#so familiar & overwhelmingly warm // summon him.

[rishtarin]

POV You’re Chaldea’s Newest Servant.

“…………”

“…….”

“… lag….”

“…rainbow?!”

The overwhelmingly bright blue light that greets you is cold and artificial, but the girl in front of you practically oozes with a warm friendliness. From her fiery orange hair to her sparkling golden eyes, she… hold on, are those tears?

“Came home… You finally came home! It’s been 420 Saint quartz…!” Oh yes, she’s definitely crying. You reach out a hand (it’s been such a long time since your last summoning that you’re relieved you still have hands) to give the poor girl a pat on the head. You’ve heard of a lot of saints in ethereal plane that is the Throne of Heroes, but none named Quartz. Perhaps this was some marker of time? Information was still flooding into your brain, too fast for you to comprehend all at once, but one thing is clear.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, my Master. I will serve by your side until your use for me runs out.” You offer the girl a gentle smile, hoping to ease her nerves.

For some reason this makes her cry even harder instead. Through her sobs, you can make out her name:

Ritsuka Fujimaru. Humanity’s last Master. Chaldea.

The names feel… familiar.

.

.

It takes some time getting used to Chaldea. Ritsuka leads to your room and shows you around the training area and cafeteria along the way like you’re at some sort of summer camp instead of Earth’s last stronghold against the Alien God (at the thought of a “summer camp” something definitively a Higher Power sighs deeply, but you assume that’s the norm around here since none of the other Servants are reacting). Ritsuka must see the confusion written on your face because she laughs.

“I don’t like the notion of treating all the Servants here as weapons,” she admits freely, waving as Nursery Rhyme skips past the two of you, a smaller version of the murderous Jeanne Alter following her. “I hope to get to know you as a friend again.”

“Again?” you echo. Familiar as Ritsuka may be, you have no memories of any previous adventures with her. She shakes her head, orange hair tossing around her in a flurry.

“Don’t worry about it! It was just a slip of the tongue.”

Ritsuka’s smile is just as radiant as before, but there’s something in her eyes that’s different. She looks sadder, for lack of a better word. Perhaps a bit more distant than before. You almost want to reach out and pat her head again, but… did her shadow just move? Wait… is that a HAT sticking out of her shadow? The hat seems to drag up a mass of wavy white hair and gleaming red eyes that shoot daggers at you. You watch, in equal parts horrified and intrigued, as a white hand emerges from Ritsuka’s shadow to point two fingers at its eyes and then towards you in a jabbing motion before finally sinking back down into inky darkness as if nothing had happened.

“Hey uh… I think your shadow just threatened me?” you ask, only a little bit concerned.

Ritsuka sees your gaze and grins.

“Oh, don’t worry about him! The Count’s just a bit of a grump sometimes.”

You want to ask more, but Ritsuka’s already moved on to talking about the daily bond point farming schedule, and you resign yourself to trying to follow along. What exactly are bond points anyway?

.

.

Your first experience “farming” is against a horde of demonic boars, in some replicated region of the Babylonia Singularity. You can feel the familiar thrum of adrenaline rushing through your fingertips as you materialize your weapon, waiting for Ritsuka’s command.

She’s different on the battlefield, you realize. Gone is her easygoing smile, replaced with furrowed brows and an almost blazing determination, and her leisurely Chaldean uniform is discarded in favor of something called a Mystic Code. Apparently she has quite a few of them; you wonder why so few of them include pants. Da Vinci is a genius inventor though, so she must have her reasons.

You’re excited to be on the front lines, next to Arash and Altria. The original blue one, you note. You had trained for hours under the tutelage of an unusually enthusiastic Merlin on how to tell them all apart. Not that any of your training meant anything when you were almost disintegrated by a very angry Morgan. How were you supposed to tell she was Altria’s older sister? They look exactly alike! Hell, you swear a good number of the other Servants have the exact same face.

You’re so lost in memories that you almost miss it when Ritsuka commands you to use your skills. You hurriedly activate them; hopefully she won’t notice the slight lag.

As you wait for your teammates to use their skills as well, you blink and - well frankly, you were distracted. There was a momentary lapse in time, and then you were hit by a boar not once, not twice, but OUCH! Three times. And that third one was a critical hit to boot. Alas, you can already feel that you’re beyond the point of healing.

“How… embarrassing,” you choke out. You can feel the lingering pain of your wounds as your body starts fading into golden particles. You had been looking forward to finally showing off in front of Ritsuka, but this… this was honestly kind of shameful. Hopefully you’ll get a second chance so you can prove yourself next time…

Black.

Everything went black.

You were expecting the artificial blue lights of Chaldea that have come to feel like home but instead you were surrounded by emptiness.

Then you blinked, and suddenly you were on the field facing down the demonic boars again.

What happened just now?

“Rit- er, Master?” you call out, turning to check on her. But instead of the usual smile or the determined expression she had on moments before, Ritsuka’s face was completely blank. Her eyes were still golden, but they seemed to have faded into a dull yellow, and didn’t reflect any light.

