking as he watched you wiggle and writhe at the loss of attention. There was one final thing: hearing you finally give into him. He owned your body but he needed to own your mind, your soul, your spirit, everything.

"Say it." In the moment his voice was low, gruff, reverberating throughout your clouded mind to send heat straight down to your nethers. You might've been aroused before but nothing compared to what his voice did to you.

"S-s-say w-wh-wha?" Barely able to form a sentence you willed yourself to speak, if only to repeat whatever he wanted so he would continue with his mind numbing ministrations. The lack of sending you in a desperate rut the likes of which you had never experienced. He was cruel, further denying you what you wanted. His hand so near to your skin that the tiny peach hairs picked up the presence but when your hips bucked to force him to touch you? He left entirely.

"Beg. Beg for me to fuck you, to ruin your body, to corrupt your mind and make you mine. Mine alone."

That was quite the mouthful and you weren't sure if you could say it back but that's what he wanted. Mustering your frenzied will you commanded yourself to speak, to plead for what you so desperately wanted. "Please, please fuck me. Please I need you, I need you, please make me yours. I want to be yours, please!"

Every second, every breath, every thought had been leading up to this moment. All For One was in Seventh Heaven upon hearing your final submittance, exultantly triumphant. Your reward was swiftly delivered, the bulbous head of his cock pressed against the entrance of your hole and with one swift thrust he inserted himself to the hilt. The sharp edge of his hips cutting against the plush of your inner thighs, it hurt, it hurt so much. He had prepared you, scissoring and stretching you, it wasn't enough. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as the full stuffing of his cock inside you was enough to make you regret begging him to fuck you, sensing this he didn't move. Giving you time to adjust and acclimate while licking away your salty tears. The heat of his heavy breath oddly comforting.

Once your filled hole stopped fluttering all bets were off. His hips snapped expeditiously in the customary manner of fucking ones Doll till they came undone and fell into unconscious from the exhaustion and pleasure they felt. He was unrestrained. The initial softness and care he showed was the furthest thing in his mind now all that was left was a feral need to fuck his Doll till they were bedbound. He makes sure you know who owns you, using his numerous quirks to let you there was no escape. Musculoskeletal Coiling to make his already bed shattering thrusts harder. Proliferation, creating several pairs of arms and hands to tease you in places all at once. Reaching to grasp at your neck, fingers tweaking your oversensitive nipples all the while more teased and played with places unimaginable. Once using his Air Walk quirk to suspend you both amidst the impactful love-making.

Time had no meaning. Whatever seconds you counted to remember how many times he had made you climax were a distant dream, black spots appeared in your vision, your body somehow numb and pained all at once. The lightest touch was like you had been set on fire. In one particularly lucid moment you swore a drop of his milky cum was sliding past your nose but you don't remember blowing him or snorting it out but in the haze who knows what had happened. Finally the peaceful sleep wrapped you in its arms and carried you off to a safer place for a time.

Just as you passed out All For One finally came. Engorging you to the very brim, his fingers acting as a stopper to keep his demonic cum from spilling out. Whatever was left of the wrecked bed was used as All For One took your limp, sleeping body and wrapped you up in the soiled duvet.

The afterglow shone brightly like a halo while he laid with you. Keeping you flush against him. The plotting began again. Awaiting your eventual awakening to show you the other quirks at his disposal. He was far from done with you. It hadn't been a day since your submission and he intended to keep you as his Doll till you were well and old and your last breath was the escape from his eternal love.

[writtenwyrm]

The Ascension

A Slay the Spire story, Part 3

All Parts

Previous

My evaluation of the spire was not going to be favorable. Not only was it filled with vicious vagabonds, but the crumbling disarray was attracting pests.

I crushed the last of the enormous hairy insects under my staff, avoiding the copious juices that gushed onto the floor. Whatever they were, they hadn’t managed to land a claw on me, and I was grateful for that. With the battle over, I settled to the ground once again, putting the pain out of my mind. I had not yet found a safe place to rest, but my training demanded I sit and consider the skirmish. Closing my perception, I turned inward to think.

So far, there seemed to be a fair amount of swarming creatures. The most dangerous had been a single opponent, true, but if I found myself backed into a corner I would need strategies against more than one foe. I could easily expand my attention to strike at all at once.

But a well-balanced arsenal was far more attractive to me. So instead I would prepare myself to take advantage of any extra opponents I faced. Wrapping up my meditation quickly, I let my perception extend outward—

There was someone right next to me.

I would have been surprised, if he had even a hint of hostility. As it was, he gave off less malice than a rock. A tall, strangely-muscled blue-skinned humanoid squatted next to me, looking at me with a craggy-toothed smile. No eyes were apparent, his face covered with a golden helm.

“Hello, friend!” He said.

“Hello, friend.” I replied.

“You need healing!”

I nodded.

Lifting a hand, he extended an open palm wrapped in a green light. “I am Cleric! I will heal, if you want my services! Thirtyfive gold!”

A twinge of pain made it that much easier to hand over the gold I had pilfered from the bird-thing, and Cleric laughed merrily as he set to work.

“Many, many hurt people down here!” He said, freely speaking to fill up the quiet. “Some in armor. Some in skulls. Some are machines! Machines are very hard to heal. But Cleric best healer, does it anyway. Some people look like you! Wear purple, and masks. Very nice staffs.”

Tha caught my attention. More acolytes? I was to be the only one sent to the spire. And yet, they couldn’t be anything else with that description. That troubled me.

It meant someone was lying to me.

Cleric finished his work, and stood up to brush off his hands. “Healing done! Cleric is best healer. Very best!” He pointed just down the hall. “Sentries are guarding the way up. Careful! Cleric will not be there to heal again.”

And then he was off, presumably to find another injured wanderer. What a strange individual.

I stood. The pain in my side was not gone, but it was muted. I wasn’t back to full strength, but it was enough. Especially if there was danger ahead.

—-

Whatever lay ahead, it would have to wait. Two staircases later, I found myself in a dead end. When I turned around, the way back was gone. A wall sat there, as if there had never been stairs at all. For a brief moment, I was stymied, unsure what to do.

Then the walls shifted, and enormous imposing faces formed from the stone. Their voices echoed more through the floor than from their lips, as they spoke one after the other.

“Forget what you know, and I’ll let you go.”

“I require change to see a new space.”

“If you want to pass me, then you must grow.”

Then they fell silent, leaving their gazes to weigh expectantly upon me. Were these the sentries Cleric had warned me of? I perceived no direct malice from their impassive faces, but not all danger was immediate. If I was unable to pass this test… I could very well die here, cut off from food and water.

Which option would I choose, then, if forced to comply in order to escape? Forgetting? Growth?

The answer was obvious enough, and I stepped forward toward the center face. “I will change, if you will assist me.”

The other faces melted away. I was left alone with the single head, which smiled ever so slightly. “Open your mind, acolyte. There is foreign influence woven into the brick about you. Countless others have tread your path.”

And then it faded back into the wall as well. I waited for a few moments, just in case that was enough, and now I was to be freed.

It was not the case. The walls remained firmly in place, leaving me trapped.

What had the wall meant? Did it know of the order to which I belonged? It had addressed me as an acolyte. Were there clues in this room with me regarding what I was expected to accomplish?

Perhaps I could discover them the easy way. I was not opposed to shortcuts, when warranted.

So I sat, and opened my perception, reaching out into the walls around me. If there was anything of significance, I should be able to discover it this way.

My mind’s eye was met with stone, and more stone.

There weren’t going to be any shortcuts here.

[omgkatsudonplease]

[ficlet, bagginshield] when you are alone (bridgerton au)

“What dull pictures,” remarks the voice of Miss Bracegirdle from next to Bilbo. He startles a little at seeing her, before folding his hands and looking back up at the portrait in front of them. 

“I rather like it,” he replies. It’s a painting of the Battle of the Last Alliance, complete with Isildur casting the Enemy’s Ring into the fires of Mount Doom. “The colours are nice and it feels like I’m looking at a dream.”

“It’s about Big Folk doing Big Folk deeds,” replies Miss Bracegirdle, wrinkling her nose. “Which doesn’t concern us, ergo it’s dull.”

Bilbo is tempted to make a snide remark about her clear narrow-mindedness, but given that the Michel Delving Mathom-house is full of revellers today, he doesn’t particularly fancy making a scene. 

“Well, if you hate the painting so much, why not find another one more to your taste?” he replies instead. Miss Bracegirdle snorts at that.

“The reason all of these are here,” she points out, “is because no one wants them.” 

Which is not necessarily true, at least not by Bilbo’s estimation. He’s donated his mother’s favourite painting to this gallery exhibition, and he still wants it back when all’s said and done. Still, he says nothing, continuing his policy of tacit coldness instead. 

Even with his and Thorin’s charade fanning the flames of Shire society gossip for the past few weeks, Miss Bracegirdle seems undeterred in designs upon him. He supposes by objective metrics this means that she does love him, except anyone with a brain and a working pair of eyes could see that was far from the truth. 

In the meantime, Lord Stormcrow has bought their act hook, line, and sinker, claiming that Bilbo helping Thorin with his cravat at the Brandywine River Promenade was quite a sweet moment in their unexpected romance. Bilbo had groaned when he read the pamphlet, knowing that not only had he lost the wager to Thorin, but also that he was going to miss Thorin helping him out once the social season was over. 

The search for his true love has been stymied somewhat by his Dwarven distraction, but somehow, he truly can’t seem to bring himself to care. 

Miss Bracegirdle breaks the silence again. “I did not know that you had it in you, Mr Baggins,” she says. “Ensnaring a Dwarf-king. As if your seven years on the marriage market were not enough.”

Bilbo snorts. “You think I wanted to be on the marriage market for seven years?” he demands. 

“There are plenty of Hobbit-lasses who would not refuse you, if you had thought to ask,” replies Miss Bracegirdle.

“And you would be chiefest amongst them, I imagine,” replies Bilbo waspishly. “The answer is no.”

Miss Bracegirdle’s lips curl, her expression curdling like sour milk. “It is all too convenient that a picky and disinterested gentlehobbit like yourself could have suddenly found himself swept up in a romance with a Dwarf-king,” she states. “I will get to the bottom of it.”

“It’s, quite frankly, none of your business,” retorts Bilbo. 

Miss Bracegirdle raises an eyebrow. “So you love him?”

Bilbo opens his mouth, but is swiftly saved by Thorin’s presence at his side. Today the King is wearing a tan frock coat over a blue waistcoat and light breeches, his hair plaited back and the beads in his braids shining in the light. Bilbo exhales, feeling an odd sense of relief filling him as Thorin nods at him in greeting. 

He turns to Miss Bracegirdle. “That is also none of your business,” he says hastily, before returning to Thorin’s side and nudging him away from Miss Bracegirdle.

“I did not expect to see you at this,” he confesses.

“The latest Stormcrow,” replies Thorin, a small smirk tugging at his lips. Bilbo rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“Well, what sort of courting gift would you like?” he asks. 

They stop in front of a different painting, this one of a countryside scene just at the start of dawn. Rosy fingers of light gently hover above the trees of Woody End, the sun not quite lighting up the sleepy trees and smials in the foreground just yet. Out of one smial comes a faint wisp of smoke, while a pair of lovers clandestinely meet in the eaves of the trees. 

It’s his mother’s favourite painting, and one that never fails to make Bilbo’s chest tighten and stomach clench whenever he sees it. His mother had moved from her ancestral home in Tuckborough to live in Bag End with her true love, but it didn’t mean she never missed the fields and hills of her childhood. This painting was half-observation, half-memory — a dream of days long past as well as a depiction of what could be happening every morning in the Woody End just before the sun fully rises.

“This is a marvellous painting,” remarks Thorin from beside him. Bilbo can’t help his own smile at that.

“You want this as a courting gift?” he jokes. 

Thorin blinks, suddenly realising that he hadn’t answered Bilbo’s earlier question. “Oh. No, I would not want to run the risk of damaging it,” he confesses. “Though I am sorely tempted.”

“This was my mother’s favourite painting,” replies Bilbo. “I put it here after she died because it hurt too much to look at.”

“Such is the way of good art,” says Thorin. “They remind you of people. Things. Reopen wounds you thought long stitched-up.”

Bilbo sighs. “If you wanted this painting —” he begins, but Thorin shakes his head.

“It is yours,” he says. “It is a memory of your mother. To me, it is but a lovely painting of the Shire in the early hours of dawn. A peaceful sight I will never see.”

There is no one else in this room, no other heartbeat but Thorin’s beside him. And yet Bilbo’s mind is overwhelmed, his own heart barely keeping apace with the dizzying need to be ever closer to Thorin. 

“It is curious,” continues Thorin’s voice, now at a low, thoughtful rumble that tugs at something deep in Bilbo’s gut, “how a painting with people in it can still make you feel so alone.”

Bilbo doesn’t realise the warmth he’s clutching onto is Thorin’s hand until it’s too late. Thorin’s hand engulfs his own, comforting yet strange. Bilbo feels all too aware of his presence beside him, all too aware of the tension sizzling low and sweet between their bodies. 

“It reminds me of mornings in Erebor,” says Thorin after a moment, his hand still not leaving Bilbo’s. In fact, he seems to cling on with the same amount of desperation, as if they are two mariners left adrift in a shipwreck at sea. “The sun rising along the eastward slope of the Lonely Mountain, casting the fields of heather and scrub into seas of gold. I would wake with the dawn just for this moment of peace, before my duties set in at breakfast.” 

“Being here, so far from Erebor, must be driving you mad,” jokes Bilbo.

A shadow passes over Thorin’s handsome face. “Madness drove my grandfather and father from the throne,” he confesses. “I can only hope it will not take me.”

Oh. “I’m... I’m sorry.” Bilbo swallows. He makes to remove his hand, but Thorin clings on all the harder, exhaling in one, deep sigh. 

“I do not wish to trouble you,” he confesses. “The pressures of the Crown are my responsibility, my burden to bear in light of my father’s weakness.”

“It doesn’t have to be a burden to bear alone,” replies Bilbo before he can stop himself. Thorin seems to consider that for a moment, before gently extricating his hand from Bilbo’s grasp. 

Bilbo misses Thorin’s warmth the moment it is gone. 

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Forged Through Fire (11/13)

Summary: Amestris. Once democratic, now a military dictatorship. Prohibition is strict; personal freedoms curtailed. All alchemists must be state-licensed or face imprisonment. Foreigners are met with suspicion. It’s a grim place and a grim time, but there are some people able to bring a little light to the world. Behind an innocent-looking bookshop, speakeasy proprietor Chris Mustang has formed an unlikely alliance with unlicensed alchemist Van Hohenheim to provide alcohol to those who want it and medical care to those who need it. When Riza’s newly complete tattoo becomes infected, Roy brings her into this underworld, little knowing the way it will change their lives in the future – uncovering the secrets of the mythical Philosopher’s Stone and the schemes of a Fuhrer hell-bent on achieving immortality, all whilst navigating what they mean to each other.

===

Rated: T

[One] [Two] [Three] [Four] [Five] [Six] [Seven] [Eight] [Nine] [Ten] [AO3]

===

Content warning for this chapter: Implied medical abuse and vivisection; mild blood and gore.

===

Forged Through Fire

Eleven

“Well, that’s not at all ominous.”

“You can’t deny that it’s the perfect place to house a super-secret alchemy laboratory, though.”

Riza peered out of the car window at the building they had pulled up across the street from. It looked like it was on the verge of collapsing, the very definition of a dead building, surrounded by high fences with ‘CONDEMNED BUILDING IN DANGER OF COLLAPSE, NO ENTRY’ signs plastered all over them. 

“How stable is it?” she asked. 

“The building itself is more stable than you’d think from looking at it, but the lab’s underground anyway.” Marcoh sighed. “I swore I’d never come back here, you know.”

“We surmised as much,” Roy said. “But we’re very grateful that you’re here nonetheless.”

“For the record, I think that this is the worst idea anyone’s ever had, and I’ll remind you that I used to work directly for the Fuhrer and was there when he dreamed up Project Xerxes.”

“This can’t be as bad as that, surely.”

“It’s up there.” Marcoh looked to Roy on one side of him and Riza on the other; Armstrong was driving with Havoc riding shotgun. “We’d better go before they clock that we’re up to something. Are you ready?”

Riza readjusted her borrowed uniform; it felt strange to be wearing military blues and even stranger to be wearing Roy’s clothes, even if Gracia had altered the spare jacket and pants to fit. 

“I think we’re as ready as we’ll ever be. Come on, the longer we spend out here, the longer they keep doing whatever it is that they’re doing to Hohenheim.”

They got out of the car and Armstrong and Havoc drove away to go and enact their part in the plan. 

“Don’t you think that someone would have noticed people going in and out of this supposedly dilapidated building all the time?” Riza pointed out as they crossed the street towards the gates. “Especially if the people are obviously government, even more especially if one of them is the Fuhrer, and even more than that if some of the people are being dragged in unconscious with black bags over their heads.”

“It’s not exactly a highly populous area.” Marcoh gestured around at the other blocks around them; most of them were in a similar state of disrepair to the lab’s front even if they weren’t actively condemned, and even though night had fallen, there weren’t any lights burning in any of the windows. “Most of the people who live in this area want to keep a low profile anyway; if they see something strange then they aren’t going to question it. Besides, the prisoners all come in via the vehicle entrance in the next block.” That was the entrance that Armstrong and Havoc were going to infiltrate.

“I mean, ordinarily I would use that one too, but Mustang here wanted to make an entrance,” Marcoh groused. 

Roy shrugged. “If you’re going to take refuge in audacity, go the whole hog.”

“The thing working in your favour, obviously, is that this lab is by necessity pretty cut off from the rest of the military network so that as few people as possible know about it.” 

“Considering how frantic Central Command was earlier when they couldn’t find Bradley, I can well believe that,” Roy muttered. 

Marcoh was examining the padlock on the gates. “Ugh, they changed the combination since I was last here. Never mind.” He pulled some chalk out of his pockets and drew a small transmutation circle on the padlock, pressing his hand over it; the metal sparked bright white and the lock gave out. It seemed simple. Too simple. Riza’s hand went unconsciously under her jacket to the gun belt at the back. She couldn’t shake the feeling that they were walking into a trap. 

Nevertheless, this was the only plan that they had and the only plan that might have any chance of working. 

They made their way up the rubble-strewn path towards the main door of the building. Now that Riza was closer, she could see that unlike the rest of the structure, this was definitely completely up to scratch – heavy and reinforced and showing no signs of wear and tear, a dead giveaway that this was not at all what it seemed to be. 

Marcoh drew another transmutation circle and the door swung open under his touch, leading to a dark corridor that seemed to have no connection to the rest of the building. 

“Be careful; there are steps downward about ten feet along,” Marcoh said. “Follow me.”

Riza and Roy inched along in the gloom, although Marcoh seemed assured of where he was going. They were about fifteen steps down when there was a clunk and the stairwell was bathed in a flickering glow of light; Marcoh had flipped a switch somewhere on the wall. Riza glanced over at Roy. His expression was hard to read in the dim light, but he looked focussed, sharp. Riza hoped that her own worry wasn’t etched on her face. 

She had volunteered for this part of the mission, knowing that she wouldn’t be recognised by the military where others might be. Roy was willing to take the risk, knowing that they would need more alchemic power than just Marcoh if it came down to a fight, especially since Marcoh’s speciality was medical and Roy’s was combative, and if they needed any current military knowledge then Marcoh and Riza would both be stymied by lack of familiarity. 

There was also the fact that Riza didn’t think they’d have been able to keep Roy away if they’d tried. A long and loud argument had ensued after the incident with Kimblee in the ammo cabinet, since it was only a matter of time before Roy’s name came up in connection with that, but Roy had won out, and here they were, about to enter the villains’ lair. 

The steps came to an end in front of another door, and Marcoh turned back to them. 

“This is it. Once we’re in, there’s no turning back. Are you ready?”

Riza nodded. “We’re ready.”

Another transmutation circle unlocked the door and they stepped into the Fifth Laboratory proper, a long, dingy corridor stretching out to the left and the right. The place wasn’t any more inspiring than the steps down to it had been, and Riza shivered at the inherent creepiness of it all. 

Marcoh led the way confidently down the corridor. There was no sense in being furtive if they were to achieve what they’d set out to do, in fact, that was the entire point. As long as they acted like they had every right to be there, then the plan would hopefully go off without a hitch. If they started behaving suspiciously in any way…

“Hey!” A young military officer had come out of a door into the corridor in front of them. “You can’t be down here!”

“Yes I can,” Marcoh said calmly, continuing to walk straight on with calm self-assurance. 

“Halt!” The officer pulled out his sidearm and aimed it at Marcoh, who stopped but didn’t raise his hands in surrender. 

“Young man, do you have any idea who I am?”

“You’re trespassing.”

“I can hardly trespass in my own laboratory. I can see that you’re young, so I can forgive you for not knowing me. My name is Dr Marcoh, and I am the head of this facility.”

The officer lowered his gun, staring bug-eyed at Marcoh. 

“Dr Marcoh? But you’re…”

“Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” Marcoh’s voice was as mild as if he’d been commenting on the weather. “Since the unsuccessful attempt on my life I’ve been lying low to avoid a repeat performance, but on hearing about the chaos going on in Central at the moment I decided that the time was right to come back and see just what kind of havoc has been wreaked in my absence. So, if you could please alert your superior and let them know that I would like to see them, I would be most obliged.”

“Yes, erm, right away, sir.” The young soldier holstered his gun again and waved for them to follow him down the corridor, showing them into a small office. “I’ll, erm, I’ll need to get my CO to verify all this.”

As soon as the younger officer had left the room, locking the door behind him, Roy sprung into action, moving chairs and climbing up towards the ventilation grill on the wall. As Marcoh had explained to them earlier, the main laboratory experiment room where they would be working on Hohenheim could only be accessed through several other rooms if they wanted to go in through the doors, so to save effort and time, it would be easier to go directly there through the air vents, however much of a pain shuffling through them might have been. The grill came away easily enough, and Roy gave Riza a leg up into the shaft. 

There was so much dust that Riza had to press a hand over her face to stop her sneezing. There was just enough room to get through on hands and knees, but turning round would be impossible so she hoped that Marcoh’s mental plan of the place still rang true or they might end up lost in the vents forever. She shuffled forward a little to allow Roy to get up into the shaft behind her, slapping at the cobwebs that crisscrossed in front of her before finally giving up and pulling her turtleneck up over her mouth and nose. It wasn’t perfect, but at least it would stop her choking and giving away their position. 