“Master!” you shouted, more frantically now, but your mad dash back to Ritsuka’s side was stopped by an armor-clad hand grasping your arm. Altria held you back like an unmoving stone statue, despite her small stature.

“Just give her a minute. She’ll be back soon. We call it rebooting.” Altria’s expression doesn’t change, like she’s seen this before a million times, but that only makes you angrier.

“What do you mean, she’ll be back?! Where did she go? Where did I go?? I’m pretty sure I died just now!” You shake off Altria’s hand, readying your weapon. You need answers, now. Altria’s hands, which were once on your arm, are now tightening around the handle of her sword.

“Now now, settle down,” Arash says, waving his hands gently in you and Altria’s directions like he’s calming a giant beast. “Sometimes, as Servants, we just have to… not question the powers that be. We have the benefit of answering to our Master; we don’t have to make any difficult decisions by ourselves, or pass down any judgements. Sure, weird things happen, but in the end we’re all here to help save humanity together.”

“…your point is?”

“Sometimes you just have to accept that nothing is normal here and move on.” Arash juts his head towards the demonic beasts and, to your… concern? Surprise? You find that the beasts aren’t moving, as if they’re waiting for Ritsuka’s return. Altria noticeably loosens up as you settle down, pity washing over her features as you try and fail to understand what was going on here.

Arash was right. You’re a Heroic Spirit now, a Servant meant to adapt to any situation in order to protect your Master. And your Master isn’t any old mage either; fighting for her means you’re fighting on behalf of Humanity. There’s bound to be a couple of hiccups along the way; you can’t let yourself be fazed by them all the time. You regulate your breathing.

Suddenly Ritsuka blinks, life returning to her features, and you ready yourself for action again. She notices you staring and smiles as if nothing odd had ever occurred.

“Arash!” she calls out. “Unleash your Noble Phantasm!”

“Alright then!”

STELLA!!

Oh my god did he just EXPLODE WHAT THE FU-

[naecromancy]

DYNAMICS CALL;

All you gotta do is give this post a heart & we can plot a dynamic together. Whether it be enemies to friends to romance, its all fair game.

[seventhstrife]

SubScorp Week 2021 Day 3: AU Part 2

I hate that I have no self-control and have to make multiple posts for this lolololol

On AO3.

Part 1

When Hanzo woke, he knew immediately that he was not alone.

His eyes snapped open and he lurched upright, disoriented and tense.

His surroundings were unfamiliar, a fact that filled him with certain dread. His last memory was of trying to leave the bed of snow he'd been pushed into, how the dragon had only allowed him to stand so that it could nestle him into its side and curl up as if for a long rest. He remembered the deep, content cadence of its sigh as it settled with its huge head on Hanzo's lap.

As cold as it was, smothered in the dragon's hold, he'd been oddly...warm. And while Hanzo was no one's pet or prisoner, he was not so foolish as to disturb such a fearsome creature when its mood was in such a mercurial state, weakened and tired as it was. He'd resigned himself to being a dragon's pillow and had fallen asleep right there, hopeful that he could slip away in the small hours of the morning.

But waking up in an entirely new place had not been part of the plan. He barely took in the dark, polished stone of the room he was in or the thick furs that covered him across the lavish four-poster bed.

His surroundings were terrible for their strangeness, but what was worse was the man seated on the bed beside him, legs crossed, watching him. It was hard to see in the scant light that poured through the window as the sun just barely began to rise, but he thought he could just detect a small smile on those bearded lips.

"Good morning," the man greeted in a low, pleasant tone.

Hanzo went rigid. His hand snapped down to his side, but his weapons were gone—of course.

He risked exposing himself, but allowing capture was worse.

He summoned his flames, of a mind to send the man across the room with a ball of fire before he could so much as twitch—but the moment his light banished the shadows from the man's face, Hanzo stilled.

...It was his eyes. Pale white, nearly translucent, but in the flickering pulse of Hanzo's flames, they shined with a breathtaking iridescence that shifted with countless colors.

Pale-skinned and broad-shouldered, muscular arms bared by his dark robes, thick black hair pushed back from his face and beard trimmed short—he truly was a stranger to Hanzo in every sense of the word.

But, that scar. Those eyes. Hanzo knew those eyes.

The man's smile grew slightly, as if he knew exactly what Hanzo was thinking, and he threaded his fingers together, planted his elbows on his spread knees and perched his chin atop his hands, as if to better study Hanzo.

"Do you recognize me, pyromancer?"

Hanzo pursed his lips, wary. But even when he glared harder, tried to see some sort of flaw or deception, his eyes continued to scream a single truth.

But he did not have to admit it.

"I—I am clearly unwell," Hanzo said instead.

Without taking his eyes off of the man, he backed up until he was at the edge of the bed and quickly stood, head darting around as he tried to get his bearings, find the door. He looked back to the stranger and curled his fingers into a fist, flames threatening on the horizon.

"Why have you brought me here?"

"As impressive as your fire magic is," the man answered, "You would have succumbed to the cold. I thought it best to bring you to my home."

His home? Just judging from the simple, yet refined furnishings and ornate, carved walls, Hanzo assumed he was in some sort of palace.

His brow furrowed. This was making less and less sense. Some traveling lord had stumbled upon Hanzo and had simply—taken him in? In what appeared to be his own chambers?

No nobleman was that kind or giving. Hanzo knew.

Hanzo's skin itched with the desire to flee. Unfamiliar surroundings, unfamiliar company—he did not have any wish to linger here, at the mercy of this strange man and his stranger (familiar) eyes.

"Whatever you intended by bringing me here, it does not matter." Hanzo's face hardened. "You will not keep me here."

"No," the man agreed softly, making Hanzo pause. He was still smiling. "I imagine you do not succumb to anyone's will but your own."

The words caused a flicker of uncertainty to pass through him, though he did not allow it to show on his face. Why was nothing about this man proceeding as he expected? If Hanzo woke up, kidnapped to some strange, impossible palace in a snow-plagued, forsaken mountain, he should be caged. His captor should be talking to him through the bars of a prison, in his personal dungeon, not casually and comfortably sitting on his bed while Hanzo threatened to burn him.

...Somehow, some way, this is a trick. It must be.

It felt safer not to speak, so Hanzo did not. His eyes darted to the door, waiting across the room and, unfortunately, behind the man.

"Your weapons are there," the man said, gesturing with a wide sweep of his arm behind Hanzo, and indeed, when he warily glanced over his shoulder, he saw the overlooked table tucked into the corner of the room, where his blades had been laid neatly and carefully across a length of soft cloth. "Forgive me for taking the liberty, but I thought it best to divest you of them so you could rest more comfortably."

Hanzo glared at the man for a long moment. He only slept comfortably when he was armed these days.

Still, Hanzo accepted the invitation to take his things and he did so in quick, efficient movements, keeping the stranger in his line of sight at all times—not that it mattered, as the man did not so much as a twitch from the moment he'd awoken. His eyes tracked Hanzo without a blink and it was perhaps that which kept Hanzo on his guard. His utter stillness, the watching—Hanzo was rested, armed, and could think of a dozen ways to incapacitate this man in a few seconds, yet he felt overwhelmingly like an unwitting creature, soft and vulnerable, ignorant of the hunter in his midst, readying for the pounce.

Hanzo glanced at the door, had no more than thought of taking his first step towards the exit when the man spoke once more.

"Of course, you may leave whenever you wish," he said genially. "But you did not answer my question, pyromancer."

Hanzo's lips thinned. Uncertainty and unease blossomed in his chest.

"...no, I did not. I will not."

The stranger's head tilted and an expression of open amusement alighted on his face.

"Is it so terrible to accept?"

"It is impossible," Hanzo stressed, eyes narrowing. But, despite himself, his determination to fight faltered. He could not deny a certain curiosity, for all that he did not believe in magic such as this.

The man shrugged, affable as ever. It made Hanzo glare at him even more fiercely. It was irksome, how agreeable he was being...

Finally, the man moved, gave his back to Hanzo as he swung his legs off the bed and rose. Hanzo tensed when the man faced him and approached.

"That is far enough," Hanzo said in warning, raising two burning fists when the man was just outside of arm's reach.

"I have sheltered you and returned your weapons," the man pointed out. "Can you not accept I mean you no harm?"

"That remains to be seen," Hanzo replied, stiff.

Still, the man only seemed amused. He placed a palm on his breast, directly over his heart, and bowed, deeply.

"Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Kuai Liang."

A strange name for a strange man. It was oddly fitting.

Kuai Liang rose and those pale eyes of his fixed on Hanzo with the same intensity that had yet to lessen since Hanzo had first met them.

"May I know your name, pyromancer?"

Hanzo almost refused him, simply on principle. But...Kuai Liang had sheltered him in his home, had given him back his weapons, and he had shown no sign of wishing harm upon him.

It went against every instinct within him, but slowly, warily, Hanzo lowered his arms as the flames in his hands gutted, leaving behind smooth, unblemished skin.

"...Hanzo. Hanzo Hisashi."

Kuai Liang's eyes brightened with pleasure.

"Hanzo Hisashi," he repeated. The way he seemed to savor it—Hanzo could feel his hackles rising once more. "It is a pleasure to meet you." Kuai Liang stepped to the side, gestured with an open palm to the door. "Allow me to escort you," he said. "I'm afraid you will be easily lost without a guide."

Hearing that this building was that great a size did nothing to ease Hanzo's unease, but he supposed he had no choice.

"Very well."

Kuai Liang smiled.

Hanzo had hoped for a quick, silent walk, and to be able to put this entire strange encounter from his mind forever. Instead, when they'd only just left Kuai Liang's chambers, his stomach gave a loud, insistent cry.

Hanzo kept his gaze firmly on the ground, mortified as Kaui Liang turned to him in a sharp, surprised movement.

After a slight pause, Kuai Liang offered, "I have food if you wish—"

"No." Hanzo took a deep breath, tried to will back the rise of heat he could feel on his face. It was more important to leave this place. He could hunt for something once he was gone. "I am fine."