“Good luck,” she heard Marcoh hiss as he replaced the grill behind them. 

“We’ll need it,” Roy muttered. 

They set off, their progress somewhat painstaking with the need not to make any noise and the undeniable fact that ventilation shafts were in their very nature noisy. 

“I really hope there aren’t any rats in here,” Roy whispered. Riza stopped and glanced behind her, glaring at him. He dutifully looked sheepish. “Sorry.”

The shaft got darker and darker as they moved away from the room that they had left Marcoh in, and Riza felt along blindly, scared of somehow falling down a long drop. Eventually, after a sharp left turn, another grill came into sight, and she slowed down, inching forward to take a look through it. 

It was not the room they wanted, but she still had to hold back a gasp at what she was seeing nonetheless. Below them, Bradley was sitting in what appeared to be a normal doctor’s office, not unlike the makeshift clinic back at the bar. He was hooked up to a couple of drips, but the one that caught Riza’s attention was the blood bag transfusing into his veins. 

She felt Roy tap her ankle to get her attention and she glanced back at him, finger to her lips, then pointing at the grill. He nodded his understanding, and Riza continued to watch what was going on for a moment, focussing on the blood. Looking closely, she could see the odd tiny red spark crackle in the dark liquid, and if she hadn’t already been convinced it was Hohenheim’s blood then that sealed the deal. 

“How much longer do you think it will take?” Bradley asked presently, and Riza heard the unseen second occupant of the room moving around. 

“The process has slowed down. I think we’ve reached capacity in terms of how quickly he can regenerate the lost blood.” 

The other figure moved into Riza’s field of vision, evidently a doctor of some sort, checking the drip line into Bradley’s arm. 

“How are you feeling?”

“No different to normal.”

“Well, it might take a while to have any effect, and it may take us several attempts to get the refining process right.” Riza craned to see as much of the room as she could, and her heart leapt to her mouth when she saw the containers of blood lined up on the doctor’s desk. How much had they taken from him already?

Roy tapped her ankle again and she shuffled forward so that he could take a look through the grill as well. If nothing else, at least it showed them how close they were to their destination. If Marcoh’s memories were to be believed then the inner lab room would be the next grill on the left. 

She froze as she heard the door to the room below burst open, and the person who had opened it be rebuked severely by Bradley and the doctor. 

“I’m sorry, Sirs, it’s just that Dr Marcoh’s here!”

“What?”

“Dr Marcoh! He just arrived!”

“That’s impossible!”

“Evidently not.” Bradley’s voice was dry. “Go and see what he wants.”

Roy nudged Riza again and she kept moving as quietly as she could, feeling him shuffling along behind her, and it was only once they had rounded the next corner and could no longer hear Bradley and the doctor talking that she heard Roy swear violently but almost silently. Riza agreed with the sentiment completely. They were getting Hohenheim out by any means necessary. 

Riza almost missed the next grill since the room it opened onto wasn’t anywhere near as brightly lit as the office had been, but her shoulder brushed against it and she stopped suddenly, Roy bumping into her. Peering down through the grating, she let her eyes become accustomed to the faint light inside, an eerie red coloured emergency bulb set high in the wall above the door. 

Hohenheim was there, strapped down to a table in the middle of the room. He didn’t look conscious, and Riza’s heart was pounding in her ears.

“Riza?” Roy hissed. She glanced behind her and nodded. No time to dwell on the horror; they had to get the grate off from the inside and get down into the room without Bradley in the office next door hearing anything. She moved up to let Roy get at the grate, shuffling on until she found the next junction and awkwardly turning around. By the time she got back, Roy was drawing out a transmutation circle onto the grill. He gave her a look that said ‘pray this works’ and pressed his palm to the chalk. 

The metal started to bend and warp under Roy’s touch, and although the process was slow-going to avoid making any noise, eventually the grate was open. Roy stuck his head out of the gap, then one hand, snapping to produce a spark and using the ensuing ball of flame as a torch to look around the room.

“We should be ok, it’s soundproofed,” he whispered. Riza didn’t want to think about why it was soundproofed. She glanced down at Hohenheim again before Roy began to pull himself through the hole, dropping down onto the ground heavily. Both of them froze, but the soundproofing appeared to have done its job and Roy held out his arms to catch Riza as she followed him down. 

Hohenheim was cuffed down at all five points and Riza began to undo the stiff buckles holding the metal in place, Roy providing flickering flame light to work by. The short chain lengths attaching the cuffs to the table clinked ominously, and both of them kept looking towards the door for the slightest hint of what might be happening with Bradley and the doctor in the next room.

“Roy, what do we do about that?” Riza pointed to the tubes snaking out of Hohenheim’s chest, draining his blood slowly and directly from his major veins. 

“Well, in any other circumstances, just yanking it out would be a bad idea, but this is Hohenheim so if anyone can survive it, he can.”

“You heard the doctor though. He’s running on empty.”

They didn’t really have much choice, and Roy made the decision for her, grabbing the tubes and pulling. Riza was glad he wasn’t awake for it. Immediately, blood started to pour steadily from the opening; Riza pulled off her jacket to use as a compress, realised how filthy it was from the trip through the vents and just used her hands instead. After a couple of agonising seconds, she finally felt the crackle of alchemy below her palms and Roy gave a sigh of relief, putting out the flame he’d sparked to cauterise the wound. Hohenheim was still alive and still immortal, for now at least. 

Riza wiped her hands on the jacket. 

“Hohenheim? Hohenheim, can you hear us?”

There was no response. She wondered how heavily sedated he was, or if he’d just passed out from the blood loss. 

Roy went over to the door, listening closely and peering through the keyhole. They had already known that there was no way they would be getting out the same way that they got in, so now they just had to wait and hope that the rest of the plan went off without a hitch. Although Riza had her pistols with her and Roy was carrying as well after the excursion to the armoury, she really hoped that they wouldn’t have to shoot their way out. 

Hohenheim gave a muted groan, and Riza took his arm around her shoulders to pull him up. She hadn’t realised how tall he was until he was a dead-weight.

“R’za?” He squinted at her as she dragged him off the table. 

“Sh, we’re here to rescue you.”

Roy rushed back over to help and they made an ungainly way back to the door, listening for the hopefully obvious signs that the other part of the plan had worked. 

There was no mistaking the ear-splitting shrill of the fire alarm, and the sounds of panicked confusion beginning in the rest of the building began to echo through the vents. On the other side of the door, Riza could hear raised voices and anger. Together she and Roy pushed Hohenheim further back into the corner - he was still way too groggy to be able to react quickly to anything, if he could react at all. There was the sound of a key in the door lock. Riza grabbed a pistol. Roy was poised ready to spark. 

The door was flung open and they pressed themselves back to the wall behind it as the room was flooded with painfully bright light, showing the very empty table and the transmuted grate. “They’re in the vents!”

Whoever had opened the door turned and rushed back out again, and Riza looked at Roy. He nodded, then waited a moment before inching around the door and looking through into the room beyond. 

“We’re clear, Bradley’s gone.”

They hoisted Hohenheim up between them and made their way out of the lab room and into the office, hastily abandoned, and Riza went to check that their exit route was clear. She could hear people running around, but this stretch of corridor was clear; presumably even within secret locations there were some parts that were even more secret than others, and she doubted that Bradley would have wanted too many people hanging around and potentially finding out about his immortality treatment going on. 

She nodded to Roy. 

“Wait.” Roy gestured to the bottles of Hohenheim’s blood stacked up on the desk. “We need to do something about those. Might as well stop them in their tracks whilst we can. God knows no-one needs an immortal Fuhrer Bradley.”

Riza nodded. “What’s your plan?”

“Well, I don’t think that pouring it down the drain would be a good idea; I don’t want to think about mutant immortal crocodiles in the sewers under Amestris.”

“I don’t think that there are any crocodiles in the sewers in a land-locked country, but I get your point.”

Roy held up a hand, poised to snap. “I don’t think that torching the entire room will dramatically lower the market value of this place too much.”

Riza just stared at him. “Are you sure?”

“There’s already a fire alarm going off.” Roy shrugged. “Might as well give them something to be alarmed about.”

They made it out of the room and along the corridor a little way, leaning Hohenheim on the wall. He was getting more and more with it, but he was still weak and it was taking time for his regeneration to get him back to normal. Roy went back to the doorway and snapped. Riza could see the flames licking the doorway, lighting up Roy’s grim face for a while as he watched the blaze begin to consume the room. Satisfied that everything had been destroyed, he came back towards her as smoke began to billow out, and the three of them made their way as quickly as they could through the corridors. 

They were almost out of this section of the rabbit warren when they came face to face with the doctor from the office, no doubt hurrying back to check on his precious experiment.

“Where are you going with my Philosopher’s Stone?”

Riza glanced sideways at Hohenheim; despite the fact he probably still had sedatives coursing through his system and was still recovering from his copious blood loss, the stare that he was fixing on the doctor was pure, unadulterated rage. If looks could kill, Hohenheim’s death glare could have buried this gold-toothed bastard three times over. 

Riza adjusted her grip on Hohenheim and reached behind her for a pistol with her other hand, but she didn’t need to fire. The wall next to them swelled and reformed with a shriek of brick and plaster under strain, smacking out and sending the doctor flying. He landed limply with a groan, and Riza looked sideways again. Hohenheim hadn’t moved, but she caught the slight quirk of a satisfied smile on his face before he gave a shuddering groan of exertion.

Roy gave an impressed nod. “Yes, that’s certainly one way of doing it.”

They continued on until they reached the corner; Riza darted ahead to peer around and nearly yelled as she came face to face with Havoc in his dark covert ops clothing. He lowered his gun.

“Thank God Marcoh’s got a good mental map, I was beginning to think I’d never find you. You’ve caused so much chaos, by the way. They’ve got people all over the air vents now. This way’s clear back here. Hey Doc,” he added to Hohenheim, going over to where he was leaning against the wall and taking an arm around his shoulders as they moved off in convoy in the direction Havoc had just come from. “Good to see you.”

“Is Trisha ok?”

Roy gave Hohenheim a look. “You’re besotted. You’re only half awake, you can barely stand, you’ve just spent I don’t know how long having your blood siphoned off and your first thought is Trisha.”

Havoc laughed. “Hohenheim’s a lover, not a fighter, Roy. We’ve always known this. She’s fine, Doc; she’s safe at the shop with Hughes and Madam.”

They had only gone around one more corner when they hit a large obstacle. 

“Right.” Havoc visibly deflated at the sight of the heavy wall blocking the corridor in front of them. “Will you believe me when I say that wasn’t there before?”

Roy nodded and gave a long sigh. “Yes. It’s a fire barrier, it would have come down when I started throwing actual fire around.”

“I suppose the whole point of it is that there isn’t an alternative exit?” Havoc sighed as Roy shook his head.

“It’s fine.” Hohenheim pulled himself upright against Havoc’s shoulder and reached out towards the barrier. Red sparks crackled around the edges and the entire thing exploded outwards. Havoc just looked at him, and he shrugged.

“Sorry it wasn’t neater. Haven’t got full control back yet.”

Havoc just continued to stare as they stepped through the rubble. “You know, I’m really glad you’re on our side.”

They continued to make their way through the labyrinth of the laboratory, out towards the exit where Havoc and Armstrong had come in with the car. Riza was glad of Havoc being there to guide them; they’d passed where she and Roy had come in with Marcoh and they were into unknown territory now. The smoke from Roy’s earlier fire in the doctor’s office and experiment room continued to follow them, billowing around the ceiling. Their path was starting to cross with other people in the complex now, but no one was paying them any mind, all too concerned with getting out as soon as possible now that it was evident that there was definitely a fire in the building somewhere. 

Riza stopped in her tracks when she heard an ominous creak from behind her. It sounded like the entire building was groaning. She remembered the creaking sound that the wall had made when Hohenheim had knocked out the doctor, and the exploding fire door, and the ever-present and ever-increasing smoke. 

“I don’t think this building is very structurally sound anymore,” she said, taking to her heels again with the rest of the group. “The ‘in danger of collapse’ sign out front seems more and more accurate.”

The ear-splitting shriek of concrete and metal under pressure was all the warning they had before a massive chunk of ceiling fell down.

“Riza!” Roy practically threw her out of the way, covering her. When the dust cleared, she was glad to see that he was unhurt.

“Roy? Riza?” Havoc yelled from the other side of the debris. “Are you guys ok back there?”

“We’re fine, but we’re not going to get over this in a hurry.” Roy helped Riza back to her feet. “You go ahead and get Hohenheim out of here, that’s what’s important. “

“What about you two?”

“We’ll double back and get out the way we came in with Marcoh.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, now get going before anything else collapses!”

Havoc didn’t need telling twice, and Roy and Riza turned tail, running back in the direction they had just come until they reached the long corridor they’d arrived in before. It was blessedly free from smoke, and the creaking sounds were left behind them. 

“Do you think there’s any chance that Bradley’s been crushed under falling masonry?” Riza asked. 

“God, I hope so.”

“Is that so, Mustang?”

Riza’s blood ran cold.

[tunnelofdusk]

MDZS, WANGXIAN, dark dimension travel:

The birds are quiet when Lan Zhan wakes up to see a man looming over Wei Ying. The war had never stopped for them, and both resentment and spiritual energy surges with no delay between slumber and awakening. The world narrows down to this man that dares to invade their home.

Bichen shines a bright blue in the darkness as Lan Zhan’s fingers twist in a sword seal. Greasy resentment trails after the flashing sword trail.

The stranger’s sword flashes blue in return, and Lan Zhan sees himself in the stranger. “Fuqin,” he says, cutting through the silence. He is wrong, of course.

The familiar stranger slowly shakes his head, sword hand still raised in a parry.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying begins. He stands tall in his rumpled sleep clothes, red marks peeking over the edge of his collar. The stranger looks at Wei Ying in a way Lan Zhan finds too familiar.

“My name,” the stranger says, “is Lan Zhan.”

Oh...so this is how Lan Zhan must have looked in his 13 years of mourning. Grief transforms his features into those of his father. Even Xiongzhang in his seclusion and grief has yet to match Fuqin’s severe features. Grief had hollowed out Lan Huan but grief had sharpened Lan Zhan and his father.

Wei Ying does not want to recognize the grief in this duplicate’s face. Like a bird fluffing up its feathers, he stands in front of Lan Zhan and raises his dizi upwards and forwards, forestalling the man’s attempt to step closer. “You’re not my Lan Zhan,” he says.

The man flinches, and his mouth is a harsh slash across his face. “You,” he condemns, “are not my Wei Ying.”

And it’s true. A dead man in another dead man’s body. Wei Ying’s mouth twitches in both a frown and a smile. It hurts. His body isn’t his and while there are days where looking into a mirror doesn’t disorient him, there are an equal amount of days where he cannot recognize himself in the mirror.

Lan Zhan sidesteps Wei Ying and the man, Lan Wangji, follows suit, eye to eye with each other.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying protests. He peeks over Lan Zhan’s shoulder and stares down Lan Wangji. Sure, he would hesitate at hurting a man who looked like his husband, but Wei Ying knows he cannot trust this duplicate. There is something wrong with him that disrupts the natural flow of resentment in the world. He is a boulder in a river.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says quietly, a wealth of meaning in his words.

Wei Ying is stricken by the enormity of Lan Zhan’s love. All those years wasted on misunderstandings when their souls had always resonated so clearly.

There is a disquieting look on Lan Wangji’s face as he observes this exchange. He does not look jealous; he looks lost, cast adrift in waters he had once found familiar. Wei Ying knows about drowning, the shock of waters deeper than previously thought. He knows about the desperation that makes a drowning man cling onto another and force them to sink as well.

Lan Wangji lets his sword fall down into a resting position. “I mean you,” he says quietly, “no harm.”

Lan Zhan keeps his sword raised. “How did you appear here?”

Wei Ying watches the twitch of Lan Wangji’s fingers, wrapped around the hilt of his sword. He thinks Lan Wangji did not expect to appear here either.

“A talisman malfunction,” Lan Wangji answers.

There is no satisfaction to be found within Lan Zhan at this answer. His own reticence stymies him. “What was the purpose of the talisman?”

If the man before them truly is Lan Zhan and has appeared here via talisman, then it must be time travel or travel between worlds. This Lan Zhan does not have the timeless air of an immortal. Tales of Baoshan Sanren speak of a presence so heavy and palpable that it almost seems tangible. What sort of talisman could bring this pale shadow of Lan Zhan here?

“Time travel,” Lan Wangji answers.

—

Lan Wangji meets Lan Sizhui, and the grief already carved on his face deepens. “A-Yuan,” he says softly. He reaches out with a hand, only to pull back at the last moment. His hand clenches into a fist at his side.

Sweet boy that he is, Lan Sizhui darts a worried glance at Wei Ying and Lan Zhan. He can almost understand the shape of the grief Lan Wangji carries.

When Lan Sizhui leaves to join his fellow disciples, Wei Ying opens his mouth to voice a question that he does not want to ask. But Lan Wangji forestalls any questions by speaking first.

“I found him,” Lan Wangji says. “He was so small. He did not understand what was happening.” The smooth timber of Lan Wangji’s voice roughens.

Yet Wei Ying still cannot help the disquiet that festers within him when he observes Lan Wangji. He thinks that this sort of persistent grief is dangerous. Lan Zhan has never known how to let go and this Lan Wangji clearly does not know how to either.

“He was so small,” Lan Wangji repeats.

Lan Zhan rarely repeats himself; his speaking style never demands repetition, not when he captures attention so easily with his terse eloquence. The divergences between Lan Wangji and Lan Zhan grow.

—

Lan Qiren shakes his head when he meets Lan Wangji. “Silly boy,” he murmurs, and Lan Wangji flinches. “What have you done to yourself?”

Disapproval is how Lan Qiren expresses his affection, Wei Ying thinks wryly. Lan Wangji’s mouth firms into a straight line as he listens to his uncle reprimand him. He must find it too familiar, longing for his own home, surely.

“Shufu,” Lan Wangji says. He says nothing else, and he no longer looks at his uncle. A blank gaze dull the gold of his eyes, and his eyelashes shadow them further.

—

Lan Wangji does not meet Lan Xichen.

Lan Xichen is in seclusion.

Lan Wangji is not surprised.

—

The days go by and Lan Wangji becomes Lan Zhan’s shadow. By extension, he becomes Wei Ying’s shadow too. Such a dour man, Wei Ying will think, and he will coax Lan Wangji to walk beside them. (He does not want Lan Wangji at his back.)

—

“It was never time travel,” Lan Wangji whispers. His breath ghosts across the shell of Wei Ying’s ear.

Wei Ying flinches. The hands around his wrists tighten, and he reaches for resentment. He finds nothing, and he stiffens as Lan Wangji lets out a short laugh.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says with an awful tenderness, “why do you always walk such a crooked path?”

Wei Ying had never thought of a Lan Zhan who would dare to walk on the crooked path. He wonders why this Lan Zhan uses resentment when his golden core is stronger than that of his own Lan Zhan. Resentment has corrupted Lan Wangji—the classic example of why demonic cultivation is so heavily warned against. It is not meant to coexist with righteous cultivation, and this instability corrupts.

With a scoff, Wei Ying says, “Then why do you walk the crooked path?” He twists his head to peer at the thin smile on Lan Wangji’s face.

“Demonic cultivation is only demonic cultivation when it uses human lives,” Lan Wangji answers. “I am beyond that. You know that everything in the world has the potential for resentment.”

The world? And if it is not time travel that has landed Lan Wangji here—

“What happened to your world?” Wei Ying says. A shiver works its way down his spine and the chest behind his back presses closer.

“I wanted to understand the world so much that I unraveled it. I wanted to understand how there could be justice in a world you died in.”

“When you used your world’s energy—”

“Wei Ying, my world is no more. Like a loose thread in a tapestry—”

“—you pulled.” What an awful thing it is to understand this Lan Wangji as easily as his own Lan Zhan.

“I pulled,” Lan Wangji agrees easily. “I have no regrets.”

The enormity of this loss is incomprehensible. Wei Ying does not understand how Lan Wangji can so casually speak of the death of an entire world. The Lan Zhan he knows is a righteous man who would rather die before letting innocents die in his place. His Lan Zhan is so, so good, and disgust wells up within Wei Ying as he stares at that thin, twisted smile. This man does not deserve to be a Lan Zhan in any world.

“Your Wei Ying was lucky to die then,” he spits out.

Lan Wangji laughs again, and it is nothing like Lan Zhan’s low, rare laughs. It has none of the warmth that Wei Ying associates with it. It is a cold, soulless sound that hollows Wei Ying inside-out.

“You ruined me that first night you came to the Cloud Recesses.”

“Don’t you dare blame me! You’re a monster!...You’re no Lan Zhan of mine and I’m not your Wei Ying! I could never be!”

“You ruined me,” Lan Wangji repeats softly. “Have I turned into my father?...I think worse…” And his hands let go of Wei Ying’s wrists to grab at Wei Ying’s face instead.

Wei Ying chokes on the tongue in his mouth. It is not a kiss; it is a violation. It is punishment from a man who never learned to grieve properly or proces his emotions in any other way than repression and subsequent force. This Lan Zhan knows nothing of tenderness. He knows only of pain.

—

“What did you do to my Lan Zhan?”

“I am your Lan Zhan.”

“Tell me...please…”

A quiet hum of satisfaction. “He wanted to save you but he could not save himself.”

The hot sting of tears futilely blinked away.

—

Lan Wangji hums a song and Wei Ying wants to vomit. His body wants to love this man but his mind knows better—knows worse. He has never associated cruelty with Lan Zhan, and he hates this man for defiling his love with this crude mockery.

“Isn’t it enough?” Wei Ying asks. The rasp of his own voice surprises him.

He does not recognize himself, and he does not recognize this Lan Wangji.

[isabilightwood]

The Problem with Authority - Chapter 4

Or, Sacrifice Summon! Jiang Yanli is here to make things right, be the ultimate big sister (step 1: bring back her dead brother), and maybe steal the Peacock throne in the process

[AO3][1][2][3]

“A -Su ! I’m so sorry!” Lan Xichen grasped her hands to pull her to her feet. “I wanted to give you a gift, not a bump on the head.”

He was flushed, his eyes bright and manic, his forehead ribbon dangling around his neck. His soft gray geometric patterned outer robe was hanging off one shoulder, revealing the pale blue inner robe beneath. Jiang Yanli felt strangely like she should offer to give him his privacy.

Though they were outside. In the courtyard of her house.

Jiang Yanli felt entirely uninjured, but perhaps she had hit her head after all, and was merely hallucinating the impossibility of a discomposed and rumpled Lan Xichen. “Lan-zongzhu…?”