And, of course, his body chose that moment to betray him once more with another growl, sudden and painful enough he could not check the urge to hold his aching stomach. He could not remember the last time he had a decent, filling meal...

"I'm afraid I must insist," Kuai Liang said in a tone that brooked no argument. "I would be a poor host if I did not see you fed and prepped for your long journey down the mountain.”

Hanzo attempted to protest, but it was a losing battle and he was forced to follow after Kuai Liang, lest he truly be lost in his vast palace.

It was harder to remember the urgent need to be gone from this place when the smell of cooked meat grew stronger the further they went, and then impossible when Kuai Liang opened the door to a small cooking room, where a large flank of meat was still roasting over an open fire against the far wall.

The smell was heavenly and Hanzo was briefly hypnotized by the sight of hot, sizzling fat dripping from the meat, how it fell into the fire with a soft hiss and caused new bursts of the incredible aroma to permeate the room.

Perhaps...there was no harm in eating—so that he would not collapse on his hike, of course. It was only sensible to accept a meal when it was offered freely.

He tried not to seem too eager when he sat at the small wooden table Kuai Liang beckoned him to, but when Kuai Liang carved a generous portion of meat onto a large platter and served it to him, his smile twitched, threatening to grow wider at whatever expression Hanzo had.

It was slightly embarrassing, being caught so obviously, but Hanzo did not care the moment the meat first touched his tongue. Hot, tender venison, succulent and delicious. If he were a weaker man, he might weep.

For a while, there was only silence as he ate. It was not until he'd partially satiated his aching stomach that he realized Kuai Liang had not served himself.

He glanced up, unnerved to find Kuai Liang watching him, chin propped in one hand, a slight smile still lingering on his lips.

He appeared so...satisfied, by the sight of Hanzo eating. It made Hanzo freeze.

He glared.

"...Stop watching me," Hanzo demanded.

Kuai Liang's smile widened, but he acquiesced, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He tilted his head back against the back of his chair and closed his eyes, looked for all the world as if he were simply meditating.

The way he kept instantly accomodating Hanzo—it was very annoying.

Hanzo resumed eating but did not stop glaring at Kuai Liang, trying—in vain—to puzzle him out. If Kuai Liang was aware of his staring, he did not seem bothered by it in the least.

This vast palace, Kuai Liang's own status, seemingly that of a man of wealth and power—he did not make sense. In Hanzo's travels, he had never heard of such a person having domain over this corner of the land, and yet here he was.

Who are you, truly?

His curiosity could not be denied, no matter how much he tried to quell it.

"Where are the people?" Hanzo finally asked.

It was perhaps not his most pressing question, but it was the one that was safer to ask. Down the labyrinthine halls to this modest cook's area, Hanzo had not seen nor heard so much as a whisper of another soul. Even here, in what was clearly a servant's domain, there was no one else to be found. Yet, a palace so large would need a large staff to maintain it.

Kuai Liang's eyes opened. "There are none."

Hanzo frowned, chews slowing, but Kuai Liang did not take back his words, just watched Hanzo back.

"...You live here by yourself?"

Kuai Liang inclined his head.

"How is that possible?"

Finally, Kuai Liang glanced away from him. His eyes dropped and his entire demeanor was suddenly—dampened, somehow. A subtle sort of sadness crept over Kuai Liang and it made Hanzo forget all about the sharp hunger pains that had burrowed into the pit of his stomach.

"Like you, I am the last of my kind."

...Oh. It was no secret that Hanzo's people were long gone—hunted to the brink of extinction for nothing more than sport. Mercenaries and outlaws, lowlifes and lords alike had participated in the massacre, eager to boast their fighting skills and claim the prestige of slaying an exotic, powerful pyromancer. If any of Hanzo's people still walked the lands, Hanzo had not met them. He hoped he never would. They were safer—he was safer, alone.

A life of constant movement, never settling anywhere, never staying in one town long enough for anyone to learn his name—it was a life he'd resigned himself to, one he thought, perhaps, suited him, even, but there were times when he felt the aching bite of loneliness. Of a muted, mourning despair that he would pass from this world without a single soul to notice his absence.

It was not a life he would wish on anyone.

"I...I am sorry," Hanzo finally said. At least he traveled, could outrun his feelings when they threatened to unmake him completely. To walk the same empty halls, day after day, ceaselessly reminded of a time they were full of life—he shied from even imagining it.

Kuai Liang blinked and a rueful smile replaced the understated, melancholic expression. Somehow, the smile made Hanzo's chest ache more.

"It was a long time ago," Kuai Liang dismissed.

Hanzo was not placated. He looked straight into Kuai Liang's eyes.

"But it is still difficult," he observed quietly, and Kuai Liang's smile, absurdly, stretched just a little bigger.

"You see right through me."

He stood, took Hanzo's demolished plate and returned to the roasting spit.

"No man is a fortress, and I am afraid I am no exception to this rule."

His voice was soft and steady as he refilled Hanzo's plate with another generous portion, but even when he set the dish before him, Hanzo could not move his eyes from Kuai Liang, aware of how something more lingered in the air, the same something that had remained unspoken since he'd awoken.