“Erge, wait!” Jin Guangyao sprinted towards them from the direction of the guest rooms. He stumbled to a halt, doubled over and panting. “You shouldn’t talk to anyone while you’re drunk, remember? Let’s not repeat the Moling incident. Come on, let’s get you to bed.” He grabbed Lan Xichen’s wrist and tugged, but the taller man didn’t budge.

“But I haven’t given A-Su her thank you gift yet.” Lan Xichen looked around, wide eyed and innocent. “Where did the rabbits go?”

Jin Guangyao sighed loudly. “We don’t have rabbits here, Erge. This is Lanling, not the Cloud Recesses.”

“But rabbits are the best gift. Wangji and A-Yuan both think so.” Lan Xichen pouted for a moment, then perked up. “Someone must have rabbits in town.”

Jin Guangyao’s face convulsed.

Lan Xichen nodded decisively. Dropping his sword so it hovered in the air, he tried to climb onto it. Combined with the alcohol, Jin Guangyao pulling on his sleeve was enough to unbalance him, so he fell backwards into his lover’s chest. Jin Guangyao stumbled backwards, but managed to hold him up.

Lan Xichen hummed, tugging on his arms to pull him closer. He seemed to have entirely forgotten his goal, content to remain where he was.

Stymied in his efforts to steal his lover away with minimum embarrassment, Jin Guangyao turned his head towards her. “Erge overindulged by mistake, my apologies. I will get him to his rooms — my rooms, I suppose, shortly.”

“None needed. I was merely startled.” Startled, yes, but also having the time of her life. Doubly so, considering the incoherent gibberish of Qin Su’s thoughts.

“Erge, it’s nearly midnight. You wouldn’t want your uncle to know you stayed up past nine, would you?”

“But Shufu is in the Cloud Recesses. He doesn’t like crowds.” Lan Xichen said as though revealing a great secret. “Wangji is somewhere in Qishan. He doesn’t like crowds either.”

“I could always write him a letter. ‘Lan-Xiansheng, I am sorry to inform you that Lan-zongzhu has taken liberties with the disciplines. Please have him copy the rules with the novices for the next month.’”

“A-Yao, you wouldn’t.” Lan Xichen let his head loll back against Jin Guangyao’s shoulder - somehow without tipping the shorter man over — and stuck out his bottom lip.

“I wouldn’t.” Jin Guangyao confirmed, his expression turning ridiculously sappy. “Please come back with me anyway?”

“But I haven’t thanked A-Su properly yet!” Lan Xichen grasped her hands and squeezed tightly, earnestly shaking them up and down. “Thank you, A-Su! I will take good care of our A-Yao.”

She doubted Lan Xichen would ever have mentioned it, if he wasn’t drunk.

“My deepest apologies for this.” Jin Guangyao grimaced, his cheeks flushed pink. He turned to face Lan Xichen, cupping the back of his neck and stroking the front of his throat with his thumb. “I’ve arranged to have dessert delivered to my room. I’ll feed it to you, if you’re good.”

Lan Xichen perked up, dropping her hands and —thankfully — dragged him away before she and Qin Su could be subjected to anymore unwanted details of their relationship.

As they vanished from sight, headed for a discrete side entrance to Jin Guangyao’s room, Jiang Yanli felt a twinge of guilt. Lan Xichen did not deserve to be shackled to a man who had killed his own son.

But she did not feel as much guilt as she would have liked to.

Because she had told Lan Xichen the truth, and he had chosen to do nothing.

Jiang Yanli had gone to him after she learned what she’d slept through in the aftermath of A-Xian’s defection, after Luo Qingyang left the sect and Lan Wangji slipped away unnoticed. After A-Cheng left for the Burial Mounds without her. “A-Xian did not do this unprovoked. The Wen siblings saved our lives, at great risk to their own.”

He smiled in appeasement. “Be that as it may, he killed the guards, and took away all the prisoners. You must understand what this looks like.”

Jiang Yanli’s patience had been hanging by a thread, and the patronizing you must understand snapped it. “I remember starving, terrified, dirty prisoners dressed in rags being used as target practice.” She laughed, a short, crazed thing too like A-Xian’s. “Oh, but you prefer to forget things that might upset your precious peace. Even if it dooms innocents, or breaks your brother’s heart.”

Lan Xichen stared at her, and Jiang Yanli remembered she was supposed to be the level-headed, soft-spoken one. No matter how little she felt it. “My apologies, that was uncalled for. It is simply that my brother cannot do anything, without your support.

But Lan Xichen only shook his head regretfully. “Both my sworn brothers have sworn to me that only dangerous prisoners were confined to the camp. I’m sorry, Jiang-guniang, but I cannot.”

Lan Xichen had not believed her. And perhaps he had doomed A-Xian. Perhaps it would have changed nothing. But for what she had done — was doing — to Lan Xichen, she clung to her rationalizations.

What just happened? Qin Su asked.

We just experienced the reason why Lans are forbidden to drink. Strange that Lan Xichen would get drunk like that, though. Thanks to A-Xian, she knew the Lan’s rule about alcohol was really because of the main clan’s low tolerance, but —

But I’ve seen him drink before. Qin Su’s confusion was like bubbles popping on surface of her mind.

Jiang Yanli had too. A-Xian once mentioned a trick Zewu-jun used to burn it off, while he was deep in his cups and reminiscing longingly about how cute Lan Wangji looked when drunkenly attempting to straighten his crooked forehead ribbon. Had Nie Huaisang switched their cups by mistake? A prank, perhaps?

Where was Nie Huaisang?

Jiang Yanli pushed open the door to the Fragrance Hall and froze.

That answers that question.

Nie Huaisang swore as a device he was holding up to the mirrored portal to the treasure room rebounded towards his face, using both his hands to force it back to the surface. There was a focused intensity to his expression that Jiang Yanli had never seen before, a far sight from the whining puddle who’d dragged the Chief Cultivator from his own banquet.

But then, she’d never paid him much attention. No one had, save perhaps A-Xian. “Nie-zongzhu. Is there something you need from the treasury?”

Nie Huaisang startled, glaring with a focused intensity that vanished so quickly she might have imagined it, as he threw himself back from the portal. He sprawled inelegantly on the ground, covering half his face with his fan. “Is that what it is? A treasury? I really didn’t know.”

Is it just me or is that bullshit? Qin Su did the mental equivalent of narrowing her eyes.

Jiang Yanli shut the door behind her. “So you didn’t just hide a talisman-engraved device you were using to inspect the wards up your sleeve?”

If Nie Huaisang is competent, I think we can safely say everything I thought was wrong. What will we discover next? Does my  father remember my birthday? Has Yao-zongzhu been possessed by a gossip-loving spirit for years?

“I was just curious, I don’t know!”

She supposed he’d never bothered to come up with another line because this one had worked for his entire life. “Let me satisfy your curiosity then.”

He gave an exaggerated wail as she grabbed his wrist. But whatever else Nie Huaisang might be, he was not strong. Jiang Yanli was able to easily pull him through the portal. He stumbled against her, and, as she reached to steady him, bit her hand.

“Ow! What was that for? Are you a dog?” She demanded, wiping off her knuckles on her outer robe.

“You made unfounded accusations and dragged me in here!” He slumped inward, making himself look smaller. “I don’t know why! I felt unsafe.”

Sure he did. “You wanted to see inside. Now you’re inside. Take the chance or leave it.”

He took it. “Well, if you insist. There is some interesting art in here. Is this where the paintings of the Crimson Swan ended up? Tragic. I could help display them properly, if San-ge gave me half a chance. But no, it’s too soon. Half the sects would throw a fit, and Lan-xiansheng would kidnap me for remedial schooling. I can’t go back to the Cloud Recesses! I simply can’t!”

Qin Su snorted. At least some things stay the same. He’s still annoying.

Jiang Yanli watched Nie Huaisang dart around the room, peering at items on shelves and lifting curtains in what seemed to be no particular order, keeping up his narration all the while. “You know, the Wen really had some gems in their collection. This poetry collection is priceless, and yet here it is, tragically gathering dust — Oh, dear.”

His arm knocked into an ornate vase that had been placed too close to the edge of a display.

Jiang Yanli plucked a talisman from her sleeve and threw it, so it hit the vase, freezing it in place tipped halfway off the shelf.

Nie Huaisang turned, squinting at her with an air of smug satisfaction. “You’re not Qin Su.”

Nie Huaisang of all people notices? That’s it, good night. Wake me when things make sense again. Despite her words, Qin Su remained alert and attentive.

Jiang Yanli tamped down on the urge to throw another talisman, this time at him. “That’s quite the accusation.”

“Qin Su would have reached for her sword when I knocked over that vase. You stopped it from falling with a talisman. Also, she never calls me Nie-zongzhu.” He perched on a vase-free table, his hands folded perfectly, but one leg bounced to the rhythm of his thoughts. “The question is, are you possessing her, or are you using one of Xue Yang’s human skin masks?”

“Neither.” She held up Qin Su’s sword, and drew it. “Do you deny that this is Chunsheng?”

“So that is Qin Su’s body, but you say it’s not a possession. Hmm. Did Wei-xiong find a way to permanently inhabit a living body?” Nie Huaisang jumped disturbingly close to the truth with his second guess.  “Are you Wei-xiong? But no, Wei-xiong wouldn’t have chosen a nice woman like Qin Su.”

Aww. He thinks I’m nice. So long as he’s just a sneak, I forgive him for the deception.

“I’m definitely not A-Xian.” Jiang Yanli realized her mistake even as it slipped out. She clapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes widening.

“Jiang Yanli!” He cried, delighted. “Oh, I have to know how this happened.”

“I don’t know what —”

“No, don’t protest. You’ve been caught. But don’t worry. I’m certainly not going to tell anyone in Koi Tower about you. What would be the use of that?” Nie Huaisang was positively gleeful, and she didn’t trust him for a second.

Qin Su didn’t disagree, but sighed. Unfortunately, I think you’d better tell him.

“Take a seat.” She hung up a talisman to alert her if anyone approached the portal, and checked under every curtain, just in case. Once she was certain the room was secure, she knelt across from him. “You were correct that it was A-Xian’s work that made this possible, but it was not his doing.”

“Obviously, it was Wei-xiong’s invention. His most powerful imitator is Xue Yang, and he has the creativity of a sea slug.” Nie Huaisang sank gracefully to his knees, balancing his fan across them. Seeing him now, a stranger would never guess his reputation. “Now, who is this mysterious benefactor? Do tell.”

She briefly detailed the mechanics of the array. From his performance in the Cloud Recesses, she would not have expected him to understand it, but he nodded along without interrupting. “Qin Su found the wrong journal at exactly the wrong moment. Now I’m in her body, and she lives in my head.”

Was it the wrong moment? Qin Su wondered, and digressed before Jiang Yanli could contradict her. Insult his fan for me, that’s sloppy work. His mountains still look like Jin Guangyao’s hat.

Dutifully, Jiang Yanli repeated her words.

He gave a startled laugh. “Ah, Qin Su has long been my worst critic. Sadly, this revenge business leaves little time for developing my painting skills.”

“Revenge? Does this have anything to do with why you were trying to break in here?” If so, his grudge could only be against —

“Naturally. Jin Guangyao killed my brother.” Nie Huaisang asserted this claim as though it were common knowledge. “He also set up yours, which seems relevant.”

Jiang Yanli stiffened, lightning racing though her veins. “A-Xian? Didn’t he lose control?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I can’t be sure, I wasn’t there.” He said lightly. Jiang Yanli was beginning to believe he was allergic to acting serious. Dropping this on her as though it didn’t shake her entire worldview. “He is, however, the reason Jin Zixuan went to Qiongqi path that day.”

Jiang Yanli could have sworn she heard a dizi playing as she died, when Chenqing was hanging loose in A-Xian’s grasp. But she had been dying — that memory was not to be trusted. And just how clever would Jin Guangyao have to be to plan all of that? Surely not everything that had gone wrong could be laid at his feet.

Maybe we should consider the possibility anyway. Qin Su, for whom all the greatest cruelties of her life could be laid at the feet of that same man, suggested.

Jiang Yanli was uncertain that knowing would do anything more than make their losses hurt more. She sat in stunned silence for a long moment, and wished for a plum to let her retreat and reset. A reply to Tan-daifu’s latest letter was overdue, she thought hazily.

Tan-daifu would say that the truth helps. Qin Su seized the chance to turn her own nagging about Tan-daifu’s advice back on her, which didn’t seem fair.

But the truth would only help if she was ready to face it.  Jiang Yanli still woke every day expecting to see A-Xuan beside her, was thrust back into sepia-tinged memories of afternoons on the Lotus Lakes at the distant sound of adolescent laughter.

She would not be ready until the day she saw A-Xian again.

What day? Yanli-jie? Qin Su asked, but Jiang Yanli was uncertain why she’d thought that. A-Xian was dead. She could not simply trade someone else for him.

“How did you learn this?” She asked, finally.

Nie Huaisang looked up from a book he’d snagged from a nearby shelf while she was lost in her thoughts. “I have my ways.”

“You have spies.”

He picked up his fan to flick it dismissively. “Just a few informants. Mostly, we Nies are simply very good at out-drinking people.”

She had a feeling he was downplaying the extent of his network. “What else have you learned from your spies?”

“I just ask people to keep an eye out, it’s hardly espionage.” He insisted.

“Sure.” She said, seeing this was a hill he would die on.

Mollified, he continued. “Jin Guangyao also killed his father.”

“I’m aware. Shockingly, I’m not actually upset about that one.” Perhaps Nie Huaisang had finally run out of shocking revelations.

But no, he had another left in store. “Who is? No, the interesting part is he left a witness. A little bird told me that somewhere in Koi Tower, there’s a woman trapped in a hidden room.”

Jiang Yanli would never get used to having to sit side by side on the Peacock throne with Jin Guangyao. She had been meant to share it with Zixuan, as not only his wife but his equal.

She hadn’t expected her husband to want her as anything other than the mother of his children. Not until their second engagement, when his earnest, awkward attempts at wooing her had turned to learning each other over the course of honest conversations that slowly grew less stilted. Finally, their words had begun to flow like a mountain stream thawing in spring, and Jiang Yanli knew her heart was right to choose him.

A-Xuan had listened, and confided he needed her help, not only with things like courtesy and public speaking, but in knowing what needed to change.

Jin Guangyao, she thought, was so certain that he was the smartest person in the room, that he didn’t notice his wife-slash-sister was an entirely different person.

Qin Su had nearly always sat in silence during conferences, listening perhaps half the time as she thought about lesson plans and inspected the attendees’ robes and ornaments in case anyone had discovered a talented new artisan. So for the moment, Jiang Yanli did the same, albeit paying the debate her full attention.

No matter the length at which Sect Leader Yao complained about issues that did not remotely involve him (Gusu’s high land tax rates), internal sect matters not on the conference agenda (how a small temple sect and town sect on his lands kept driving yao and gui into each other’s territory), or were entirely out of left field. “See! There’s proof! The Jiang have been hoarding the Yiling Patriarch’s inventions for themselves!”

A-Cheng, who had just reached the point in his status report regarding Yunmeng’s taxes, blinked. Clearly used to  Sect Leader Yao, he didn’t even get angry, merely rubbed his knuckles against his forehead. “The Jin have all of Wei Wuxian’s heretical writings. I explained this last conference. And the conference before that.”

Sect Leader Yao continued to prove himself the least astute cultivator in the room. “But you’ve never let anyone into Lotus Pier to check for themselves!”

At that, the flush of anger filled his cheeks. But in an impressive-for-him show of control, A-Cheng only snapped, “What, exactly, are you insinuating, Yao-zongzhu? Would you like to share Xixia’s cultivation techniques with the class?”

“I see that Yunmeng’s recovery is continuing ahead of schedule. Let’s move on to…” Jin Guangyao blanched, as he realized who was next. “Qinghe. A-Sang, if you please.”

Nie Huaisang got to his feet, looking around with what she had to assume were faked nerves, clutching his fan close to his chest. He stuttered through the beginnings of his presentation, before swaying and kicking a bird cage hidden beneath his table into the center of the room. It spoke, in a disturbingly accurate imitation of A-Cheng.

And all right, that was entertaining. But mostly, the conference continued to star Sect Leader Yao.

At least today, A-Ling was perched on the wide throne beside her, making it a little more bearable.

Leaning into her side, his tongue caught between his teeth, A-Ling scribbled on each new sheet of paper. Ostensibly, he was practicing his calligraphy. And he did do a bit of that, with messy strokes, but only when he noticed her looking down. Mostly, he scribbled blobs that he proudly declared were all the dogs he would someday own, when she asked.

Black flecks of ink spattered the front of her robes, but Jiang Yanli could not bring herself to care. She’d missed so much. She’d take every second with her son she could get.

Jiang Yanli’s continued efforts to pay attention were stymied by Qin Su’s running commentary on everything from the tackiness of the gilded everything to the dust bunny that had attached itself unnoticed to Sect Leader Ouyang’s beard, taking the chance to say everything she’d never been able to.

It’s a shame I never tempted Ouyang-zongzhu’s tailor away. He doesn’t deserve her. And oh, look, Su She’s imitating the Lan more obviously than ever. It’s almost like he sold them out to the Wen or something and misses the status. The off-white and teal blue of Su She’s robes were at most a single shade away from Lan colors, and the wave embroidery on his hems was suspiciously cloud-like.

The most notable detail of Su She’s presentation was the way the Lan disciples — save, of course, for a slightly off-color Lan Xichen — pretended not to snicker as he claimed the peasants in his lands were superstitious about musical cultivation.

She’d ensured Sect Leader Ran was next to him, and noted the two of them speaking quietly during one of Sect Leader Yao’s disruptions. This time, he was one insult away from starting a cat fight with Sect Leader Tang, over some minor territorial dispute. Jin Guangyao actually got up and went over to them to smooth ruffled feathers, though his efforts were stymied by A-Cheng’s utter apathy over whether his young, hotheaded vassal stabbed Sect Leader Yao in the eyes with her chopsticks.

It’s not a cultivation conference if no one tries to murder Yao-Zongzhu. Someday, someone will take one for the team and actually do it. Qin Su sighed wistfully.

From the way Jin Guangyao’s dimples twitched when he returned, he’d contemplated it.

During their break for lunch, Sect Leader Ran approached the Peacock throne. As she’d expected, he asked directly for a meeting with Jin Guangyao to negotiate terms for the implementation of watchtowers.

Sect Leader Zhai’s approach was more surprising.

“Xiandu, Jin-furen.” Sect Leader Zhai bowed to each of them. “I would like to request a private meeting with both of you before I leave Lanling. Jin-furen brought up some interesting points yesterday that I would like to discuss further.”

“Both of us?” Jin Guangyao was a man who planned everything himself, who seemed to believe that seeking a second opinion meant smiling and nodding and then explaining why the other person was wrong.

The implication that his here-to-fore apolitical wife had made a better offer appeared to have broken him.

“I think that could be arranged.” Jiang Yanli said. “A-Yao?”

He recovered quickly, gesturing for his assistant to put a note in his schedule. “Yes, of course. I believe tomorrow, immediately after dinner would be an ideal time.”

“Excellent. I look forward to it.” Sect Leader Zhai bowed again and turned away, without waiting for their dismissal.

Tempers frayed in the afternoon, and Jiang Yanli had to pass A-Ling off to his minders for a nap. As Sect Leader Yao rose for his actual turn to report, Nie Huaisang made his move.

He screeched, jumping to his feet as though bitten, and bumped into Sect Leader Yao hard enough to knock them both to the floor. The wine jar in his hand shattered, sharp edges lacerating his palm. He stared at the cuts for a long moment as they began to bleed. And, clutching his wrist, he drew in a deep breath, and howled.

The majority of the room promptly began to find their teacups or the nearest tacky golden peacock drapes utterly fascinating. But his elder brother’s sworn brothers were at his side in an instant.

“A-Sang, please. Let us see.” Jin Guangyao pleaded.

I think Jin Guangyao really does care about Huaisang. He’s never going to see him coming. Qin Su said, and they both winced at a particularly high-pitched cry. Nie Huaisang should have been born to a theatrical troupe.

“Oh, that looks —” Lan Xichen caught only a glimpse of the injured hand before he had to let go to avoid Nie Huaisang’s wildly swinging other arm.

“Ergeeeeeee,” Nie Huaisang wailed. “I’m bleeding out, aren’t I? You can say it.”

“No, no,” As Jin Guangyao finally captured the flailing hand, Lan Xichen pressed down on the wound with his own handkerchief. “You should see a healer, just to clean and bind it properly.”

“Will you take me?” He sniffed, his eyes wide and filling once again with tears as he looked between the two men.

Jin Guangyao exchanged a pained glance with his theoretically secret lover. “I can’t leave right now, can you?”

Lan Xichen shook his head. “I’m scheduled to speak on our findings about suppressing ghosts summoned with spirit flags next.”

“Right. Right.” Jin Guangyao stared into the distance for a moment. Qin Su hoped he was watching his plans for the conference crumble before his eyes. “Huaisang, you’ll have to go with one of your disciples —”

Nie Huaisang sobbed harder.

That was her cue.

“I’ll take him to get patched up.” Jiang Yanli offered, already striding towards them.

Jin Guangyao looked around at the determinedly apathetic audience, then back to Nie Huaisang. He sighed. “Thank you. A-Su will take good care of you, please let her take you to a healer.”

Nie Huaisang kept up his whining until they were out of sight and earshot of the hall, though still under an awning away from the downpour outside. Then, with a glance around to make sure no one was watching, he plucked a vial of salve and a bandage out of his robes. He only asked her to pop open the salve, but she took it and the bandage from him, gesturing for him to hold out his hand.

“I can do it myself.” He insisted, the vapid act vanishing in an instant.

Jiang Yanli rolled her eyes. “Bandages are more secure when someone else wraps them. It’ll help stop the bleeding.” Cultivators were always such babies about receiving help.

“All right.” He gazed at her with wide and uncertain eyes. As though no one had offered to help him without something in return, or a fit of hysterics, in a long time. Yet even as she finished tying of the bandage, that incongruous seriousness took over once again. “We have at least until the end of the evening banquet, though it would be better if you returned for that. The house should be near the kitchens, in what looks like an empty space.”

They walked back and forth past the kitchens several times, but found nothing. The hems of their robs were soaked from the rain, the line between wet and dry creeping higher with every step.