Kuai Liang did not return to his seat. He stood, looking down at Hanzo, and the impression that his next words would be important grew.

"I rarely leave my home. I hunt what I need and want for little else. But I have grown weary of solitude. And, if you'll forgive my forwardness," and here Kuai Liang broke eye contact, straightened, and crossed his arms behind his back. He took a moment, and Hanzo found himself all but holding his breath.

"I came down from the mountain in search of a mate." Kuai Liang's pale eyes met his, and the earlier look of determination intensified. "And I have found one. You."

A ringing silence stretched.

Hanzo's mouth opened, closed. Opened again. But there were no words. He could not think of a single thing he could say to such a proclamation.

His face felt hot.

Kuai Liang's head tilted. "Have I broken you?" he asked, amused.

His tone finally snapped Hanzo out of his shocked stupor and he stood, his chair scraping loudly against the wood floor.

"I—You—NO."

"We are well-suited for one another," Kuai Liang argued.

"You know nothing about me and—" Abruptly, Hanzo realized how completely absurd this conversation was. "Absolutely not."

"I know that you are brave, honorable, and compassionate." When Hanzo opened his mouth to protest, Kuai Liang stepped closer, just past the bounds of propriety, but Hanzo could not muster the will to burn him. "It would have been easier to leave me to die, but you intervened on my behalf, and even tended to my wounds. What more proof do I need of your worthiness?"

Hanzo stared at Kuai Liang, stricken. He had been ignoring the obvious, glaring fact that had been shouting at him since he'd first met Kuai Liang's eyes, but now that truth refused to be ignored.

His brow furrowed and he stared into Kuai Liang's eyes, wished he could doubt his own, but could not.

"You...you really are the dragon from before..." It was impossible, ridiculous—but the evidence was too plain to ignore.

Kuai Liang smiled. "I knew you were the one the moment we looked at one another." Another step closer, where their chests nearly touched, and Hanzo told himself he would push Kuai Liang away and run—in just a moment. "My ice, it can be unpleasant for a normal human. And in moments of passion, even harmful."

Kuai Liang raised his hand, slowly, tentatively, and though a part of Hanzo's mind, defensive and wary, screamed that he use his flames, now, he did not want to harm Kuai Liang.

The gentle, cool touch of Kuai Liang's fingers brushed across the stubble on his cheek, whisper-soft.

"But with your abilities, you could withstand me." Kuai Liang's eyes fell, hooded and dark with desire. His gaze seemed to pierce straight through. "Yes, you could withstand me well. You are very strong."

"We are complete opposites," Hanzo argued, because clearly he was the only one who had not taken leave of his senses.

"Opposites, yes," Kuai Liang agreed. "But also equals. Compliments. I would have it no other way."

"Well, I will not have you," Hanzo claimed hotly, and his eyes narrowed in a fierce glare.

Far from seeming dismayed by his refusal, Kuai Liang only watched Hanzo as if he were an intriguing puzzle.

"You find me unsuitable in some way?" he asked. "Or, perhaps, you bear the claim of another?"

"I—" It would have been better, to lie, but that was one skill Hanzo had never possessed. "That is not—"

Triumph surged to Kuai Liang's gaze. "If I must prove myself, you need only say so. I can offer you much."

Hanzo finally pushed away Kuai Liang's touch with a sweep of his arm and took a few steps back. He would not hear any more.

"I do not want anything from you. I do not belong here, with you, in—that way. Whatever you believe you see in me, you are mistaken."

"I see only that which you have shown me." Kuai Liang watched him steadily, so sure. "You could have a home here. You would no longer have to hide who you truly are, or be forced to run any longer. You could be free."

Hanzo sucked in a sharp breath, shook his head harshly in the next instant. "You—you can not promise that."

"I can," Kuai Liang simply said.

He pushed Hanzo's chair out of his way, closed the distance between them once more. Hanzo flinched away the first time Kuai Liang reached for him, but Kuai Liang only paused, waited patiently, before resuming the movement. And the look in his eyes, gentle yet firm, kept Hanzo still when he took Hanzo's hand.

Kuai Liang raised Hanzo's hand, placed his palm atop it so he cradled him in his grip like something precious. Hanzo could not recall ever being touched in such a way. He wanted to hate it, but he did not.

"A few days," Kuai Liang proposed, voice a low, beseeching murmur. "Stay with me here, for just a few days. Let me show you what it could be like to share a life together. If you still wish to leave after that, I will respect your wishes. I will take you down the mountain myself."

An automatic denial sprung to his lips, but one look at Kuai Liang's eyes—pleading, soft, and filled with lonely, naked longing—killed the words before he could draw breath.

Hanzo looked away, to the strong, slightly cool and affectionate clasp of Kuai's hands around his. The weariness he always battled in his long journey, heart-sick from constant flight and avoidance, bloomed to an almost unbearable degree, threatened to swallow him completely.

"...A few days?" Hanzo eventually asked, voice unsure and wary.

Kuai Liang squeezed his hand and hope brightened his gaze.

"That is all I ask."

If Hanzo had not been wavering before, that expression would have unmade him; never, had he been beneath the force of such great, bare hope. To say anything else would be cruel.

"...Very well." He darted a quick look at Kuai Liang, glanced away immediately at the sight of his warm, wide smile. "Do not make me regret this," Hanzo warned.

Kuai Liang raised his arm, only smirked when Hanzo's eyes went wide, and placed a gentle, unbearably lingering kiss on the back of his fingers.

"I would not dream of it, Hanzo Hisashi."

[arvandus]

Touch (pt 3)

Pairing: Dabi x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS: 18+ only please!  Drug abuse/withdrawal, adult language/themes, heavy angst, past trauma/abuse, anxiety/panic attacks, PTSD, fluff, pining, slow burn, eventual emotional SMUT. *please pay attention to the chapter tags as these warnings will apply at different times*

Synopsis: When you first joined the LOV to lend your healing quirk, Dabi  terrified you.  Not interested in attachments, he wanted to keep it  that way.  That is, until he needs your help. (Slow burn, soft Dabi).

Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters.

Recommended Chapter Song:

Dizzy by MISSIO

Part 1   Part 2

Artwork credit to @hellowon31​ on Twitter (https://twitter.com/hellowon31)

Part 3 - Resistance

The next day, Dabi woke up feeling like a complete wreck of a person.  A mockery of a human being, made of faulty parts stitched together haphazardly by a cruel universe.  He was angry. Furious.  Wasn’t your quirk supposed to last longer than this?  His head pounded.  The sun peeking through the crack in his curtains was an assault. Sweat covered his exposed pale flesh and yet he felt cold, clammy hands shaking.  Dabi laid back on his bed to cocoon himself into his blankets when he realized…his back was still painless.

Your quirk was still working.

Dabi’s bleary eyes caught sight of his empty pill bottles on his nightstand, and realization dawned on him. Withdrawal.

It started sooner than he had hoped.  He would have refilled his stock by now, but his usual seller went missing, most likely picked up by the feds.  Dabi had already reached out to Giran to find a new source, but the old man hadn’t returned his text messages.  So, Dabi spent some of his time the day before following connections within the villain network.  His search came up with nothing; what he could find wasn’t strong enough to justify the expense or the sellers were obviously trying to swindle him with a diluted product. Long story short, he felt like shit and had no quick fix for it.

He wanted to crawl out of his skin.  Fuck. Everything.

The memory of your cool touch on his skin came forefront to his aching head and he wondered if your quirk would be useful for his withdrawal symptoms…

Dabi pushed the thought out of his head.  He wasn’t going to let that be an option.  It was a slippery slope leading to a dependency that he simply couldn’t afford and definitely did not want.  He was already on edge from yesterday’s conversation. His sympathetic thoughts, no matter how brief, made him see a man he didn’t recognize, and the thoughts plagued him ever since.  He had never considered himself a soft guy.  It wasn’t that he didn’t have feelings.  Things could still bother him if he let them.  But he had learned very early on that what he felt didn’t matter. Perhaps it was the gradual silencing of his conscience, small pieces of him chipped away like stone worn down over years of crashing waves.  Only rarely, every once in a while, did the waters of his vengeance and bitter hatred recede enough to allow sunlight to touch his burnt heart.  And in that moment, he saw you, a fragile boat approaching rocky, dangerous shores.

He frowned.  As long as you did your job, what should it matter? You chose this life just like everyone else did.  It wasn’t his responsibility to protect you from it.

As if his heavy thoughts summoned you, your familiar knock rang through his door.  He cursed under his breath.  During his misery, Dabi had forgotten that you were going to visit him this morning.  He had planned to be gone before you came looking for him, a silent show of defiance to your mothering.  But instead he here was, stuck, feeling the shittiest he felt in a long time.  Maybe if he just ignored you…

You knocked on the door again, your pounding louder, incessant.  You were so fucking stubborn.  He glowered at the wooden barrier angrily, the intolerant noise sending a ringing like a tuning fork into the depths of his brain.  He contemplated setting the door on fire just to make a point. He held his restraint by hair, only vaguely aware that doing so would make him feel even worse, if such a thing was even possible.  Plus, you were the only person here with a lick of sense for medical care – he was ninety percent positive you had some sort of medical background.

“What?” he growled as he sat up begrudgingly, unwilling to let you see him so weak.  Nausea permeated him from his sudden motion.

On the other side of the door, you stared at the wood in confusion.  The sound of Dabi’s voice shocked you – low, scratchy, slurred… menacing.

You almost wanted to concede to the unspoken request, but your determination to treat him held tight to your will.  “It’s me.” You replied, hoping your voice didn’t sound as small as it felt.

A pregnant pause greeted you before he finally spoke. “Come in.” It sounded like an order.  Or was it a surrender?  Could it even be both?  How did this man always seem to have two versions of himself running simultaneously?