“Right. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.” He pulled one of A-Xian’s Compasses of Evil out of his pocket. “Only Demonic Cultivation could hide a building like this, but it must be shielded somehow, or people would notice a cluster of resentment in the middle of Koi Tower. I wonder… hold this.”

He thrust his umbrella into her chest, expecting her to hold it over his head. Bemused, she did so.

“A lightning talisman, perhaps, to imitate the effects of Zidian.” He mused, sketching in the air with his injured hand as though it didn't pain him. “Yes! It’s this way.”

As they walked, she watched him closely. “I had no idea you were so…”

“That I’m in possession of a working brain? Yes, I prefer it that way.” He said brightly.

Being underestimated had its advantages, but that didn’t stop it from hurting.

“I was going to say that I thought you didn’t cultivate beyond the basics.” Jiang Yanli corrected. “Cultivation has no bearing on intelligence. I would know.”

“Yes, I suppose you would. I’ve always preferred talismans to sword cultivation, much less those horrible life-draining sabers, despite Dage’s wishes. Did you think Wei-xiong was only friends with me for my sense of humor?”

She hadn’t spent much time thinking about their friendship at all, not when she was occupied watching A-Xian fall in love.

What sense of humor? Qin Su said. Teasingly, so Jiang Yanli repeated it, earning an insulted gasp.

But Nie Huaisang’s methods bore fruit, his compass leading them to their destination.

From the outside, the building looked like a shed. One of the many near-identical buildings that housed tools or out of use decorations, albeit with an unusual amount of space on either side. But when she looked closely, Jiang Yanli glimpsed a shimmer of golden energy, mixed with writhing shadows. Wards, and made from a combination of resentful and spiritual energy at that. No wonder neither of them had so much as glimpsed it before.

Jiang Yanli stepped forward to inspect the wards in detail. They looked to be designed to hide the building, and keep someone in. Though the details looked overly complicated for concealing a single person, she and Nie Huaisang agreed. Keeping anyone who knew it was there out would require a level of intricacy that risked collapsing the entire ward every time someone passed through.

Their presence would not be detected.

Still, Nie Huaisang stepped through first, claiming, “I can talk my way out of this, if we’re wrong. You, on the other hand…”

When Jiang Yanli stepped through, there was a wave of disorientation, like stepping onto solid ground after hours on a boat. It passed, and a two-story pavilion of modest size stood before her. Far less elaborate than her own, she thought it might once have been used to house servants, before it was repurposed into a prison.

Keeping out of sight of anyone who might look out, they approached the open windows on either side of the door. Jiang Yanli plastered herself to the wall, and peered inside.

She and Nie Huaisang had agreed that if they found the woman’s prison, they would only scout from the outside.

But what Jiang Yanli saw through that window changed everything.

A young woman in linen servant’s robes knelt at a table, her shoulders hunched over as she methodically ground herbs into powder. A text depicting the anatomy of a human body was open to her left.

The woman looked up, and Jiang Yanli was certain she was seeing a ghost.

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

What the Water Gave Me

Happy holidays, @gryvon!  And thank you to @stetersecretsanta​ for putting this all together! 

You can also check it out here on AO3: 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21876028

A run in with a rusalka leaves Detective Stiles Stilinski with a crippling fear of the water. And help comes from an unexpected quarter.

Or, that time Stiles hates Peter Hale, right up until he doesn't.

What the Water Gave Me

“I don’t like him,” Stiles says.

“I don’t even know why you think your opinion matters here, kiddo,” John replies as he tips a jar of salsa into a serving dish because, yeah, that’s about as classy as things get around chez Stilinski. “This is my weekly poker game, and I can invite whoever I damn well please.”

Stiles growls.

He’s not proud of it, but he growls.

“By the sound of that, I’m not the one who’s been spending too much time hanging out with werewolves,” John says. “And you and Derek…?”

“Are me and Derek what?” Stiles asks, and then mentally backpedals. “No, don’t answer that. Me and Derek have never been and are never going to be a thing, okay?”

Stiles and Derek are bros. There was some awkwardness there when Stiles was pubescent and drowning in hormones, but he’s over it now. He’s not sure that Derek ever will be, because at the same time Stiles was at the mercy of his raging hormones he was also at the mercy of his raging nascent spark, and he might have maybe magicked all of Derek’s clothes off him this one time. To be fair to Stiles, it was a total accident, but Derek’s never really forgiven him. To be fair to Derek, it was in Whole Foods.

Not all of Stiles’s memories of his spark in those formative years make him laugh. Magic is... magic can be terrifying. As someone who lives with it in his bones, Stiles would rather not dwell on that. It’s much easier to think of Derek’s pale naked ass and chortle.

But no, Stiles and Derek are bros. Stiles likes Derek. He does not like his asshole of an uncle, Peter, with his expensive suits, his smirk, and his habit of looking at Stiles like he’s some sort of interesting and slightly gross scientific specimen: Gentlemen, the dung beetle.

And it doesn’t help that Peter Hale is Beacon Hills’ foremost attorney. Defense attorney. How John can even bear to have him in the house is a total mystery to Stiles. Peter’s life’s work is literally to screw John. In a professional way, not a fun one, because ew. Point is, Peter is the enemy.

His dad should not be inviting the enemy to poker games.

John lifts an unimpressed eyebrow at the expression on Stiles’s face. “Son, while you’re living under my roof—”

“Stop right there,” Stiles says, dragging a corn chip through the salsa. ��I’m twenty-five years old, and the only reason I’m living under your roof is because you broke into my motel room and stole all my things.”

John snorts. “After I fought the cockroaches for them! That place was a fleapit, Stiles!”

“I had an aesthetic going on!”

He did, too. He was a weary jaded detective, all hard-bitten cynicism and jagged edges, living in the gutter and staring bleakly into the void while he listened to slow jazz on his phone. It was very emotive. Very noir. He’d been considering taking up smoking.

“An aesthetic? You had a fungal infection!”

Okay, so that’s technically true. But when Stiles had applied for the newly created detective’s position in the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department after a few years in Sacramento, he was adamant that he would be coming back as an independent adult. Apparently though, that was not negotiable once his dad actually saw where he was living. So here he is, back living in his dad’s house like he’s a kid all over again, and although it’s nice not to have to worry about dying of cholera or whatever else was lurking in that motel, it hasn’t been without friction.

Like tonight, for example.

“How about this, then?” John asks, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “I don’t pull the ‘while you’re living under my roof ‘card and—”

“Deal!”

John fixes him with a challenging stare. “And you don’t tell me which friends I can invite over for poker night?”

Dammit. Stiles knows when he’s been stymied.

In a final act of petty revenge, he grabs the chips and salsa and flees upstairs.

He eats them in his childhood bedroom with the lights off, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling that he put there when he was eight and listening to Dad and his friends—including Peter Hale—laughing and talking downstairs.

It’s no good.

Even Miles Davis and his Blue Moods album are never going to get Stiles’s fledgling noir aesthetic back now, are they?

The Yoda plushie on Stiles’s bookshelf gives him a look of wry agreement.

***

Stiles is the first detective in the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department to be Supernatural Certified. That means he knows his weird shit, basically, and has done the courses to prove it. It means that whenever a case can’t be explained away by the usual measures, it lands on his desk. Which means, in a town with a nemeton close by, that Stiles gets a hell of a lot of overtime. It’s routine stuff mostly, and not at all as dangerous as his dad worries. Most supernaturals are just regular people, after all, with a little extra going on, and Stiles can hold his own with a spark as strong as his. The long hours he works are great for the student debt he came out of school with, but not so great for his social life. As in, apart from catching up with Derek a few times a week for coffee, Stiles doesn’t have a social life.

Derek’s eyebrows judge him on a Tuesday morning as Stiles pours what might be an entire cup of sugar into his coffee.

“Look,” Stiles says, “I’m not saying I hate Peter, but why does he have to be such a smug asshole?”

“Weird,” Derek says and sips his tea. “He says the same thing about you.”

Stiles jolts. Peter talks about him? But also, wait. “He says I’m a smug asshole?”

Derek considers for a moment. “No, he says you’re a little asshole.”

“I’m not even smug?” Stiles gasps. “Does he think I’m not smart enough to be smug? I can be smug, Derek!”

“I am aware.”

Stiles glares at his coffee.

Peter Hale is the first werewolf he ever met. Well, not the first, since he’s known all the Hales forever, but he’s the first one he ever saw shift. Before that, werewolves existed for Stiles conceptually, but only like, say, Iceland did. It was a thing, and Stiles knew about it, but he’d never actually figured it was something he’d have to deal with on a daily basis. All that snow and herring, ugh.  

Anyway, when Stiles was twelve and his spark manifested for the first time and some bad shit happened—there may have been explosions involved—suddenly a rampaging, slavering beast was charging right at him, tackling him to the ground while he screamed and the world erupted into flames around him.

And then, just when Stiles thought he was going to die, the rampaging, slavering beast turned into a naked man—which Stiles would like to point out was disturbing on a whole new level—and yelled, “Are you trying to burn down the whole fucking forest?”

And that was how Stiles found out that Peter—and all of the Hales—were werewolves.

He wasn’t brought into the circle of trust so much as he accidentally incinerated his way into it, because while people nowadays know that the supernatural is real, most supernatural beings prefer to keep their status to themselves.

Stiles has a bunch of files on his desk relating to what he suspects is hunter activity that show exactly why that’s still the case.

He tips more sugar into his coffee. “Anyway, how’s the rest of the pack?”

Derek’s resting bitch face softens into a smile. “Good. Cora and her girlfriend are thinking of moving back to the States. And Laura is expecting again.”

“Again?” Stiles blinks. “That woman is a baby machine!”

“And if you call her that,” Derek begins.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says. “My throat, her teeth, I know. What is this now though? Baby three?”

“And four,” Derek says. “Twins.”

“Jesus.” Stiles says. “We definitely need to take Patrick out drinking. Like in commiseration or something.”

“You mean in congratulation.”

“With twins on the way? I know what I mean.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “You know, some functioning adults actually treat children as a good thing.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “Maybe when you’re a functioning adult, you’ll understand.”

“Excuse you!”

Derek quirks a brow. “How’s Yoda?”

Stiles glares at him, and drinks his sugary sludge.

***

Stiles is halfway through lunch, brushing fallen lettuce from his burger off his open case files, when Tara leans into the bullpen. “Stiles? Hale’s here to see you.”

“Good,” Stiles says, leaping up and barging toward the door to the foyer. “He owes me an apology for this mor—”

It’s not Derek.

Of course it’s not. It’s Peter Hale, looking smug and sharp in a suit that probably cost more than what Stiles still owes in student debt. It’s pinstriped for fuck’s sake. Who wears pinstripes in Beacon Hills? Stiles is barely wearing a shirt with buttons. If it wasn’t for stupid regulations he’d be wearing a t-shirt. And his Converse.

“Detective Stilinski,” Peter Hale says smoothly, looking him up and down.

Stiles picks a piece of lettuce off his tie. “Mr. Hale.”

“I’d like to discuss a client with you.”

Stiles sighs, and holds the door open to let him through. He sets his burger down on his desk. “Which client?”

“Clare Stepanova,” Peter says.

Stiles rolls his eyes, grabs the file, and uses it to wave Peter Hale through to the nearest free interview room. He takes his burger too, because fuck it, he’s hungry.

Stiles takes a seat on one side of the table.

Peter takes one on the other side, and checks his reflection in the two-way glass. Does something to his already-immaculate hair, because he’s as vain as he is arrogant.

Stiles rolls his eyes and flips open the file on Clare Stepanova.

Clare Stepanova. Twenty-one years old—though Stiles doubts that—absolutely gorgeous, and a mouth on her like a Prussian sailor. Stiles wasn’t her arresting officer, but he definitely remembers being shocked by her language when Tara hauled her out the back to the cells. And it takes a lot of language to shock Stiles. Still, at least her curses weren’t literal. Stiles knows they could have been.

“Now how did Clare Stepanova afford an attorney like you?” he asks, leaning back in his chair.

“She has wealthy parents,” Peter says.

Stiles snorts. “No, she doesn’t.”

“Well, she has wealthy people who call themselves her parents, and were able to pay my retainer,” Peter says.

Stiles eats the rest of his burger and folds his arms over his chest. “What do you want?”

“I want you, as a Supernatural Certified detective, to go over her file.”

Stiles nods down at it. “Already did.”

“Then you’re aware that this isn’t a regular case.”

“Bullshit,” Stiles says. “She’s not a regular collar, but this is sure as shit a regular case. This isn’t a newly-bitten beta wolfing out on a full moon and breaking indecent exposure laws, or some wendigo kid slipping up and eating the neighbor’s cat. Clare Stepanova has no biological imperative to walk out of Sephora with $600 worth of cosmetics shoved down her jeans. Her being a rusalka has no bearing on this case.”

“Ah,” Peter says, his eyes lighting up for a moment.

“You didn’t know?”

“I got the vague impression of water,” Peter says. “Your spark has come a long way, it seems, now that you have it under control. Finally.”

One of Stiles’s most useful and valuable skills is his spark-given ability to know exactly what supernaturals he’s dealing with at a glance.

Kevin from the grocery store: fae.

Mrs. Iravani from the library: peri.

Clare Stepanova: rusalka.

Peter Hale: asshole.

“I would have expected,” Peter continues, “someone with a spark to have a little more empathy to the supernatural.”

Peter Hale: asshole.

Peter Hale: Grade A asshole.

“I have plenty of empathy,” Stiles says. “But until you can prove to me that rusalki need three different types of top-of-the-line lipstick and a bunch of other overpriced glittery shit to live, then I’m afraid I’m going to reserve that empathy for people who actually need it.”

Peter smiles slightly.

“I think we’re done here,” Stiles says. “I have reports to get back to, and you have to go and break it to your client that she’s shit out of luck.” He closes the file and rises from his chair. “Have fun with that, I guess.”

Peter doesn’t even have the decency to look slightly miffed at his wasted trip.

***

Stiles spends the rest of the afternoon writing a recommendation to the DA’s office for dropping charges in a case against a wiccan who was going sky-clad under the full moon last month. Mrs. McIntyre isn’t technically a supernatural—she has as much magic in her as you’d expect from your average elementary school teacher—so she doesn’t necessarily fall under Stiles’s purview, but she’s sixty-eight years old, never had as much as a parking ticket, and Stiles has incredibly fond memories of her back from when she was his third grade teacher.

It’s late when he gets out of work.

John has already left and gone home, but he sends Stiles a text asking him to pick up some milk, so Stiles swings by the gas station on the way home. He parks away from the pumps, wanders in to get the milk and whatever Skittles happen to catch his eye—four different packets do—and then heads outside again.

And steps immediately into a puddle.

Stiles groans and looks down. He doesn’t remember that puddle being there when he walked inside, and it’s not raining so where—

The water glistens in the light like an oil slick, and Stiles can’t tear his gaze away.

For a second he watches the colours, mesmerised, and then the truth of it hits him.

He can’t tear his gaze away.

He doesn’t want to, but also he literally fucking can’t.

His chest squeezes as fear grips him. He hears footsteps behind him, but he can’t tear his gaze away.

Feels soft, cool fingertips brush his cheek, but he can’t tear his gaze away.

He drops the milk and Skittles.

Feels the tickle of her hair against his face as she leans in, and he can’t tear his gaze away.

His phone. He needs…

He can’t make his hands move.

She smells like fresh water, like nature, like a cold, clear stream he wants to drown himself in.

“Hello again, Detective Stilinski,” she says.

Stiles stares at the colors in the puddle, and he can’t tear his gaze away.

And then her hands are covering his eyes, and everything goes black.

***

It’s dark when Stiles blinks away again.

He’s…

He squints into the gloom, but he doesn’t know where he is. He’s cold and wet.

He’s…

He’s been stripped down to his underwear, and he’s lying in about an inch or two of water. There are rough bricks underneath him, and…

Is he in a cellar?

He might be in a cellar. There’s a crack of light some distance away that might be a door? If it is, it’s some distance away and also higher than Stiles is, so he guesses there are stairs. It’s too dark to make them out though. There doesn’t appear to be any other light source.

Stiles shifts slightly, and the water tickles him.

It’s cold. Not shiver-to-death cold, but cold enough that hypothermia might become an issue. Does the light from under the door mean it’s daylight up there? When the temperature drops at night, the cold is definitely going to be a problem. If he lives that long.

If it’s daylight up there, has he already been here an entire night?

Dad must be looking for him then. Dad, and every cop from the station.

Stiles’s hand goes instinctively for his phone in his pocket, and only brushes against naked skin.

Underwear only, right.

He closes his eyes, not that it makes much difference, and reaches for his spark. It’s always there are the core of him, both hidden behind and intrinsically bound to his heartbeat. It’s—Stiles knows it sounds lame as fuck, but he’s always thought of it as his soul. Something uniquely him, but also something that’s not bound to his physical form. His spark encompasses so much more than bone and muscle and meat and, Stiles likes to think, it will last longer than those things too.

He finds it shining warmly behind his breastbone and he focuses on it.

If he can summon it, he can use it to—

And then the cold water is lapping at his skin, higher and higher, and Stiles opens his mouth to suck in a breath but he gets a mouthful of water instead. It rushes down his throat, suddenly a torrent.

Stiles flings himself upright, coughing and hacking, wiping at his mouth with his shaking hands.

The water recedes again, sliding down his skin like an icy caress. It leaves a shiver in its wake that Stiles feels through to his bones.

He doesn’t reach for his spark again.

***

“Hello again, Detective Stilinski,” Clare Stepanova says for the third time, or maybe the fourth, as Stiles chokes and coughs and tries to clear his lungs.

The water rises when she speaks, like tides pulled to the moon. And she’s beautiful, so beautiful, but she won’t let the water take him. He’s cold and he’s weak and he wants to sleep, wants to stop fighting the heaviness in his lungs, but she won’t let him go. She draws the water out of him with a flick of her wrist, her gold hair gleaming like moonlight in the gloom, and then she smiles and commands the water to drown him again.

The weight in his lungs is like lead. His head throbs. His chest aches. His heartbeat turns sluggish.

And then she pulls him back.

“Hello again, Detective Stilinski.”

Five times now, maybe six.

***

He’s lying on the floor, staring into the gloom. The water laps at his ears but he hasn’t got the strength to move. He’s going to die here. Every breath is harder than the last. Every one sounds like the wheeze of squeaky bellows. He’s going to drown in two inches of freezing water. He’s cold, he thinks, but he can no longer feel it. And his spark, that part of him he always thought of as indestructible, flickers on and off like a faulty lightbulb.

The water creeps up him again, icy fingers climbing his clammy skin, and a hot tear leaks out of the corner of Stiles’s eye and slides down his temple.

He’s going to die here.

And when the door crashes open and Stiles is blinded by the sudden blazing light, he thinks, for a moment, that’s what’s happened. And then there’s a dark shape moving down the stairs, and footsteps splashing toward him, and the roar of a werewolf fills the cellar room, and Stiles passes out.

***

“No,” John says firmly as Stiles blinks awake. He covers Stiles hand in his, and draws it away from the scratchy thing in his nose. “That’s your oxygen, kiddo. You need to leave that alone.”

Stiles squints at him.

His dad looks tired; about as tired and wrung out as Stiles feels right now. He’s sitting in a chair beside Stiles’s hospital bed, and he’s wearing a uniform that looks at least three days old, judging by the creases and what look like coffee stains down the shirt. His stubble’s about three days old too, and grayer than it should be.

Stiles pulls in a wheezing breath.

“You had pulmonary edema,” Dad says. “They’ve drained the water from your lungs, but you also have pneumonia, so that’s what’s causing you some issues now. You’re gonna be in here for a few more days before they’ll let me take you home.”

It’s a lot to take in, especially since Stiles can’t even remember for sure how he got here. His brow creases. “Clare?”

The name comes out like a croak.

John’s expression hardens into one of grim satisfaction. “Dead.”

Stiles tries to summon up a bit of feeling for that, but he’s mostly numb. Also, he’s mostly astonished that she was prepared to kill a cop over a shoplifting charge, but that’s the way of it with some supernaturals, isn’t it? Especially the old ones. Centuries of feeling superior to mundane and mortal humans tends to result in more than a few egotists who don’t see why they should be bound by human laws. Like vampires, for example. Total assholes who think they’re better than everyone else just because they saw Beethoven live in concert or whatever. Vampires are the fucking worst. Well, at least they were the worst, but for the record Stiles is going to shift rusalki up to the top of the list now.

He thinks back to the cellar. “Werewolf?”

John squeezes his hand and nods. “Peter.”

Stiles feels a jolt of surprise at that. For some reason he’d thought Derek, mostly because Derek is his best friend and has always had his back. Or maybe angry Talia, because she loves him like a mother. But Peter? Clare’s defense attorney Peter? Clare’s defense attorney Peter who thinks Stiles is a little asshole? Yeah, that’s definitely out of left field.

“The pack was tracking you the whole time,” John says. “Turns out that rusalki can hide scents. Who knew, huh?”

Well, Stiles knew. He’s done the course. But now isn’t really the time to bring it up.

“Anyway,” John continues, “Peter figured it might have been Clare, so he set up a meeting to talk about her case, and followed her after that. He was supposed to wait for backup, but, well…” He grimaces. “Apparently you didn’t have that much time left.”

Stiles sucks in another wheezing breath. “Wait… won’t he get in trouble? With the Bar Association or something?”

“Oh, son,” John says, and his mouth quirks. “If you think Peter Hale gives a flying fuck about the Bar Association, you really don’t know him at all. Besides, attorney client privilege doesn’t cover crimes in progress.”

He nods, and a rush of dizziness leaves him with black spots in his vision.

“Careful,” John says, with mild rebuke in his tone like Stiles has just tried to run a marathon, not nod. “You need to take it easy, kiddo.”

“Yeah,” Stiles rasps, and feels a sudden prick of tears in his eyes. He doesn’t even know why. He’s just… it’s all been too much, he guesses. Clare Stepanova tried to kill him, and he didn’t even fight back. He’s never had that happen before. And he knows it was because he was in her thrall, and he knows it wasn’t his fault, but he still hates that he made it so easy for her. Stiles has always been a fighter, oftentimes against all advice to the contrary, and it’s terrifying how Clare just shut down that part of him. Like it was nothing. Like he was nothing.

Stiles was supposed to be stronger than that, smarter than that. He feels as helpless now as he did when the water was rushing into his lungs.

John squeezes his hand again, and Stiles summons up a weak smile for him.

And then Derek turns up with a massive blue teddy bear wearing an It’s a boy! ribbon from the hospital gift shop.

“You can put it with your Yoda,” he says, glowering at Stiles like Stiles’s near-death experience has personally offended him.

“I love it,” Stiles says, his voice still rasping, and opens his arms for a hug.

Both his dad and Derek get in there, and Stiles closes his eyes and feels warm again for the first time in days. And he wonders where Peter is right now.  

***

It’s four days before Stiles is allowed to go home. He curls up in a blanket on his dad’s couch, and doesn’t move for hours. He stares unblinkingly at the television until John makes him move into the kitchen for dinner. Then, after they’ve eaten, John herds Stiles upstairs and toward the bathroom.

“You stink, kiddo,” John says.

“Way to pull your punches, Dad.”

“Get cleaned up and get in bed,” John tells him. “I’ll bring you your meds.”

Stiles shuts the bathroom door and strips off. Steps into the shower and…

He can’t turn the tap. The thought of water on skin is…

He can’t.

And he knows he should. He knows his dad is right. He stinks. And he knows the steam from a hot shower will be good for his pneumonia. But he just can’t bring himself to do it.

He steps back out of the shower and crouches down in front of the bathroom sink instead. Ferrets around in the cabinet until he finds a bunch of wipes, and cleans himself with those instead.

He’ll shower tomorrow.

***

Three days later, and Stiles is out of wipes. His skin is greasy, and his hair is an oily mess. He’s also got a gross scraggly excuse for a beard, but he can’t bring himself to shave. Not even when the blast of water in the kitchen sink, or the trickle of it through the coffee machine is enough to make him freeze up. He’s pretty sure they can smell him all the way downtown, because there’s only so much that deodorant can do. Spoiler alert: not much.

“Poker night tonight,” John says. “Want to join us?”

Stiles pokes his spoon at his cereal. “I’m good.”

John’s face is creased with worry. “Stiles,” he says, “what’s going on, kid? You’re…”

Decaying, Stiles thinks. Moldering. Something.

“Not yourself,” John finishes. “Do you need to talk to someone? A professional?”

“I’m tired,” Stiles says. “Once I get over the pneumonia, I’ll bounce back.”

John holds his gaze for a long moment, and then nods.

Stiles knows better than to think his dad is letting this go though. The Stilinskis are a stubborn bunch.

He waves his dad off to work, and dozes on the couch for most of the day. He’s jolted awake sometime in the afternoon when the door opens and footsteps tread down the hallway.

“Good lord,” Peter Hale says, looking at where Stiles is nesting like a rat on the couch, surrounded by blankets and junk food wrappers. “You smell like you’ve been dead for a month.”

Stiles grunts and shows him his middle finger. “Thanks for rescuing me.”

“Please,” Peter says. “Your father and Derek would have been on my case for eternity if I hadn’t ripped that bitch’s throat out.” He grins and shows his teeth.

“Well, thanks anyway.” Stiles feels a sudden thrill at the thought of Peter wolfing out over him, and pretends he doesn’t. “How did you get in here anyway? Do you have a key?”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “As though I’d need a key.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. Peter is such an asshole.

Peter strides over to him, and wrenches his blankets off. “Come on. You’re a mess, and your father’s worried about you. So is the pack.”

Stiles allows himself to be bullied all the way upstairs and into the bathroom. He baulks when he sees the shower.

“Peter, I…” He can’t finish the sentence. He can’t admit his fear, even when he knows it’s etched into his skin, and written into every expression. Even when he knows he literally reeks of it.

“Shirt off,” Peter says. “And then sit on the edge of the bath for me.”

Peter’s no-nonsense tone is easy to obey, and it gives Stiles something to rail against. He’s grateful for both those things as he pulls his shirt off and grumbles about overbearing asshole werewolves getting all up in his business, and this is bullshit, Peter, bullshit.

The blast of water in the sink makes his blood run cold and freezes the words in his throat.

Peter squeezes out the washcloth under the tap, and then grabs the bar of soap from the shower stall. When he turns back to face Stiles, his expression is grim.

“I thought you were a corpse,” he says. “When I found you in that cellar. I could barely hear your heartbeat.”

Stiles hunches over and looks away.

Peter crouches down in front of him. He takes Stiles wrist in his hand, and draws his arm out straight. Stiles shivers when Peter drags the warm washcloth from his shoulder to his wrist. “You scared me, Stiles.”

There’s no hint of rebuke in his tone. There’s only something softer than that; an admission, not an accusation.

“Scared me too,” Stiles murmurs.

Peter scrubs the soap along the washcloth, and then drags the cloth down Stiles’s arm again, leaving foamy bubbles in its wake. “So scared you can’t even face the thought of a shower?” He pinches the skin on the back of Stiles’s hand, and the mark doesn’t vanish. “So scared you’re letting yourself go dehydrated?”

Stiles nods, his eyes stinging with shame and helplessness.  

“She’s dead,” Peter says, his blue eyes shining. “She’s dead, and she can’t hurt you now.”

“I know,” Stiles rasps. “I know that, but…”

“But you don’t feel it,” Peter says, and hums slightly. “You know what you need, Stiles?”

“A therapist?”

“Well, possibly.” Peter smiles slightly. “But in the meantime would you settle for an amoral and slightly sociopathic werewolf by your side who’d tear out the hearts of your enemies if they even looked at you sideways?”

Stiles should be embarrassed at how long it takes him to get that. “But you hate me.”

“Nonsense,” Peter says, and swipes the washcloth over Stiles’s collarbone. “You are the thorn in my side and the pebble in my shoe, Stiles, but I’ve never hated you.”

“Really?”

“Do you think I break into the houses of people I hate and give them sponge baths?”

Stiles blinks. “No. That would be weird. I mean, this is weird enough, but that would be super weird.”

Peter’s laugh is low and full of warmth. He rises to rinse the washcloth out, and then he’s back, lifting Stiles’s other arm up and washing it gently. Stiles feels almost dizzy at the touch. He feels weak and helpless, but a part of him melts into this too. The part of him that wants to be cared for, wants to be allowed to need this without judgement.

Stiles is pretty sure he’ll judge himself harshly enough for this at a later date, but that’s a problem for future Stiles.

He closes his eyes and lets it happen. Drifts for a while on the feeling of being looked after.

“Okay, sweetheart,” Peter says softly. “Take the rest off.”

It should be humiliating, probably, but Stiles is floating from Peter’s touches, so he lifts his hips and lets Peter pull his sweatpants down and off. The hospital sponge baths were perfunctory and clinical; this is not. This feels almost like an act of quiet worship, and Stiles might be drunk on it.

“Good boy,” Peter murmurs, and Stiles melts a little more.

He’s zoned out enough that he can almost pretend the careful swipe of the warm washcloth over his dick and balls doesn’t happen. Almost. But by the time he jolts and his eyes flash open, Peter has already moved on to his thighs. He finishes up at Stiles’s feet, and Stiles toes curl at the slight tickle.

Peter smiles up at him, and then stands. “Now how about your hair, sweetheart? You look like a weasel dipped in oil.”

Stiles snorts. There’s the asshole he knows and… knows. There’s the asshole he knows, period, full stop, and nothing further to add.

Peter’s expression turns serious. “It needs a wash, Stiles. Do you think you could handle some water through it, if I’m here?”

Stiles’s heartbeat quickens, and he’s afraid that it he so much as blinks he’ll be back in that cellar, water rushing into his throat and drowning his screams.

“I have an idea,” Peter says, and then disappears from the bathroom. He’s back a moment later, wheeling Stiles’s computer chair with him. “Let’s do this salon style.”

He flings a clean pair of sweatpants at Stiles, and Stiles climbs into them. Then he sits on the chair, and Peter wheels it back toward the sink. It’s not quite the right height, but Peter pillows a rolled-up towel under the back of his neck, and folds a dry washcloth over his forehead.

“I’ll do my best to keep the water off your face, hmm?”

Stiles nods. He wants to close his eyes, but he doesn’t dare.

It’s… it’s not as bad as he was afraid it would be. The tickle of water on his scalp makes his skin crawl, and makes him want to leap out of the chair, but Peter works quickly and calmly, and his fingers massage Stiles’s scalp deftly.

“What do you know about this Braeden person?” he asks.

“Which Braeden person?”

“The incredibly attractive and intimidating woman that Derek has fallen head over heels for,” Peter says. “I like her, but on the other hand I feel like I shouldn’t approve.”

“Because she’s very possibly a mercenary?” Stiles asks curiously.

“No, I think that’s hilarious,” Peter says. “You should see Talia’s face! I just feel like I shouldn’t approve because, well, I like to make Derek squirm.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Stiles says.

Peter catches a trickle of water before it escapes the washcloth on Stiles’s forehead. “He’s my nephew. It’s my job.”

“It’s really not.”

Peter shrugs. “Well, we’ll agree to disagree. Now, want me to attack that abomination you call a beard? No water, sweetheart. Just shaving cream and a washcloth.”

Stiles nods warily. “Just… just keep talking, okay?”

Peter smirks. “I’m a lawyer, Stiles. That was never going to be an issue.”

***

When it’s done, all of Stiles’s doubts and insecurities come rushing back in. He’s clean and he’s shaved, but at what cost? Peter Hale saw him naked, and not just naked, but a whole other level of nakedness than Stiles is comfortable with. Peter didn’t just see his skin; he saw his vulnerability. Somehow Stiles knows that’s the thing that’s going to be hardest to reconcile.

He sits on his bed and stares out the window, and wonders if tomorrow he’ll be able to actually brave a shower, or if he’s going to be scared of water for the rest of his life. Which would be fine, if it was swimming in the stuff. But showering? Doing the laundry? Hydrating? These aren’t optional activities.

Stiles sighs, and grabs his laptop off his desk, and queues up an episode of Star Trek. Why aren’t sonic showers a thing yet? They need to be a thing.

The knock on his door doesn’t really surprise him.

“Come in, Peter.”

Peter opens the door. He’s holding a glass of orange juice.

“Shouldn’t you be downstairs playing poker with my dad and all his friends?”

Peter ignores the question and sits next to Stiles. He sets the orange juice down on his bedside table. “I think you and I got off on the wrong foot, Stiles.”

“What, when you broke into my house without a key?” Stiles grouses.

“No,” Peter says. “When you were a twelve-year-old with a newly manifested spark, and I scared the hell out of you.”

Stiles feels the faint echo of that fear as he thinks back to that day. And what a hell of a day it was. “To be fair, I was exploding the forest at the time.”

Peter nods. “True. But still, I feel that being lunged at by a werewolf was probably quite traumatizing.”

“It was actually more traumatizing when I saw your dick,” Stiles says. “Werewolves, that was totally out of left field. But naked men jumping on me? Dad had warned me about how dangerous those were.”

Peter’s eyebrows do something complicated. It’s a Hale trait. “You thought I was a child molester?”

“Not for long! But, in my defense, you were a naked man who jumped on me. I was twelve, Peter. There wasn’t a lot of nuanced thought involved!”

“Well,” Peter says at last, “When it comes to nakedness, I suppose that we’re even now after today, sweetheart, aren’t we?”

There’s a strange weight in the air as Stiles avoids Peter’s gaze, and he thinks it’s all in the way he just said the word ‘sweetheart’. Usually Peter uses the word like it’s a sharp weapon, but now—and ever since he walked into the house this afternoon, if Stiles is honest—there’s no barb in the word at all. It sounds almost…

Almost real.

“Peter,” he asks cautiously, lifting his gaze again, “do you like me?”

“Yes,” Peter says.

“I mean, not because I’m pack adjacent, and Derek’s best friend, and Talia refers to me as the son she always wanted, but like-like, like—”

“Jesus Christ, Stiles,” Peter says, and rolls his eyes. “Yes.”

This is the part where they should fall into a kiss, right? Stiles reaches for Peter, only to find a splayed hand on his chest.

“Nu-uh-uh,” Peter says. “Not until you drink your juice, sweetheart.”

Well, Stiles guesses, there’s some incentive.

He drinks his juice.

***

Stiles narrows his eyes at the bottle of water on his desk. He’s been back at work for three days now, and he’s mostly a lot better, but still not a total fan of this whole hydration business. It’s a shitty thing to develop a trigger over, but he’s working on it. He’s downloaded an app on his phone that reminds him when to drink, so he’s no longer got an excuse to avoid it. Also, his therapist prescribed him a shitload of Ativan, so that’s pretty sweet.

“Stiles?” Tara calls from the door. “Hale’s here to see you.”

Stiles leaps up from his desk, anticipation bubbling through him. Peter promised to bring him lunch, and he’s been counting down the minutes. Not because he gives a fuck about the new fusion place on Third that Peter’s been raving about, but because, well, Peter. Peter has been visiting Stiles every day, both at work and at home, checking that he’s functioning. They’ve got into a weird pattern now where when Stiles showers, Peter sits in the bathroom and talks to him. It should feel humiliating, but it doesn’t. And Peter isn’t even a jerk about it. He’s still a jerk about everything else, but, well, that’s Peter. It turns out that there’s just a lot more to him than that asshole exterior. As embarrassing as it is to admit it, Stiles might actually be in love.

Ugh. He has taste in his ass.

But so does Peter, probably, so it all works out.

And frankly, Stiles can’t wait for the day when showering with Peter means something a whole lot more sexy than their current arrangement.

He wrenches the door open. “Hey, Peter, I—motherfucker.”

Derek blinks at him.

“It’s always the wrong Hale,” Stiles says. “Every damn time.” He plasters on a smile. “Hey, Der-bear. It is great to see you!”

“Clearly,” Derek deadpans. “Anyway, Mom wanted me to remind you that it’s pack dinner this Friday, and she expects to see you there. And she said she’s making extra cookies so you can take a bunch home, and not try to smuggle them out in your pockets like last time.”

“She can’t prove that ever happened.”

“Stiles, your jeans smelled like chocolate for days. You should do your laundry more often.”

“You’re not actually supposed to wash your jeans after every wear.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “You are if they have chocolate in the pockets.”

“Point,” Stiles admits.

“See you Friday,” Derek says, and claps him on the shoulder before leaving.

Stiles heads back inside to the bullpen—and discovers Peter sitting at his desk, his fancy Italian ankle boots resting on Stiles’s open files. He’s eating something from a takeout container. It smells fucking orgasmic.

“How the hell did you get in here?” he demands. “Did you break into a police station?”

Peter smirks. “I brought you lunch, sweetheart. Let’s not quibble over the details of why, and how, and whether or not it’s really an indictable offence.”

“Someone let you in the back door, didn’t they?”

“Your father,” Peter admits. “I met him in the parking lot.”

Stiles leans his ass on his desk. “You’re such a dick,” he said fondly.

Peter shrugs, and nudges Stiles’s water bottle closer to him. “Takes one to know one.”

“Touché.” Stiles takes a sip of his water, trying not to grimace, and Peter rubs his knee gently in silent encouragement. Then Stiles steals his takeout and starts shoveling it into his mouth. “When I finish this, want to go make out in the file room?”

“Sweetheart,” Peter says with a broad grin, “I can’t think of a better way to spend my day.”

And how weird is Stiles’s life now? Because it turns out that neither can he. He wouldn’t say he’s grateful to Clare Stepanova—fuck that evil bitch—but Stiles knows that if he hadn’t been attacked, he and Peter would still be bitching about each other to their families, and snarking at each other when they met, and both of them dancing around the fact that maybe, just maybe, there was a spark of something between them that wasn’t sheer contempt. And, since they’re both such assholes, they would have died of old age before admitting it.

So there’s an upside, Stiles guesses. A crazy weird upside to being drowned repeatedly by a rusalka, and it turns out it’s the bastard of a werewolf pointedly nudging Stiles’s water bottle toward him again.

When Stiles had come back to Beacon Hills, he’d tried to like the idea of being alone. Romanticized it even, in that gross fleapit of a motel where he pretended to be a hard-bitten cynical film noir detective. But it turns out Stiles isn’t that kind of guy at all.

The corners of his mouth turn up as Peter nudges the water bottle against his thigh. Stiles picks it up and sips from it, and Peter makes a smug, satisfied noise.

It turns out it’s nice to be cared for after all.

[brownthoughtsrainbowperception]

My heart spoke just moments ago

To asphalt and mundane hope

Aspiring to be the most ordinary of things as it weeps for being thrust into the just turmoil of golden trust

If you must sing gaiety is the levity of spring with the bouancy of the mean averaged out to the ninth power

My mathematic brain power was last hour and I stumble on through dreaming of blue hued tranquility upon my pillow with numbed remembrances uttered in languages exotically earthbound with spontaneous sound

Was the mound the way to the happiness saught or was there some hidden drop

I have craved the beginning at the end and I still stand stark in the middle once again

Words are the traffic stopped smart to soothe the most aching heart

And here goes the next thump as my moment comes and the exasperation unfolds into unique flows of contorted angles and dripping dangles of mosaic shapes never wanting to wait

I ache to see the prose clean as they filter through the choices of moist mosses hanging from ancient trees leaning into brisk breezes to stymie the deep weaknesses

I am meaningful as I blink to think as the rink sinks just to bring the the slightest blush of pink

It is the wine I drink as the mink hangs upon a brink of existence morbid and the loss had no cost to wallets fat on the sauce of muted intellectual thought

My heart caught up just as I buffered the hip that dripped the last of the latest triste and we are all briskly moving into the night using

I am a wanderer imbued with meaning my hue tranquility and turquoise energy

[calligraphist-artemisia]

Quid Pro Quo

Summary: While everyone's healing after their first fight against Haggar's super powered Mech, Coran brings up the perfect way for them to relax and pass the time: a fun game of Monsters & Mana! While Shiro argues the value of (once again) playing a paladin, Keith goes for a more unexpected role.

Also posted on Archive of our Own - under the username Kishirokitsune

-

Quid Pro Quo

Quid pro quo - a favor or advantage granted or expected in return for something.

The aftermath of their battle against the Komar Mech found the paladins of Voltron in a rough state. While the lions protected them from harm to the best of their ability, there were still injuries and each of them had spent two long weeks confined to their beds in the med-bay so they would have proper time to heal from their ordeal. And even after that, they were released under the condition that they take it easy for another week.

After being active for so long, it was hard for any of them to patiently sit around and do nothing, especially when there was so much that needed done.

It was Coran who came up with a solution to their boredom.

He rounded up everyone and giddily took them down to the common room, where he had commandeered a round table for their use. There was a hand-drawn, gridded map spread across the surface, a handful of dice, and a set of five familiar figures.

“You save the game pieces?” Lance asked, sounding delighted. He swooped in and picked up the model of Pike, cradling it in his hands.

Allura smiled as she stepped up next to him, reaching for Valayun. “This is brilliant, Coran! But are you sure you have time for this? You and Shiro are perfectly able to go out and help with reconstruction.”

“Sam said that if he sees me working for the next twenty-four hours he's going to tie me down and make sure I get some rest,” Shiro said. “This sounds like the better choice.”

Pidge snorted in amusement, but didn't comment on it. She looked delighted to hold her figure of Meklavar once again.

Only Hunk looked a little concern, though it was quickly revealed that it wasn't over the game itself. “But Keith didn't play with us last time and he doesn't have a model.”

Coran twirled his mustache, a twinkle in his blue eyes. “Don't you worry about that, my young friend! I found a machine here that prints models in 3D and have already made new ones for our adventure today. They will all be revealed when the time is right. Now sit! And we shall resume our journey through the magical realm of Aurita!”

It didn't take them too long to get settled in around the table. Coran chose a spot at the top of the map, with Keith and Shiro to his left and right. Pidge was on the other side of Keith, followed by Hunk, then Lance, and finally Allura, bringing the circle back to Shiro. Each of them picked up a game pad and found their character, reviewing theirs stats and refreshing their memory of how the game worked.

“Before we begin, does anyone want to create a new character?” Coran asked, looking pointedly at Shiro.

Shiro crossed his arms over his chest. “I'm happy playing as Gyro. I don't see what I'd want to change characters.”

The other paladins – minus Keith – groaned in exasperation.

Coran hummed as he booted up his game pad. “I thought you might want a backup in case anything...unfortunate should happen?”

There was a moment of silence in which Keith looked up from his game pad to raise an eyebrow. When no one chose to elaborate on that, he went back to creating his own character, wondering what he'd gotten himself into.

“Coran, is something going to happen to Gyro?” Shiro asked.

“Only the dice know,” Coran replied mysteriously.

Shiro sighed as he selected the character creation screen. “I don't understand what you have against me playing as a paladin. I like being a paladin.”

“Can we make a rule that he can't make another one?” Lance asked.

“Now, now, far be it for me to stymie Shiro's creativity. If he wants to rewrite his backstory so that there is a third brother, then that's up to him,” Coran said. “Let's see... we've had Shiro and Gyro. What shall be the third brother's name? Hiro?”

“I hate all of you except for Keith,” Shiro said, prodding at his screen.

Coran gave them all a few more minutes while he searched for the storyline he wanted to use. It was bound to be a fun one, especially after his talk with Keith the day before. He had been sure that the others would be interested in another quest, but Keith hadn't been part of the original game and he wanted to include the current Black Paladin in their fun.

As it turned out, Keith had an interesting idea, and Coran had the perfect plot to go along with it.

He glanced up, smiling softly as he watched Allura lean over to Lance to ask him about something. Hunk appeared to be mumbling spells under his breath and then checking his game pad to make sure he got them right. Keith had his pad turned so Pidge couldn't sneak a peak at what he was doing, no matter how hard she tried.

It warmed Coran's heart to see them all having fun after everything they had been through.

He cleared his throat to get their attention and begin the game. “Tales of your miraculous defeat of the mighty and powerful wizard known as Dakin have spread far and wide across Aurita. Townspeople rejoice wherever you go and you no longer want for food and drink. Today we begin in the wilds of the Mysterious Forest, on a quest for a king of a distant land. It appears his daughter, Princess Mora, has been kidnapped and it is up to you all to save her!”

“A princess?” Lance's eyes lit up.

Hunk groaned. “Oh no... Coran, does it have to be a princess?”

“Yeah, can't we rescue a handsome prince instead? It doesn't always have to be a damsel in distress,” Pidge complained.

“But rescuing a princess is a staple of all classic stories! C'mon, guys, don't take this from me!” Lance begged.

Allura rolled her eyes.

Coran looked at them peevishly for interrupting his storytelling. “Are you going to let me continue, or would you like to run this campaign on your own?”

No one spoke again.

“As I was saying...”

-

If not for the haunting sounds of wildlife, the Mysterious Forest would be a beautiful place to explore. Trees towered overhead, their branches reaching out to cast shade over the ground, while still allowing in enough light for the underbrush to thrive. A single main path, comprised of dirt compacted under heavy travel, wound through the forest.