You came into the room and closed the door behind you with a quiet ‘click.’ You were met with a dark stuffiness, the air unusually warm and infused with the stink of sweat. The curtains were drawn closed, light straining to seep out along the edges of the fabric.  A thin slit of light stretched across Dabi’s bed where he sat, his back facing you.  He looked like a fallen angel, a broken soul.  His shoulders were hunched, drawn tight like a bow string, struggling not to fold in on himself and break.

His bravado was gone, his casual presence muted in the deafening silence.  He wasn’t even trying to pretend this time.  His distress was palpable.  You felt shame being here, your presence intrusive.  You weren’t supposed to see him like this.  So why did he let you in?

A mild panic filled you. Did he hurt himself again since you last saw him?  Or was this your fault?  Did your quirk wear off already?

“What’s wrong?” you asked. He didn’t respond.  You stepped forward cautiously.  “Dabi…?”

Your voice grated on his conscience – words of concern, a tone meant to soothe. He didn’t want your compassion.  He wanted you to be cold and indifferent, a mechanic repairing a broken part.  Or maybe even have you be as crazy as the others, waxing poetic about bloodlust and freedom.  That was a language he understood, that he could navigate with ease.  Not this benevolence.  Not this normalcy.  Why were you so different?

“You’re annoying.” He growled just loud enough for you to hear.

You halted your approach and your back stiffened.  “What?”

“Stop acting like you fucking care.”  The words spilled out of his mouth without a concern as to their damage.  He knew you cared, even if it was on a basic level, which was why he desperately, accusatorily denied it.

Everything bothered him. His head.  His body.  The stink of this room… you seeing him like this.  Why did that bother him?

You pressed your lips together, your jaw taut.  The tension in the room became as palpable as the stifling air.  What could you possibly say? That you did care?  Well, did you? You cared enough to be here, at least. You had a responsibility to treat him, and you’d be lying to yourself if you said he hadn’t been on your mind more than usual the past couple of days.  Of course, he’d never know that…. But were you friends by any stretch of the definition? No.  Definitely not. So, if he wanted to be a jerk and suffer with his pride, then you’d let him.

“If you want me to leave, just say so.” You replied coolly.  “I’m just here to do my job.”

Your answer satisfied him, cold and to the point, a counterbalance to your overwhelmingly gentle nature.  It provided him the emotional distance he needed, a cloak he donned willingly to shelter himself from your prying eyes.  And through his mental fog, he realized in mild amusement that it was the second time you called his bluff, grinding in your heels to deflect his verbal strikes. You weren’t easily bullied; at least, not as easily as he’d originally thought.

“Whatever.” He grumbled. “Let’s just get this over with, I got shit to do.”

You clenched and unclenched your hands around your bag.  You were grateful Dabi caved, your conscience breathing a sigh of relief.  You’d make it quick, to address what you needed to and leave him to sort himself out in solitude, like you knew he wanted.  You began to approach him, quiet steady steps around his bed so you could get a closer look at him. If he was going to let you treat him, you might as well try to make the most of your limited time and see if you could figure out what was wrong.

As soon as you could see his face, you realized he was holding something in his hand. An empty pill bottle.  His eyes stared at it like it held the answers to the universe while also cursing its existence.

Suddenly, everything clicked.  The agitation.  The pain. The misplaced anger… Of course.

You closed the distance between you until you were standing in front of him.  Without saying anything, you quietly took the bottle from his hand, which, surprisingly, he let you.  You read the name and the dosage.  It was a strong one.

“Dabi,” you said quietly, hoping you didn’t sound patronizing, “How long has it been since you’ve had your medication?”

There it was.  That kindness again.  You brought it forth so effortlessly, as if he didn’t just insult you a moment ago. Somewhere, behind his defenses, the itch of guilt settled itself into his mind like an unwelcome guest.

He was quiet for a moment as he stared at the bottle in your hand, his eyes either unable or unwilling to meet yours.  “Two days.” He replied, his voice scratchy.

You quickly did the math in your head.  He had mentioned that his pain meds ran out when he first asked for your help, but you had thought nothing of it at the time, assuming he had ways of fixing his problem.  You should have known.  You should have checked with him.  Drug withdrawal was no joke.

“When are you getting more?” you asked.

“Not sure, doll.  My supplier has gone AWOL and I haven’t found a backup.” He put his head between his hands and rubbed at his temples.  You watched him with quiet concern.  At first you wanted to use your quirk to try to help him, your hand starting to reach out to his wild raven hair instinctually. You faltered.  Would your quirk even work with this?  This wasn’t a cut or a burn or a broken rib… this was a chemical imbalance in his brain.  What if you hurt him or messed him up somehow?  Slowly you lowered your hand.  He needed his drugs.  

“How many of these did you take a day?” you asked as you looked at the bottle again.

He answered.  Your eyes bulged slightly.  How was this man not stumbling around when you first met him? He must have built up a tolerance over years of use.  Besides, quirkology affected everyone’s body a little differently.  Still, it definitely explained his bored expression and overall body language – this guy was constantly high.

“Don’t look so surprised, doll.” He stared up at you with shining bloodshot eyes.  His forehead was beaded in sweat, his skin so ghostly pale that only the rise and fall of his shallow chest indicated he was a breathing, living human.