A sheer mountainside rose to the right of the path. It looked as though the rock had been carved away some time ago, though by what, no one knew.

Valayun led the way down the path, her bow knocked in preparation for trouble. She had heard tales of bandits and thieves who lurked within the woods and knew it was best to be ready to anything. Her blue eyes wearily scanned the underbrush, watching out for any movement.

Behind her was Pike and Block, who quietly talked to pass the time. Pike was particularly excited about their current quest to find a kidnapped princess, and was disappointed that no one else seemed to share his enthusiasm.

Meklavar traveled behind them, her ax at the ready. Her stonesense screamed that something wasn't right, and she was easily the jumpiest of the party.

Bringing up the rear was Gyro, who looked around with a sense of wide-eyed wonder at the beauty of the wilderness around them. He was particularly taken with the brightly colored flora and the pleasant smells they emitted. He felt like nothing could possibly go wrong. After all, the weather was pleasant and their quest had only just begun!

What could possibly go wrong?

-

“Shiro, roll for perception,” Coran instructed.

Shiro frowned. “I thought I already did that.”

“You did. Now I need you to roll a second time,” Coran said.

Everyone leaned forward to watch Shiro roll the die, eager to see what it would stop on. There was a collective groan when it tipped over one final time to end on “two”.

“Tough luck, Shiro,” Keith said sympathetically.

Coran's delight was obvious to everyone and he toned down his cackle to a snicker, hiding his face behind his game pad. “Suddenly, there is a loud crashing sound from the cliffside! Something has knocked into the precariously perched boulders up at the top, jarring them loose. They fall, picking up speed as they go, and while they make a great deal of noise, Gyro is too busy admiring the flowers to pay attention. Will anyone warn our poor paladin of the danger he faces?”

“How do you not hear a landslide?” Pidge asked with a shake of her head. “Nevermind. I'm the closest to him, so I shout out to try and warn him.”

“Shiro, another roll, if you will?”

Shiro sighed and rolled again, not at all surprised to see another roll number. Even the dice gods were working against him. “Am I dead?”

“Oh, I'm afraid so. You hear Meklavar's warning, but aren't able to move in time and are crushed by a landslide,” Coran rattles off as though commenting on the weather.

Shiro gave the Altean a petulant look as he sent over the data for his new character without being asked.

Keith watched the exchange with a furrowed brow. “Should I make a second character now, or...”

“You don't need to. Shiro just has really bad luck,” Pidge reassured him.

Coran took a moment to scan through the new data before jumping back in. “Our heroes take a few hours to mourn their fallen friend and construct a small monument in his honor.”

-

The loss of Gyro the Paladin dampened even Pike's spirits. The four heroes continued on their way, searching for the entrance to the caves where it was rumored that Princess Mora was being held.

“Does anyone else think it's weird that we haven't seen any bandits yet? You'd think they would at least have traps laid for us,” Meklavar said.

“Are you trying to jinx us?” Pike demanded. His eyes scanned the foliage critically, as though he expected something to immediately jump out and attack them.

Valayun uneasily slowed, closing the distance between her and Pike by a few paces. “Maybe we've gone the wrong way?”

“Can't be. This is the only path,” Block said. “Unless they didn't take the path?”

Meklavar shook her head. “No, you're right. They must have taken the path, especially since they have a captive with them. We would be able to see if they went another way, wouldn't we? There would be broken branches and stuff.”

They looked to Valayun in the hope that she had some skill in tracking, but she was just as confused as the rest of them.

The four of them stopped walking as a debate broke out over whether they should keep going or if it was best to go back and look for tracks. Pike and Valayun were for staying on the path, while Block and Meklavar wanted to go back.

And that was when things went from bad, to worse.

A howl pierced the air just before a massive wolf sprang out of the underbrush, taking all of them off guard. It used its advantage to pin Meklavar to the ground and opened its mouth to reveal a row of sharp, white teeth.

Meklavar closed her eyes, praying that someone would save her, or else that death would be swift and painless.

-

Pidge laughed as Kosmo licked across her cheek before he lowered his paws and padded over to the do the same to Keith.

“It's nice to see you too,” Keith said with a chuckle. He patted the cosmic wolf on the head, and once Kosmo was satisfied with the attention he received, he crawled under the table to take a nap near his favorite people.

“A new encounter has begun and it's time to figure out attacking order! Everyone, go ahead and roll your dice,” Coran instructed. “And just for fun... Shiro and Keith, the two of you can roll as well.”

Shiro trepidatiously reached for his die.

-

The sparkling light of Block's magic formed a barrier between Meklavar and certain death, which gave Valayun the opportunity to lay into the beast with her arrows. It reared back, releasing Meklavar from its grasp, and that was when Pike rushed in to pull her to safety.

“Are you alright?” Block shouted as he began charging up his next spell.

“I'm okay!” Meklavar quickly called back. She took a moment to reorient herself and then unhooked her ax so she could jump into the fight.

Arrows flew and spells were slung. A gleaming ax swung against the side of the beast. Pike's sharp blades danced as he flitted about.

None of it appeared to do more than anger the wolf.

“Should we run?” Block asked.

“Do you really think we can outrun that?” Pike asked in disbelief.

Block ducked behind a tree for a little extra cover. “Maybe if Valayun summons one of her magical steeds and I enchant my staff to fly, we might stand a chance at getting away.”

“And what would that solve?” Meklavar demanded. “We run and leave the princess with those bandits? Even if we get away, we still need to come back this way and there's no guarantee that this creature will be gone.”

“Meklavar is right. We have to deal with this now,” Valayun agreed.

Pike loudly shrieked as he barely dodged a swipe from one massive paw. His voice went high as he asked: “Does anyone have a plan for that?!”

Meklavar thought for a moment. “Maybe if we all attack it at once and hit it from different angles. That might confuse it enough that it won't know who to go after.”

“It's worth a try,” Valayun said. She selected a summoning arrow and fired it into the air. A moment later, a flying horse swooped down and allowed Valayun onto their back. She took to the skies to distract the beast, giving her allies enough time to get into place.

And then their assault began anew.

The beast snarled in rage. Just as they had hoped, it didn't know who to go after first. It turned to look at each of them, but each time it tried to attack, someone would hit it from another angle.

A horn trumpeted.

From within the forest, a man with dark hair came riding in on a magnificent black steed. He lifted his sword high and joined the battle.

The beast didn't last long after that, and as it lay dying on the forest floor, the adventurers approached the newcomer. One-by-one, they introduced themselves, until all that was left was for the stranger to speak his name.

“I am but a simple ranger, traveling with my fearless companion,” he said, fondly patting his horse's neck. “My name is Paladin.”

-

In that moment, anyone in or near the common room was treated to the sound of the Paladins of Voltron losing their minds over a single sentence, while Shiro sat back and looked very pleased with himself. Coran was laughing so hard that he was crying.

Once Coran calmed enough that he could speak clearly, he wiped away his tears and coaxed them back into playing their game.

With the addition of Shiro's ranger, they discovered that they had missed a second path and it was only thanks to his tracking skill that they were able to find it. The new path was a shortcut, leading directly to the caves, while the main path would have eventually branched out, with one trail leading up to the top of the mountain and the other leading out of the forest. Coran was the only one disappointed that they no longer needed to fight their way down through the mountain.

They charged ahead into the caves with their spirits renewed, and Lance happily showed off that Pike held torches in his inventory, after buying them during his and Shiro's mini-session with Coran.

“So is Keith actually playing, or is he just here to watch?” Lance asked as he rolled to dismantle a trap that Hunk nearly triggered.

“I've been playing!” Keith protested. “You've seen me roll!”

“Oh yeah? Then where's your character?” Lance challenged with the air of someone who knew they had already won.

Coran stepped in before things could escalate to shouting. “Keith and I discussed his role before we began, and I have sent him messages to determine where he currently is and what he's doing. Be patient; he'll join you soon.”

“I didn't know these things could send messages,” Pidge said, looking at her game pad with renewed interest.

“My bandmates and I always used them to enrich our experience with the game. Not only can it be used to send messages between the Lore Master and one of the players, players can also send group messages. Depending on the race you've picked, you can choose to send messages in that language, and it will only translate for anyone who has knowledge of that language,” Coran said. “Though it's more like gibberish than an actual language. Now, where were we? Ah, yes...”

-

The team of eager adventurers continued on their way, dismantling traps and using their wide range of skills to avoid trouble. They only got lost once and that was when they encountered a small party of bandits, who kept dropping their weapons and were incompetent in general.

Pike pilfered anything useful before they moved on.

“This is way less interesting than Dakin's lair,” Meklavar said, sounding disappointed. “Where's all of the treasure? The interesting weaponry?”

“Well that's why they kidnapped the princess, isn't it? They're holding her for ransom so that then they'll have treasures,” Block suggested.

“I don't know why you keep saying things like that when you know it's just going to bring us more trouble.” Pike directed his words to Meklavar, who ignored him. “Besides, just because you haven't found anything, doesn't mean there's nothing here.” He grinned and jingled his coin purse in front of her face.

Paladin frowned at the blatant theivery that was being flaunted in front of him. There was no point in saying anything. Pike had only laughed the first time he scolded him for it.

“Meklavar, can you read anything with your stonesense?” Valayun asked.

Meklavar placed her hand on the wall and frowned. “There is... something. I can feel it more strongly now. I think there's another dwarf here!”

“That's good, right?” Valayun asked.

Meklavar shrugged. “Not if they're one of the bandits. Then we might be in trouble, since they'll be able to tell we're coming.”

“I don't like this,” Block said nervously.

“All we can do is keep moving forward. If we stop to worry about what could be, we'll be here all day,” Paladin said. He took the lead down the hall, not waiting for anyone to respond, and the others hurried to fall in line behind him.

They all kept their weapons drawn. There was every chance that they were walking deeper into an ambush and none of them wanted to be caught unaware.

Every now and then, Meklavar reached out to touch the stone walls, trying to get a feel for what was going on. Just before a turn, she hissed out “wait!”

Paladin brought up his sword in time to block a strike from another blade. The clang of steel-on-steel rang out in the tunnel, impossibly loud. Paladin grit his teeth and bore down, refusing to let the assailant take an inch.

“Who are you? What are you doing in this place?” demanded the stranger.

“We're here to beat you and rescue the princess!” Pike exclaimed from the back of their line.

The stranger frowned. “They kidnapped someone else as well?”

Paladin let up a little, puzzled by that statement. “What do you mean 'someone else'? We only know about Princess Mora.”

There was something very strange going on, but no one could feel that more than Meklavar. Her stonesense sang, but not in a way that indicated danger. “Paladin, I don't think he's one of the bandits.”

The stranger rolled his eyes. “Do I look like a bandit to you?”

Behind Meklavar, the others made sounds of protest - “Of course he does!” - but Paladin evidently agreed with Meklavar and slowly lowered his sword. He kept it at the ready, just in case.

Valayun refused to lower her arrow and kept it trained on the stranger. “Who are you? How do we know you're someone we can trust?”

“Because I believe I'm the one you were sent to rescue,” he told them. “My name is Mizerik, son of Princess Mora.”

-

“Nope.” Lance shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “No way.”

Pidge appeared utterly delighted by the twist. She turned to Keith with a grin and raised her hand, palm facing him. He looked puzzle for a moment and then held up his hand the same way.

“High five?” Pidge asked.

Understanding dawned on Keith's face and he gently clapped his hand to hers. “What are we doing this for?”

“Because we're dwarf pals! This is going to be so much fun!” Pidge said. She picked up her gamepad and began to intently type something.

“You two planned this?” Allura asked, looking to Coran.

He beamed at her. “Keith had the idea after I explained a bit about how the game works. It's all part of an even bigger story I have in mind. I figured that since you all could use something to do, I could do a bigger campaign than the last time. This is only the beginning!”

“I think we'll be able to find time for that,” Shiro said, sounding amused.

“Still worried that my dad might make good on his threat?” Pidge asked.

“You think he won't?”

Pidge wasn't going to argue with him on that.

Coran let them talk for a moment while he took a drink of water. They'd been going for a while and could probably wrap things up soon, or at least take a break before heading into the next part of the campaign.

He scrolled through his chosen story and decided that he'd wait to see what they wanted to do about the remaining bandits first. There wasn't any treasure to find, but the odds were that they would press on until they found something interesting, and he had a misleading side-plot involving a mysterious key if they really wanted to go that route. He almost hoped Keith would convince them that it was unnecessary, but the thought of getting to send them on a wild floklop chase was highly amusing.

It was all dependent on whether or not they took Keith's deal. There was something his character was after, and in exchange for helping him, he would grant a favor.

What was it the humans said again?

Quid pro quo?

[princess-of-france]

MARGOT What pair of reverend hypocrites were here! Didst ever hear such sacrilegious dross?

CATHERINE From the town highwayman I did, but not From fathers of our holy mother church. By my faith,—

MARGOT Which they have none.

CATHERINE Ay, faithlessly, These ministers besmirch the very weeds God graces them to wear, concealing up With rich brocade their base irreverence. Would I might shred that fabricated piety With mine own teeth! And do they thus presume Themselves baptizèd as their ancestors In holy wisdom? Is this England’s church? Is this how angels operate sur terre,   Conniving means by which an anointed king Should plunge his helpless kingdom into war, His loyal countrymen up to the ears In bloodshed, on sly promises of wealth? O, scorpions of sanctity! To pay For vicious cruelty from unhallowed coffers! To purchase death, patron annihilation, And all to block the commonwealth a law Would faintly curb the gluttony of their lives! Bon dieu, c’était une hunte!

MARGOT Mayhap his Majesty favors their fraud.

CATHERINE May God forbid it! ‘Twould be worser still, If he should sway more to the part of knaves As here complotted so degenerately In crystal comprehension their vice. Nay, Margot, I’ll not think it, for to know The hubris pricking on such hungry schemes And still accede to their ignominy, Simply to break his fast upon a battle, Would prove this gross Plantagenet so great A tyrant, so devout a harbinger Of death, as he would stymie every language For words commensurate to his depravity. No proper king could be so without grace.

MARGOT Indeed he could, and likely is, for what’s A man if not a king of rage? And what’s a king, But yet a man who may rage anywhere? This sovereign’s late aggressions blistering Our coast, from Aquitaine to Brittany, Attest his appetite for cruel abuse, Since violence sans purpose is butchery— Unless thou thinkst he rightly weighs his own Just claim, through Edward’s bitter lineage, Unto the throne of France.

CATHERINE He has no claim And shall not war with France; it is insured.

(Henry V, Part 2; Act I, scene i)

CATHERINE Didst thou Not call me Catherine?

KING HENRY V Ay, perforce I did, But only once, and many names beside.

CATHERINE How did it taste, that name upon your tongue?

KING HENRY V Like velvet wine. A Burgundy, perhaps.

CATHERINE Wouldst thou drink it again?

KING HENRY V Until I’m drunk.

CATHERINE It may give thee great pounding in thy head.

KING HENRY V Good. ‘Tis the mark of purest alcohol.

CATHERINE Mayhap the wine shall not agree with that Stout soldier’s stomach thou didst lately boast.

KING HENRY V Then argue with it will my stomach straight, Yet purge it not, nor wish I’d not imbibed.

CATHERINE And if the wine grows bitter?

KING HENRY V Drink I still. For bitterness infects us all, at times, But loving patience runs it off its track.

CATHERINE What if the wine grows discontent with waiting For some infrequent jest to spark a fire In th’ barren ice castle of a woman’s duty?

KING HENRY V The duty of a queen is to her crown, So, must she rule by him that plays the king. It is her royal right and his great need,  Or else two kingdoms fall to cold neglect.

CATHERINE Suppose the wine doth take a latent shine To some poor drinker whose lips be not thine.

KING HENRY V I do not know.

CATHERINE Nor I. I know nothing. This wine’s vintage hath not been tasted before. Then who can say what foul effect it may Engender in our blood? And what fair words Can reassure what must be kept in cruel  Obscurity, until this virgin bottle  Gurgles forth the unseen, satin prize? If thou shouldst cease to love me,—

KING HENRY V Never, Catherine.

CATHERINE Two words, too much; I prithee speak no more, Lest perjury becomes thy poltergeist And haunts thee past the brink of love forsworn. ‘Tis time, methinks, to put our vows to bed, For Time alone shall prove their verity Or our capriciousness. Come thou, sweet King, I shall believe thy rhetoric tonight; Perchance tomorrow too. Yet I do call On thy soul’s tenderness and beg thee, lord, Bestow what education thou hast gleaned With patience humbler than a shriven monk, For schoolgirls know, as scholars oft forget, That earthly wisdom hath a painful cost. Then learn me gently, learn me skillfully, Whilst I do strive to learn thy gentle skill. A herald’s work is never done, yet mine Concludes with this last, final embassy, Which thou must break thy pattern and accept Or lose to stubborn pride thy willing wife: Love me, Henry, with every breath thou hast. Leave fortunes to the future, wars to the past. Come crown thy unmade monarch; she is thine And I am yours and you forever mine.

        [Enter ALICE, two years later. She rocks a whimpering baby in her arms.]

ALICE O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention, A kingdom for a stage, princes to act And monarchs to behold the swelling scene! Then should the warlike Harry, like himself, Assume the port of Mars, and at his heels, Leashed in like hounds, should famine, sword and fire Crouch for employment. 

        [Enter the QUEEN, dressed all in black.]

ALICE Mais pardon. Est-ce le moment?

         [The QUEEN nods. The Queen nods. Carefully, ALICE hands her the child. They exit. Enter a funeral procession. The court of England is dressed in mourning black. A blue-and-red silk sheet covers the marble casket of King Henry V. Enter the DANCER.]

DANCER But pardon, gentles all, The flat, unraisèd spirits that have dared On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth So great an object. Can this cockpit hold The vasty fields of France? Or may we cram Within this wooden O the very casques That did affright the air at Agincourt? O, pardon! Since a crooked figure may Attest in little place a million, And let us, ciphers to this great account, On your imaginary forces work.

        [Enter QUEEN CATHERINE, aloft, holding her infant son. ALICE, EXETER, BEDFORD, and GLOUCESTER look up her.]

DANCER, cont. Suppose within the girdle of these walls Are now confined two mighty monarchies, Whose high uprearèd and abutting fronts The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder.

        [The DUKE OF BEDFORD takes the king’s crown from off his brother’s casket. He sets the crown on a pillow, held by the DUKE OF GLOUCESTER. Exit GLOUCESTER.]

DANCER, cont. Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts. Into a thousand parts divide on man, And make imaginary puissance.

        [Enter, to one side, KING HENRY V. He looks up at his wife and child.]

DANCER, cont. Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them Printing their proud hoofs i’ the receiving earth, For ‘tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings.

        [Enter GLOUCESTER, with the crown. He approaches the QUEEN.]

DANCER, cont. Carry them here and there, jumping o’er times, Turning the accomplishment of many years Into an hourglass. 

        [Exit HENRY V for the last time. GLOUCESTER kneels before his monarch and holds up the crown, nestled in the blood-red velvet cushion.]

DANCER, cont. For the which supply, Admit me Chorus to this history, Who, prologue-like, your humble patience pray Gently to hear, kindly to judge our play.

        [Below, the English and French court sinks to its knees. All hail KING HENRY VI. CATHERINE holds her son and looks out into the darkness. Into the future. Lights out.]

(Henry V, Part 2; Act V, scene iv)

To my beautiful friends,

Started from the bottom and now we’re here. And I’m emotional.

It has been the greatest honor and a joy to share the Gentle Herald Project with you all over the past three months. Thank you so much for giving me the space and support to introduce 2H5 to Tumblr. This project means the world to me and so does our wonderful Shakespeare community. Till the next French campaign, mes amis!

Oh yes, and HAPPY 598th BIRTHDAY, KING HENRY VI! ♥

xx Claire

@harry-leroy @suits-of-woe @skeleton-richard @lizbennett2013 @henriadical @aquitainequeen @dedraconesilet @stripedroseandsketchpads @sleepinelysium​ @ardenrosegarden

[thelonelybrilliance]

I saw Tom Hiddleston on stage last night and did not really cry. I always want to cry when I am at the edge of something beautiful--it is a premeditated desire that is often stymied by the paralytic nature of my awe. I am on a plane this morning, having read--for the thousandth time--the best and most heartrending interview I know, and I am crying now. The tears well up, and I think about sincerity. (https://www.gq.com/story/tom-hiddleston-cover-profile) Tom was in a play called Betrayal, as no doubt most people know, and though there are only three people on stage at a given moment, there are multiple, myriad levels of deceit and pain. When Tom's character discovers, but must yet confirm, his wife's affair with his best friend, he does so by grilling her about her lover's recent letter. "Was there no message for me?" he asks, and when she says there was not, he presses, thin with incredulity, "Not even his love?" How human, to still want the love of someone who has wronged you. To have the panicked courage to inquire if their love is still there. (How human, to want love whether you are known or well-treated, deserving or equal, or none of those things.) I feel fiercely protective of Tom Hiddleston, and I want to claim a singularity in that, as if he is the only celebrity to whom I devote a commoner's worship. Of course, he isn't, because (and let's keep this between us) I have ever too much heart on my hands. But there is something special about Tom. Whenever I think of him, I always think that I want him to be happy. I took my brother to see Thor in theaters as a graduation gift. (Paltry, maybe, but I was fifteen). Tom grew on me slowly; I was a late fangirl bloomer, I suppose, but although I noticed the titular god more at the time, within the year, I was mesmerized by Loki. Within the year, too, my brother left home for the military. The demands of training and the taciturn core of a nineteen-year-old boy meant that I barely heard from him for months. I wrote him dozens of letters, and felt like I would never see him again. In a way, I didn't. Because time passes--forwards in truth and backwards in memory--and l am not known for grace in letting go. Instead, I cling and dissect. I grieve and prod. (Send me your love.) I know that my tastes are not universally shared. I am loath to say a single bad word about The Hobbit trilogy, for example, even though I know it's imperfect. But it wasn't just a work of art or not-art, to me. It was neither a realization nor a bastardization of fiction. It was beyond any of these things, because it was my life. I counted down to the release date with my friends, I wrote and shared fanfiction with my friends (or people who would become friends), and when the premiere of the third movie arrived, I went in full costume, with my friends. Half of those friends are no longer in my life. The movies, though, in their uneven glory, are the same. Preserved in amber is that transcendent glee, that hope, that reverent feeling. I'm reminded, too, of my lowest point in law school, when I felt discarded and drained and yes, betrayed--and my father, with only knowledge of two other Marvel movies, drove to the city to take me to Avengers: Infinity War. I cried for that one. I didn't cry when I saw Tom Hiddleston onstage. I have watched hours of interviews and "Best Of" compilations and the Hall H appearance and the One Where He Jumps on the Bed. I have entered fully into the nuances of each film performance I have seen, reading between his lines and microexpressions with something that feels like genuine affection. Onstage, he looked lean and powerful and poignant under blue-green lights. I sat with my hands clasped tightly together and my face split wide with joy. I did not otherwise move. I once believed myself in love with a boy who worked the front desk at a place I'll leave anonymous. He had dark hair and blue eyes and slim, wonderful hands. Every day I would cherish the moments in which he was polite and kind, surely without directing any of it particularly at me. Each night when I walked past the desk, he would look up from his work and say goodbye, and my heart would be frozen in my chest, absolutely suspended in something too much for it--but not at all cold. I didn't expect him to think of me. I still wanted to love him. I hoped only that the act of offering love--silently and secretly--would contribute to some good, though no one had asked for it. Every story I have ever needed once, I have continued to need. Not in the same way or the same time, of course, but if we part for the present it is done with the fond assurance that, in stiff golden amber, we will remain as we were. There Tom was, and there I was. He did not and does not know that I exist. I could not cry, because I love him too much. He and his stories have always been so good to me. (There in the theater, I hoped he was happy.)

[swansandslayers]

Some fantastic Newtina fics I recommend.

Putting this under read-more since this is gonna be a pretty long list. Some of the fics listed on this post can also be found in previous posts here and here but I thought I would a bigger post for anyone interested. 

Obviously there are a lot of fics out there that I haven’t comes across, so anyone wants to add their own favorite fics/writers, or just to add their own work to this list, feel free to do so. :) And I may make more of these in the future if I have the time/energy.

Hope you guys enjoy reading these as much as I have. :)

Unplanned Beginnings written by cutenewt. Newt has locked himself in the case and hasn’t left for three and a half days. Tina is worried sick and calls his brother for help. Neither of them could have predicted what happens next though.

A Photograph of A Scamander written by cutenewt. Tina’s photographs decorate her and Newt’s new flat. As she gets used to living in England, Tina finds that the Scamander reputation is an odd one. It does not help when Theseus invites himself over for supper one evening.

What Thunderbirds Do written by gnimmish. Newt knows more about the mating rituals of most of his creatures than he does those of actual human beings - though that may not be such a bad thing.

Little Things written by littlemsbookworm. When people ask her “What is it like being married to a famous magizoologist?” she always takes a long time to answer.

Rewrite The Stars  written by cutenewt. In which Newt cares for Tina… although she is most certain that this isn’t necessary.

An American Auror, a British Magizoologist and A Parisian Sewer Monster written by gnimmish. Theseus helps a certain American auror deliver a strange beast to his brother, encounters the distinct and horrifying possibility that his brother has somehow attracted a girlfriend. One shot. Also contains some Theta as well.

Maybe A Little Family written by returntosaturn. AU in which Credence lives and Newt cares for him. Tina visits, and thinks perhaps she could make the visit permanent.

Really As Wonderful As You Seem written by Bellarsam_Chrisjulittle. Tina Goldstein has been living in London with her newly married sister, Queenie, and her husband, Jacob Kowalski, for two months. Newt Scamander is living in London after his book was published five months ago. Both receive an invitation to attend the Midsummer Festival that the Ministry throws. Though both are reluctant, both attend...and their lives are changed forever.  Also contains some Theta and Jaqueenie as well.

Good things happen when you meet strangers written by HufflepuffleMarauder. When Tina and Leta first introduce each other their conversation causes them to reflect back on previous memories with a fresh eye. After all, good things happen when you meet strangers. Also contains some Theta and Jacqueenie as well.

the stars go waltzing written by weatheredlaw. Queenie smiles. “I am happy.” She supposes it’s good that only one Goldstein sister can read minds. Also contains some Jacqueenie as well.

In the Stacks written by Kemara. "Parabolas" - the expansion of this fic - is now in progress! Tina Goldstein's first semester of college isn't going all that well until she meets a fascinating exchange student in the library.

Parabolas written by Kemara. An expansion of "In The Stacks." Tina Goldstein's first semester of college isn't going all that well until she meets a fascinating exchange student in the library. Also contains some Jacqueenie and Theta.

with all the light written by abbyli. Weeks ago, the Minister had come to Theseus with a mission to gather up a team of Aurors to go to Russia and infiltrate an underground group of Grindelwald’s followers. Naturally, Tina had been at the top of the list of candidates. Also contains some Theta and Jacqueenie.

A foggy night in London written by ravenpuff1956. Tina has been informed by a contact, that instead of being in Paris, Credence and the circus are instead in England. Also contains some Jacqueenie.

history and context written by weatheredlaw. Every time he comes back, things get a little bit bigger, a little bit bolder, until it all threatens to spill over at once.

Just This written by gnimmish. Newt and Tina try and fail to get some rest in the aftermath of The Crimes of Grindelwald.

Beneath the Surface written by ArdeaJestin. Both for her and for himself, he has to proceed in gentle touches, observe what she responds to, and ultimately make her understand that seeking the warmth of another body isn’t selfish, just the most irrepressible act of nature there is.

Find Me Where the Wild Things Are written by sakurazawa. 1929, a year and a half after the disaster at Pére Lachaise, and Tina Goldstein is at the end of her options. Haunted by dreams of Queenie, missing Newt, she’s searching for any action that might make a difference. But MACUSA has withdrawn all forces from Europe and refused further involvement in the hunt for Grindelwald, stymying her attempts to find her sister.

One Thing I’m Sure About written by HarmonizingSunsets. A letter arrives for Newt and Tina from Grindelwald. Newt knows they have to face him, but is afraid that nothing will be the same for them after. Confronting him again means risking it all, including the relationship they now have. Tina reassures him.

A Selfish Wandering Tourist written by Eilwen. It's OK to be a little selfish. Newt wanders into a bakery, attends a book-signing, tends to his creatures and meets with Tina to discuss the future of their relationship over sandwiches. Also contains some Jacqueenie.

A Silhouette Against Blue Light written by Eilwen. Outtake from 'A Selfish Wandering Tourist'.

Give Me Shelter, Be My Escape written by Bellarsam_Chrisjulittle. After the traumatic events in Paris, Newt finds Tina at a very low point, trying to escape her guilt and worry. By remembering a kindness she had once done for him, he is able to return the favor - and erase all doubts from her mind about his feelings in the process.

What Tina Gives Newt written by Bellarsam_Chrisjulittle. Takes place right after Newt, Tina and Queenie have said goodbye to Jacob. Everyone is affected with exhaustion, grief and sadness over what has happened and what nearly happened over the past few days. But the healing begins when Tina shows Newt just how selfless and lovely of a giver she is.

As Long As You Follow written by returntosaturn. He draws his rough fingertips over her bare knuckles in a certain kind of wistfulness that makes her hearten but straighten. In a new, sudden wave of sobriety she can see that he is made for these landscapes. His bronze and green and goldenrod are complimentary to the spring palette of the mountains and the old city at its feet.  

We Stood Tall Together written by returntosaturn. He curses himself for allowing his stubborn, unbridled empathy to impede even his grief, the only element that still remains within his grasp.

If I Can't Give You Words written by returntosaturn. He find himself restless, not in want of breakfast, unable to leave her side for the beasts in his case lest she wake up and find herself alone. So he settles at the chair at his desk, faces the wall tacked with sketches, strips of notes and scrawled reminders of this footnote or that, and the black, shining, well-oiled typewriter and its keys like taunting jaws.

Something Just Like This written by njckle. A collection of newtina AUs.  

a moment of apricity written by njckle. Newt returns to school. Although, he's a few years too late and on the wrong continent.

Our Midnights written by hufflepuffsstrikesback (nadvaa). Tina earned a weekend off before she had to go back to MACUSA. After a night spent together, Newt asked her out on a vacation. Finally, they have a little private time to get to know each other and to explore what they've been ignored before.

The Feeling Eyes written by hufflepuffsstrikesback (nadvaa). Tina is an undergraduate student working on her dissertation. Newton Scamander is four years her senior and currently chasing his doctorate degree. She needs him for her dissertation, and he needs her for his upcoming project. After working with him for quite some time, she realizes that he actually fun to be around.

Yours written by gnimmish. Not long after the events of Fantastic Beasts, Tina receives a missive from a certain magizoologist. Everything about it confuses her.

Maybe a little... written by EpochApocrypha. It had been happening all her life, she was always showing up where she was least wanted. This time though, her heart paid a heavy price for such a hard lesson learned. A bit of Newtleta as well here.

This Strange World written by @turnerflowers. Newt and Tina Scamander had the ideal marriage to a stranger’s eye. They were both young, healthy, and shared the kind of love that some could only dream of.

Playing in the Snow written by @timeladyjodie​. The group of Newt, Tina, Jacob, Nagini, Theseus, and Kama had been at Hogwarts for a week after the incident at the amphitheater, planning and scheming for what they should do next.

Somebody Waits for Me written by LittleLonnie. Tina returned to America to continue her work for MACUSA. Surviving four years in a place now full of tainted memories and far away from loved ones. Until one day she is offered a chance to leave it all behind to continue her life in Europe where she left her heart.

a grand canyon in the corner of your bedroom written by fakelight. “I couldn’t wait,” he says, hesitantly, haltingly. “For it to be published. I couldn’t wait.”

Catharsis written by hidetheteaspoons. Following the events of that horrific night, Newt provides his companions with the comfort they need to begin the process of healing. During this time, Newt meets with Tina and confronts his feelings for her head-on, while Dumbledore prepares the group for the next phase of the war against Grindelwald.

Also recommend the works of @silvertonedwords, @albinokittens300, @katiehavok, and @ravens-and-writings. All have written a list of awesome fics to read.

[featherypromises]

Genius Interrupted

*Request fulfillment for @rosieknows who wanted to see Tae or Jimin not being weatherproof. XD Thanks for your patience dearie! Taehyung is impulsive but Yoongi and Namjoon are there to help him see who is really in his corner. Featuring Sickie Tae and caring Yoongi & Namjoon. WARNING: Most of you know this, but I am warning newbie ARMY: Min Suga has a mouth and he likes his 4 letter words in this one. this has been a PSA.*

Min Yoongi rubbed the spots that danced across his sight away with his hands and stretched in the high-backed office chair in Genius Lab. He blinked at the clock: 10:13pm. It wasn’t “late” late. At least not according to the usual schedule of Min PD, but most people seemed to consider this time of day “late”.

Almost everyone else had already left BigHit entertainment’s new office building, except, maybe, or a few diehards like himself and possibly Namjoon-ah, who had his studio, Rkive, just down the hall.Yoongi couldn’t be sure that RM was still in the building, of course, but given how lyric-crazed the younger rapper had been for the last few days, it was a safe bet that he would be here. Typically, they were the last ones out of the building, besides the security personnel. 

So when he heard a sudden hard knock on his door a little while later, he nearly jumped out of his skin. 

“Who the hell?!?” Yoongi muttered, before getting up and going over to the door. 

When the door opened onto Kim Taehyung, who was soaked all the way down to the skin with rainwater, Yoongi’s mouth fell open. The younger man was clad in only a t-shirt and blue jeans, both of which were completely drenched and clinging to his body. The vocalist’s lips were purplish and his slight frame shook with cold.

“What the Fuck?!?” Yoongi swore, dragging Taehyung inside his studio, “Why are you soaked?!?”

Taehyung shivered and sniffled, but gave no spoken answer; his chin jutting out mulishly. The rapper watched the younger man stare at his shoes for a long moment before releasing an annoyed grunt and forcing Tae to sit down on the studio’s couch. That made the dripping singer protest:

“D'no! Hyug! I’ll gedt your couch wedt!”

Min Suga winced at the thick congestion that corrupted Taehyung’s mellow, deep voice.

“Fuck the couch!” said the older man, who was amazed at the vocalist’s priorities. The next question, Yoongi tried to ask in a much more gentle tone, as he crouched in front of the slightly taller man; looking up into his pale face:

“What happened, Taehyungie?” 

The singer hesitated,

“I was mad. I didn’t know where else to go, so I came here.” When the older man made a beckoning gesture, he continued, “I had a fidght with Seokjin-hyung…” Min Yoongi sighed, as he saw two big tears roll down Tae’s face. The younger man was still shivering and had goosebumps all up and down his arms. The rapper quickly shrugged off his sweatshirt and told the younger man to pull off his t-shirt.

“You’ll just get colder in here like that, the vents blow cold air all year round.”

Tae, still crying softly, obeyed, removing the dripping shirt and pulled the sweatshirt over his head. Meanwhile, the older man hunted the room until he found a spare air of basketball shorts and a clean towel from his gym bag. 

“Get out of those wet things and dry your hair. Was that you I heard in the bathroom in the dorm this morning, sneezing and sniffling?”

Taehyung blushed a bit and nodded, sniffling softly,

“Yeah, I… I thig…(sniffle) I th-thig I mbight buh… be… Heh-GHESSHUH!” The vocalist sneezed harshly, not covering but bending in two at the waist. But it wasn’t a normal Tae-earthquake style sneeze but something that sounded much more breathy and exhausted. The younger man sniffled again and rubbed his nose, 

“I thig I’mb gedding sigk.” Taehyung almost sounded surprised which made Yoongi lose it completely… 

He couldn’t help it, It was so obvious, he burst out laughing,

“Oh god,... you think?!? You know what I think? I think you were sick this morning and you thought a walk in a rainstorm would be the best possible idea, given the circumstances…” 

Taehyung listened attentively, and actually raised his hand like a child in school, when the rapper paused staring at him, Tae said, “Thunderstormb.”

Yoongi was completely stymied. Taehyung pointed through the wall that was towards the main building’s entrance. 

“It’s a thuderstormb dnow, not a rainstormb, hyug…” Yoongi had to almost swallow his fist to fight back the laughter. The urge to laugh disappeared as the younger man sneezed openly again, twisting over one shoulder,

“EH-GHHHSSSHUH! ETSHHUH!” Those sounded like they were almost painful. Once Tae had changed into the shorts, Yoongi hung the wet things up to dry over his chair. He took charge of the towel, and began to dry the vocalist’s hair. It dried slowly; the rapper envied Taehyung his hair, which had not been bleached halfway to oblivion like his had been.

Once the singer was dry, he wasn’t shivering as much, Yoongi pulled the throw blanket down from the back of the couch and wrapped Tae in it.

"Keep warm…" the rapper admonished, "You don't want this cold getting complicated." His voice was gruff, but his touch was gentle, as he felt Taehyung's forehead. He felt a little warm, but not dangerously so. 

Yoongi kept a small coffee maker in the studio and Taehyung seemed like he would benefit from something hot to drink. The rapper grabbed a clean mug and was about to press the button, when he remembered something. Taehyung had never gotten used to coffee, he preferred tea. The trouble was that the older man was practically a champion coffee consumer: tea was barely in his vocabulary, let alone in his studio. 

He puzzled over the problem for a moment, then he shrugged and pulled out his phone. he hit the 2nd speed dial option. It rang twice before a deep voice responded,

“Yoongi-Hyung! What’s up?”

“Namjoon-ah, are you in Rkive?” asked Yoongi without preamble.

There was a pause, 

“...Yes…?”

“Do you have tea?” 

Stunned silence filled the next few seconds, then Rapmon, clearly confused, echoed back,  “Tea?...” 

“Yeah, tea!...” reiterated Min Yoongi, getting a little annoyed. 

“Who died?” RM said, only half-kidding.

“Look, do you have the damn tea or not?”

“”I have some, yeah…” Said Namjoon, startled into answering seriously by the other rapper’s abruptness. 

The older man rolled his eyes, “Bring some down the hall.” <click.> 

Muttering about dongsaengs with a deathwish, he opened the studio door, letting the leader of BTS into his sanctum. Kim Namjoon stared at his hyung as he stood in the doorway, with his head slightly tilted in curiosity. Just then, Taehyung coughed. Rapmon jumped about a foot in the air and swore. When he realized that it was Taehyung he relaxed for a moment before getting a closer look at the unwell vocalist. When he saw the state that the younger man was in, he understood the need for tea. Not taking his eyes off of Taehyung, he handed the tea bag over to his hyug and went to sit next to Tae. 

Taehyung looked up at Namjoon, in physical and emotional misery, “Hyug, I yelled at Seokjin-hyug. I was so cruel to himb. He told me thad I was just beig selfish and expectig too mbuch by wantig mby dnew sogg to be idncluded odn the albumb. I got really hut adnd said that least i was puttig forth effort. I was so mbad at himb, but dnow… I-I just… Hh’HhESHooo! Esssh” The younger man interrupted himself with two harsh sneezes that made him double over with the effort. 

Yoongi nodded, understanding, as he turned to make the tea. The young vocalist took a great deal of pride in his solos, in much this same way Suga did with his songs for BTS and the new ones he was producing as Min PD. Taehyung was very loving and sweet towards the other members usually, but poking fun at his pride or telling him that he couldn’t do something the way he was certain it must be done was the lit fuse to Taehyung’s temper. He worked hard and put forth a lot of effort, (They all did) but occasionally Tae would want immediate gratification, expecting a full harvest at his disposal after he had just finished planting the seeds. Namjoon was rubbing the sniffling singer’s back as Tae spoke, trying to relax him a little bit.

Wiping away tears, Taehyung sighed, shuddering  slightly,

“Ughh… it’s hard to thig right dnow. Mby head hurts…”

Min Yoongi brought the tea over and sat on the other side of Taehyung. Sandwiched between the two rappers, the younger man seemed smaller and more fragile. Tae sipped the tea and leaned his head on Yoongi’s shoulder. Namjoon, after a span of several minutes, said:

“I’ll bet that Seokjin-hyung isn’t even mad at you about this anymore…” He looked Tae over once more and continued, “Did you tell anyone at the dorm where you were going?”

The vocalist shook his head glumly,

“D’no,... I forgod mby phodne too…” Taehyung cleared his throat, wincing.

The oldest rapper sighed, Seokjin was probably losing his mind with worrying about where Tae had gone with no security personnel, no phone, and no jacket in this weather. Yoongi glanced at Namjoon, who asked Taehyung,

“Do you want to call him? You can use my phone.”

When the singer took the phone, he hesitated. The older rapper, realizing that Taehyung was nervous about speaking with the eldest member, suggested,

“Joon-ah, why not put it on speaker phone, so we can all talk together.” Taehyung gave a watery smile, but held up one finger and sneezed uncovered into his own lap,

“H’DSSSHUH! Okay, we call call now.”

Min Yoongi rolled his eyes again. Taehyung didn’t even notice that his nose was running. He was still a kid, no matter how big he got. Grabbing tissues out of the box on his computer desk, the older man passed them to Tae, who blushed and cleaned himself up.

They let Taehyung blow his nose and cough a few times before placing this phone on the table between them and dialing. Jin picked up after 3 rings and immediately said, “Joonie, I’ll have to call you back. Tae left the dorm and it’s all my fault… but I’ll explain later…”

“Jin-hyung…” Tae said softly, his eyes overflowing with tears of relief and regret.

“TAEHYUNGIE???” Seokjin shouted, making the phone’s speaker crackle. His voice sounded strained and shocked, “Where are you in all this rain? Hyung will come and get you! Don’t worry, I’m not angry, Tae-tae! But what on earth were you thinking, you can’t just leave like that! making me worry isn’t okay! Your hyung is tired and old now!!!” 

Taehyung had to let out a chuckle that was half a sob at the same time. Whenever Seokjin got riled up, he would start talking and get progressively faster and louder as he went. The others had not yet figured out how he managed not to pass out from the lack of oxygen. Namjoon and Yoongi suppressed laughs of their own, as Seokjin continued to rant.

Finally, Namjoon spoke up, cutting Seokjin off,

“Hyung, Tae is with us. He’s okay… Well, he probably has a cold, but other than that, he’s fine.”

As Seokjin began on a scorching lecture about forgetting jackets and umbrellas and caring about Taehyung’s voice, because as he put it, “I work hard enough without trying to sing V’s parts too!”, Yoongi interrupted,

“Yes, Hyung! You can come get him now. he is at Genius Lab with Namjoon and me. I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about.”

Within minutes of ending the call, Seokjin arrived to get “His Taehyungie” as he called him. The two singers, who had been fighting only hours ago, embraced and apologized to each other. The two rappers looked on with knowing smiles. Getting the members to love each other even more as worth having their genius interrupted.

[anxiousanimal]

The Adam Parrish visual masterpost

Edit July 4 2018: added excerpt from chapter 33 of Dream Thieves. Thanks to @flowersalad for the suggestion!

Because there has been so much debate about what various parts of Adam Parrish look like, and because it can be hard to flip through four books to dig up the info you want, and because it’s his birthday and I am an idiot, I took on the task of collecting all (well, almost all) canon information about Adam’s visuals into one comprehensive post. Four books’ worth of quotes is under the cut, after the  

Summary:

Build: He’s tall (the second tallest of the boys), described as “slender”, “long” and “wiry”. It’s easy to see where the twink/twunk debate came from because he’s often said to look “fragile”. This seems to be more about his face than anything else though. (He does work three manual jobs and lifts weights on a regular basis but on the other hand he doesn’t seem to get a lot to eat.) 

Face: “Gaunt”, “strange”, “fine-boned”, “elegant”, “elongated features”, “wide-set eyes”. He’s tanned with fair, almost invisible eyebrows. His face tends to fascinate people. He looks tired and wary a lot because he is. There is not a freckle in sight. Sorry.

Hair: “Dust-colored”, “the same colorless brown as the tips of old grass ”. Unevenly cut.

Eyes: Blue and “pretty enough for a girl”. “Dusty lashes”.

Demeanor/mannerisms: Usually quiet, observing, can appear shy but isn’t. Hunched shoulders, cautious. Narrowed eyes. Pensive knocking. Hands in pockets. Elegant, controlled. Disdainful eyebrow.

The Raven Boys:

Chapter 2:

In the passenger seat was Adam Parrish, the third member of the foursome that made up Gansey’s closest friends. The knot of Adam’s tie was neat above the collar of his sweater. One slender hand pressed Ronan’s thin cell phone tightly to his ear.

Unlike Ronan, Adam’s Aglionby sweater was secondhand, but he’d taken great care to be certain it was impeccable. He was slim and tall, with dusty hair unevenly cropped above a fine-boned, tanned face. He was a sepia photograph.   

Chapter 6:

And the third was — elegant. It was not the right word for him, but it was close. He was fine boned and a little fragile looking, with blue eyes pretty enough for a girl. 

Despite the comeliness of the boy in the booth, it was not a pleasant millisecond.    

Beside him, the elegant boy ducked his head. His ears were bright pink. 

The elegant boy looked up and caught her gaze. His eyebrows were drawn together, remorseful rather than cruel, making her doubt herself. 

Chapter 7:

He looked tired, up too late too many nights in a row working and studying. 

I could tell him his grades are going to go to hell if he doesn’t cut back on his hours, Gansey thought, looking at the dark skin beneath Adam’s eyes.

In comparison to Ronan, Adam looked clean, self-contained, utterly in control. From somewhere, he had gotten a rubber ball printed with a SpongeBob logo, and he bounced it with a pensive expression.  

Adam dropped the ball and caught it again. He had an almost mechanical way of snapping his fingers around the ball as it bounced back toward him; one moment his hand was open and empty, and the next, tight shut around it.

Bounce. Snap. 

Instead of answering, Adam twisted his hand and released the rubber ball. He’d chosen his trajectory carefully: The ball bounced off the greasy asphalt once, struck one of the Camaro’s tires, and arced high in the air, disappearing in the black. He stepped forward in time for it to slap in his palm. Gansey made an approving noise. 

Chapter 8:

"Excuse me, um, miss — hi. " The voice was careful, masculine, and local; the vowels had all the edges sanded off. Blue turned with a lukewarm expression. To her surprise, it was Elegant Boy, face gaunter and older in the distant streetlight. He was alone. No sign of President Cell Phone, the smudgy one, or their hostile friend. One hand steadied his bike. The other was tucked neatly in his pocket. His uncertain posture didn’t quite track with the raven-breasted sweater, and she caught a glimpse of a worn bit of seam on the shoulder before he shrugged it under his ear as if he was cold. 

It didn’t escape Blue that his slightly accented voice was as nice as his looks. It was all Henrietta sunset: hot front-porch swings and cold iced-tea glasses, cicadas louder than your thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder, then, at the sound of a car on a side street. When he looked back to her, he still wore a wary expression, and Blue saw that this expression — a wrinkle pinched between his eyebrows, mouth tense — was his normal one. It fit his features perfectly, matched up with every line around his mouth and eyes. This Aglionby boy isn’t often happy, she thought. 

But she was stymied by his blush at the table; his honest expression; his newly minted, uncertain smile. His face was just strange enough that she wanted to keep looking at it.  

"Talk," he said. In his local accent, it was a long word and it seemed less of a synonym for speak than it was for confess. She couldn’t help but look at the thin, pleasant line of his mouth. He added, "I guess I could have just saved a lot of trouble by coming up to talk to you in the first place. Other people’s ideas always seem to get me into more trouble.  

Something about Adam told her that this was a boy she could have a conversation with.  

He just leveled her with a very steady look. It wasn’t an expression that left room for folly. 

Adam said only, "I’m glad I came back. " Turning his long self around, he began to push his dolefully squeaking bike back the way he’d come. 

Chapter 14:

Adam’s mother answered his knock. She was a shadow of Adam — the same elongated features, the same wide-set eyes. In comparison to Gansey’s mother, she seemed old and hard-edged. 

The ripped knees of Adam’s camo cargo pants appeared first, then his faded Coca-Cola T-shirt, then, finally, his face. A bruise spread over his cheekbone, red and swelling as a galaxy. A darker one snaked over the bridge of his nose.  

Now Adam looked at Gansey. There was something fierce and chilling in his eyes, an unnamable something that Gansey was always afraid would eventually take over completely. 

Chapter 15:

There were three boys in the doorway, backlit by the evening sun as Neeve had been so many weeks ago. Three sets of shoulders: one square, one built, one wiry.  

What it did was make him look more fragile and dirty, somehow, like a teacup unearthed from the soil, but Blue didn’t say that.  

No one volunteered immediately to go first, so she offered the deck to Adam. He met her gaze and held it for a moment. There was something forceful and intentional about the gesture, more aggressive than he’d been the night he approached her. 

Chapter 21:

But it was very difficult to imagine Adam as a raven boy as he greeted her, his hands neatly in his pockets, scented with the dusty odor of mown grass. His bruise was older and therefore more dreadful looking. 

Adam kept walking, but he didn’t look away. He seemed shy until he didn’t.  

Adam stopped walking. Blue, a few feet ahead of him, waited as he frowned at the things in his hands. He held the journal very carefully, like it was important to him, or perhaps like it was important to someone who was important to him. Desperately she wanted him to both trust her and respect her, and she could tell from his face that she didn’t have much time to accomplish either. 

Adam’s face melted into a grin, an expression so unlike his usual one that his features needed to completely shift to accommodate it. 

Chapter 23:

Beside her, Adam shielded his eyes. He looked at home here, his hair the same colorless brown as the tips of old grass, and he looked more handsome than Blue remembered. 

Chapter 32:

She looked at his face, fragile and strange under the bruise. It was easy to read him as shy or uncertain, she thought, but he really wasn’t either. Noah was. But Adam was just quiet. He wasn’t lost for words; he was observing. 

Chapter 39:

He held Adam’s gaze for a long, long moment. There was something unfamiliar in Adam’s expression, something that made Blue think that she didn’t really know him at all. 

Chapter 41:

She felt a little like she’d been approached by a wild animal, and she was at once flattered by its trust and worried that she’d scare it away. After a moment, she carefully stroked a few fine, dusty strands of his hair while she looked at the back of his neck. It made her chest hum to touch him and smell the dust-and-oil scent of him.  "Your hair is the color of dirt," she said. 

She wondered what it would’ve been like to kiss this hungry, desolate boy.  

The Dream Thieves:

Chapter 1:

Adam Parrish, gaunt and fair; 

As always, his features intrigued Blue. They were not quite conventionally handsome, but they were interesting. He had the typical Henrietta prominent cheekbones and deep-set eyes, but his version of them was more delicate. It made him seem a little alien. A little impenetrable.  

Chapter 5:

Ronan sometimes dreamt of Adam, too, the latter boy sullen and elegant and fluently disdainful of dream-Ronan’s clumsy attempts to communicate. 

Chapter 13

Blue craned her neck to see what they were looking at. It was just Adam. He sat in the reading room by himself, the diffuse morning light rendering him soft and dusty. He had removed one of the tarot decks from its bag and lined each of the cards faceup in three long rows. Now he leaned on the table and studied the image on each, one at a time, shuffling on his elbows to the next when he was through. He looked nothing like the Adam who’d lost his temper and everything like the Adam she had first met. That was what was frightening, though — there’d been no warning. 

Chapter 33:

Beside him stood Adam, his strange and beautiful face pale above the slender dark of his own suit. 

For a moment, Adam said nothing. He was not Gansey, he did not dazzle, he was a pretender with a flute of false champagne in his slender hand made from dust. He looked at Mrs. Elgin. She looked back at him through her eyelashes. With a jolt, he realized that he intimidated her. Standing there in his impervious suit with its red-knotted tie, young and straight-shouldered and clean, he had pulled off whatever strange alchemy Gansey performed. For perhaps the first time in his life, someone was looking at him and seeing power.

Chapter 48:

Adam cocked his head witheringly. 

Chapter 51:

She looked at him again. He was handsome and he liked her and if she hadn’t told him the truth, she could have dated him like a normal girl and even kissed him without worrying about killing him. 

Epilogue:

Ronan’s second secret was Adam Parrish. Adam was different since making the bargain with Cabeswater. Stronger, stranger, farther away. It was hard not to stare at the odd and elegant lines of his face.  

Blue Lily Lily Blue:

Prologue:

Adam Parrish stood beside her with his hands shoved into the pockets of his grease-stained cargo pants. He looked tired, but his eyes were clear, better than when she’d seen him last. Because Persephone was only interested in important things, she hadn’t considered her own age in a long time, but it struck her as she looked at him that he was quite new. That raw expression, that youthful hunch of his shoulders, the frantic sprawl of the energy inside him. (BLLB prologue)

His eyes fluttered, his dusty lashes resting on his cheeks. (BLLB prologue)

Chapter 1:

Adam Parrish, curled over himself in a pair of battered, greasy coveralls, asked, “Do you?” 

The walls were dust and rock, roots and chalk, everything the color of Adam’s hair and skin. 

Chapter 5:

Adam absently tapped a finger against his own wrist, a gesture somehow disconcerting and otherworldly. 

Adam’s expression was ferocious and pleased; Gansey was at once proud to know him and uncertain he did at all.  

Chapter 20:

They regarded each other. Adam fair and cautious, Ronan dark and incendiary. 

Chapter 27:

Adam was quiet as he weighed the options. His face was strange and delicate in the sharp light of Gansey’s head beam. Swiftly, and without explanation, he reached out to touch the cavern wall. Although he was not a dream thing, he was now one of Cabeswater’s things, and it was hard not to see it in the way his fingers spidered across the wall and in the blackness of his eyes as they gazed at nothing. 

Chapter 32:

How narrow-shouldered he was beside this other man. It was hard to see where he’d come from without a close look at their faces. Then one could see how Robert Parrish wore Adam’s thin, fine lips. Then it wasn’t hard to see the same fair hair, spun from dust, and the wrinkle between the eyebrows, formed by wariness. It was actually not a difficult thing at all to see that one had sired the other. 

Chapter 37:

Adam raised a diffident eyebrow at the scene. “Who’s ‘them’?” 

He was standing, very still, his hands by his sides. His chin was tilted up in a wary, fragile sort of way, and his eyes narrowed at nothing. Unlike Ronan and Henry, he was dustless. Gansey saw the jerk of his chest as it rose and fell. 

No one was talking to Adam. It wasn’t difficult to understand this: Adam didn’t look like someone you could talk to, just then. There was something more frightening about him than there was about the circle. Like the bare ground, there was nothing inherently unusual about his appearance. But in context, surrounded by these brick buildings, he didn’t … belong. 

Adam’s eyes slid over to him but his head didn’t turn. It was the stillness that made him seem so other.  

Chapter 39:

Leaning over the pool, Adam saw his face. He hadn’t noticed that he didn’t look like everyone else until he got to high school, when everyone else started noticing. He didn’t know if he was good-looking or bad-looking — only that he was different-looking. It was up to interpretation whether the strangeness of his face was beautiful or ugly.

He waited for his features to disappear, to smudge into a sensation. But all he saw was his Henrietta-dirt face with its pulled-down thin mouth. He wished he wouldn’t grow up to look like his parents’ combined genes. 

Chapter 44:

Both of the boys were unsettling — Adam Parrish, in particular, had a curious face. Not as in, he was a curious person. But rather that there was something peculiar about his facial features. He was an alien, handsome specimen of this western Virginia species; feather-boned, hollow-cheeked, eyebrows fair and barely visible. He was feral and raw-boned by way of those Civil War portraits. Brother fought brother while their farms ran to ruins — 

Adam Parrish smiled a little; it took two years off his age in a second. He had teeth on both his top and bottom jaw. 

The Raven King:

Chapter 13:

Adam stepped in front of the glass, his hand over his eye, looking at his gaunt face. His nearly colourless eyebrow was pinched with worry. 

Chapter 14:

His expression, if possible, turned more disdainful than it had over Henry Cheng.  

He was sort of half-smiling, but in that way people did when they were annoyed rather than when anything was funny.  

He spread his hands out at the still-empty restaurant, as if he, too, was amazed by the turn this conversation had taken.

Now Blue also spread her hands. It was a rather less elegant gesture than Adam’s, more like a fist clench in reverse.

He merely raised an eyebrow in reply, an action that warmed the temperature of Blue’s blood by a single degree. 

Adam’s mouth went very thin, like he was about to retort something, but in the end, he just swiped his keys from the table and walked out of the restaurant.

Chapter 18:

Adam was crouched in front of it, staring unflinchingly into the headlights’ brilliance. His fingers were spread on the asphalt and his feet braced like a runner waiting for the starting shot. Three tarot cards splayed before him. He’d taken one of the floor mats out of the car to crouch on to keep from dirtying his uniform trousers. If you combined these two things – the unfathomable and the practical – you were most of the way to understanding Adam Parrish.

“Parrish,” Ronan said. Adam didn’t respond. His pupils were pinhole cameras to another world. “Parrish.”

Just one of Adam’s hands lifted in the direction of Ronan’s leg. His fingers twitched in a way that conveyed don’t bother me with the absolute minimum of motion.

Ronan crossed his arms to wait, just looking. At Adam’s fine cheekbones, his furrowed fair eyebrows, his beautiful hands, everything washed out by the furious light. He had memorized the shape of Adam’s hands in particular: the way his thumb jutted awkwardly, boyishly; the roads of the prominent veins; the large knuckles that punctuated his long fingers. 

Adam’s fingers tensed, and then he sat back. He blinked, and then blinked again, rapidly, touching the corner of his eye with just the tip of his ring finger. This didn’t suffice, so he rubbed his palms over them until they watered. Finally, he tilted his chin up to Ronan.

“What the hell’s wrong with your eyes?” Ronan asked.

Adam’s pupils were still tiny. “Takes me a while to come back.”

Chapter 21:

For Adam, it meant linking in to the ley line that pulsed beneath the forest, unwrapping himself and allowing the bigger pattern inside. It was a process that was both eerie and awesome to watch from the outside. Adam; then Adam, vacated; then Adam, more. 

He glanced behind to make sure Adam was following; he was, looking at Ronan with narrowed eyes. 

Chapter 27:

Blue and Adam regarded each other. She sucked in her lip; he lifted a shoulder. They were both sorry.

Adam leaned to bump his knuckles against Gansey’s. 

Chapter 31:

Adam gently closed his locker.

Adam smiled cheerily. Ronan would start wars and burn cities for that true smile, elastic and amiable. 

Chapter 36:

Now Adam turned to him, intense. “What does that mean? How did you know it was different than just being her friend?”

“Nothing,” said Adam, a lie so outrageous that they both looked out into the yard again in silence. He tapped the fingers of one hand on the palm of his other.

“Ronan kissed me,” Adam said immediately. The words had clearly been queued up. He gazed studiously into the front yard.

Adam continued peering out the window. The only tell to the furious working of his mind was the slow twisting together of his fingers. 

Adam released his hands from each other. “I think that’s what I needed to hear.” 

Chapter 39  

After a few moments, he heard the door ease open behind him and Adam joined him. Silently they looked over the dancing lights in the fields. It was not difficult to see that Adam was working intensely with his own thoughts. 

Chapter 45:

“Fuck,” said Adam vehemently. He had begun to shake, though his face had not changed. 

Chapter 52:

And he had Adam’s mind here in the dream with him. In the real world, he was scrying in the passenger seat again, and in this one, he stood in this ruined forest, hunched over, face unsure.

The real Adam was standing with his head turned to the side as an unreasonable facsimile of his father screamed in his face, the cadence of his voice perfectly and eerily matched to the real Robert Parrish. There was a firm set to Adam’s mouth that was less fear and more stubbornness.

Adam met Ronan’s gaze, even as the duplicate version of his father kept screaming at him. The strain of whatever energy balance he was doing was visible on his face. “Are you ready?” 

Chapter 56:

Adam just looked at it in a distant way, his hands clasped together as if they were cold. 

Chapter 64:

Shaking his reddened wrists free of the ribbon, Adam first touched the top of the Orphan Girl’s head and whispered, “It’s going to be all right.” And then he climbed out of the car and stood before Gansey. What could they possibly say?

Gansey bumped fists with Adam and they nodded at each other. It was stupid, inadequate.

Chapter 66:

Beside Blue and Henry, Adam was dry-cheeked and dead-eyed, but the Orphan Girl hugged his arm as if comforting a weeper as he stared off into nothingness.

Adam suddenly sat down. He said nothing at all, but he covered his face with his hands.

Adam looked up from where he was folded in the grass. His voice was small. “What about Cabeswater?” 

Epilogue:

He waited, hands in the pockets of his pressed khaki slacks, looking at the clean toes of his shoes and then up again at the dusty door.

The door opened, and his father stood there, eye to eye with him. Adam felt a little more kindly to the past version of himself, the one who had been afraid of turning out like this man. Because although Robert Parrish and Adam Parrish didn’t look alike at first glance, there was something introverted and turned-inward about Robert Parrish’s gaze that reminded Adam of himself. Something about the knit of the eyebrows was similar, too; the shape of the furrow between them was precisely the shape of the continued difference between what life was supposed to be and what life was actually like.

He knocked on the cabinet beside him, once, thoughtful, and then he took out the BMW keys. “I’ll do that,” he said.

Opal - a story

Adam had taken the cassette from Ronan’s hand, working Ronan’s fingers loose and putting his own fingers between them. For a moment Opal, hidden, had thought they were going to kiss. But instead, Ronan pressed his face against Adam’s neck and Adam quietly put his head on top of Ronan’s head and they did not move for a long time. 

Adam’s feet were long and hairless and vulnerable looking. His anklebone protruded like his wristbones did, as if his feet were just very strange hands. He had little bits of dark sock lint stuck to his skin, and it came off in a stripe when Opal rubbed at it. 

[teiranlavellan]

Taking a Sick Day

From @starla-nell: DA Drunk Writing Prompt 49 - 99.9% immunity for your Inquisitor, please? For extra bonus points, combine with any of the other sick prompts on that list, they're all brilliant!

@dadrunkwriting

Thank you for the prompt and for your patience!  Deciding to go to Grad School has forced me to go on hiatus, but as luck would have it my professor tasked us with a produsage (yes, I spelt that right) assignment. And therefore, carved out time for this prompt to finally be filled!

I decided to do both 99.9% Immunity and Take One Down since Teiran does not fit 99.9% immunity (I theorize she gets sick rather easily being exposed to so many new people/places all over Thedas).

Varric groaned as he forced his aching body to sit up. Cole’s hands deftly found how to aid the dwarf in this endeavor then placed a small table with quill, ink and parchment on his lap wordlessly.  The unblinking, pale blue eyes from beneath his large hat stared at Varric for only a moment before disappearing into the shadows of Bull’s crowded bedroom.  

Varric opened his mouth to thank him, but was stymied by a cough that shook the table and threatened to tip the vial of ink.  He sighed and glanced around the dilapidated room whose holes in the walls, ceiling and floor had provided much needed ventilation for the newly dubbed: “Sick Room”.   Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he searched the evening-lighted room for an update on his fellow invalids:  Karissa, her long braid piled atop her head, tended to Cullen sprawled near him who in his fevered state was reciting the Chant of Light through his clenched jaw.  Varric turned to his right to find Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast sullenly sitting upright with her arms crossed and her eyes screaming defiance against her sick, treacherous body.

“Oh no, not you too Seeker?” Varric’s sore throat evident in the lack of robust jocularity that usually saturated his voice.

Cassandra shrunk into herself and opened her mouth to speak, but an undignified squeak is all that emerged from her mouth.  Varric’s laugh was silent but not lacking in amusement. She flushed a brighter red under her fever and gulped down the glass of water placed near her bed, “I am not sick.”

“Sure Seeker, whatever you say.”  Varric turned back to his table and reached for the quill.  

Cassandra, noticing his attention shift, subtly reached for the book under her covers and began reading it while remaining upright and still stubbornly keeping an eye on the door leading to the rest of Skyhold.

Varric dipped his quill in ink and began:

Hawke,

Boy am I glad you aren’t here.  The Inquisitor is ill, again.  But this time it seems the rest of us have been similarly blessed.  Ruffles and Nightingale holding down the fort, though rumor has it Nightingale will be joining us once someone else recovers enough to take over.  Sounds like Ruffles is doing a good job keeping everyone in the dark about this, you know, not to give any Orlesian nobles or demons any ideas.

A thick, wet cough interrupted Varric’s thoughts and he met Cassandra’s similarly worried eyes before they both glanced over their shoulders towards the back of the room where the large Qunari was sprawled in fitful sleep with one horn hanging over the bed and his eye still closed. Cole materialized near Bull’s bed and repositioned the much larger man so the aisles between the cots would not be blocked.  Varric’s eyes followed the Kid as he returned to Dorian’s cot and attempted to soothe the irritated mage with a steaming cup of liquid.

Varric grinned as he watched the disheveled mage attempt to smooth his normally-impeccable hair into some semblance of order and sip disapprovingly at the offered liquid before giving up the endeavor entirely and going back to sleep.  Varric watched Cole’s hat silently turned from Dorian to the next person who needed him: Solas.

“Poor Chuckles.” Varric thought, wincing in pain at the shake of his pounding head, they had found him last night atop a spilled cup of tea at his desk and hadn’t woken since.  Whatever haunted him in the Fade, no one could say, the only other two who spoke Elvish were unable or unwilling to translate.  Varric braced for the inevitable outburst that would follow the bald mage’s broken stream of croaked words.  The dwarf quickly capped his ink and stowed his portable writing desk under his cot as the elf’s ramblings gained volume.  The graceful, Elvish language weaved together in furious, desperate stanzas of unknown meaning filling the Sick Room, waking the rest and all bracing for impact.

The thick, wooden bedroom door crashed to the ground with Solas blinking around at his newfound position atop the wood crashing to the stone ground with his weight.  Varric watched as Cole materialized beside the elven mage and pulled him back up off the broken door and lead him back to his cot.  After securing Solas back into his cot, Cole and Karissa both heaved the door back into its frame, still broken but at least still serving its function.

Varric met Cassandra’s stunned expression and chuckled, “Who knew a mage with a cold could be so dangerous?”

“That is not true of all mages, Varric.”  Vivienne answered vehemently from her cot beside Cassandra’s.

“Please.  Not now.” Teiran’s hoarse whisper floated from the back of the room, followed by a series of coughs from the elven Inquisitor.

“Loner! You’re awake.”  Varric commented dryly.

“Unfortunately.”  Teiran replied, holding a hand to her eyes to block out any flicker of light that would add to her migraine.

“Varric.  How are they doing?”  Teiran asked, her voice small and apologetic.

“Well, considering you left Skyhold in the hands of Ruffles, Nightingale, Buttercup and Hero.  It hasn’t burned down yet, though I hear the kitchen staff is ready to resign.”  Varric replied, taking his writing desk back out.

Teiran groaned and wrestled herself out from her cot and into a standing position.  Cole was at her elbow with a glass of water when she sat back down on her cot, holding her head together and her stomach contents within through sheer force of will.  She drank the water and then laid back down on her cot, resigning herself to the situation and hoping that Blackwall will keep an eye on Sera and Josephine and Leliana will keep the Inquisition together until they all mended.