You watched him, taking in his current state.  If he did finally get a hold of new meds on his own, would he be able to show restraint? Logically, you knew that he was experienced with this – it obviously wasn’t his first rodeo.  But still, a part of you couldn’t help but worry.

“You could really hurt yourself with these.” You replied softly.

“I know my limits.” He stated firmly, annoyance starting to seep in.

“That’s what everyone says, until they don’t.”

His brow furrowed, dark eyebrows pulled together like closing gates.  “Look, doll.  If you’re gonna lecture me, then you really can leave.  I don’t need your help with this.  I got by just fine before you came along.”

You wanted to snap back at him, to defend what seemed common sense to you, but you held back.  Poking the bear would help no one.

You kneeled down next to him and opened your bag, rummaging through your things.  “I’m not trying to lecture you.  I’m trying to help you.”  You found what you were looking for and pulled it out.  Nervousness filled you – you hoped he didn’t ask too many questions.

Dabi eyed the bottle of medication in your hand in hunger.

“It’s not as strong as what you’re used to,” you explained, “but it will take the edge off.”

“What kind of doctor are you, aiding a drug addict?” he teased.

A pang of guilt shot through you, but you steeled yourself against it.  “If you’re going to be taking pain meds, then I’d rather have it be something reliable and safe that I can monitor instead of something you find on the street through dubious means.”

“Oh yeah?  Like all of your little supplies don’t come from shady sources.  You can’t exactly get this stuff from anywhere.  Those are prescription only.” Dabi nodded at the bottle clutched so tightly in your hand, that he couldn’t see the label on it.  He couldn’t help but wonder… was it your name on that white sticker?  Or someone else’s?  What other items did you have in that bag of yours?

You lifted your chin pridefully.  “I have an inside source.  Trust me, the stuff I get is the real deal.  And that’s all you need to know about that.”

Dabi grinned as you gave him two of the pills from the bottle.  “Well, look at you, doll.  What a criminal.  You could get in serious trouble for this, sweetheart.”

“Oh, I think we’re well past that by now…” you replied with a grin, which earned you a chuckle.

Dabi popped the pills into his mouth and swallowed them dry.  Your smile faded slightly as you felt the urge to say one more important thing to him.

You stared at his hands in front of you, long fingers intertwined together and suspended in the air as his elbows rested on his knees.  “Look, Dabi…” you started.  Your eyes traced the metal rings holding his skin together.  “I can’t imagine the kind of pain you’re constantly in.  I understand why you take drugs. I think anyone would.  That’s why I’m helping you.  Not having pain meds isn’t really an option for you.”

“So, does that mean you’re gonna let me have that bottle?” his eyes stared at the bottle still clutched in your hand.

You held the bottle to your chest protectively, a part of you afraid he’d try to snatch it from you. Withdrawal made people do desperate things.  He raised an amused eyebrow at your defensive action, a small smirk upturning the corner of his mouth.

Your body felt warm and you broke eye contact.  “Not yet.” You replied.  “I want to make sure you’re okay with it.  It’s different from what you were taking before.  It might feel weaker than what you were taking or might have different side effects for you.  I don’t want you to overdo it.”

“And what makes you such an expert?” Dabi pried, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as his head tilted.

You put the pills back into your bag as you looked away from him.  “I have a medical background, so I know a lot more than you might think.”

Dabi grinned, despite his headache, the skin pulling tight enough along his rings to send an ache of pain along his jaw.  He was right. Not that it was that hard to figure out, but he liked that you answered him honestly.

“You don’t trust me, doll?” Dabi’s teasing tone made you look up at him to find his fiery eyes piercing yours.  That familiar spark of life, dangerous and wild, was starting to return to his drawn features.  Oddly enough, you found it comforting even if it did send your pulse racing like a scared rabbit.

Meanwhile, he was amused at your caution.  Little did you know how many drugs he’d tried over the years, how many times he came close to ‘overdoing it,’ as he learned what his body could and couldn’t handle. Sure, he needed his drugs to keep the pain at bay… but he also needed to carry out his mission.  He refused to let himself devolve into a zombie when he still had unfinished business.

You rolled your eyes at him.  “I just want to make sure you transition to this new pain medication okay.  Switching drugs can be a messy business.  If I decided to trust you and something went wrong, well…” your words faltered, unable to finish your statement.  It almost surprised you how much the thought of something horrible happening to Dabi bothered you… especially if it was caused by your own negligence.

“Aw, doll, you’re making me blush.” Dabi grinned.  “You better not try to take advantage of me. I’m under the influence.”

You raised an amused eyebrow at him.  “Really? Who’s taking advantage of who here? Someone just got free drugs.”

“Trust me, sweetheart – you’ll know when I’m taking advantage of you.”

A proper comeback couldn’t find its way to your lips while your mind was so distracted by suggestive thoughts.

He continued on unfazed, as if his previous words meant nothing to him.  “So, how are we gonna do this then?”

You cleared your throat and wet your parched lips with your tongue.  Dabi watched the gesture intently, but you didn’t notice as you avoided eye contact.  “We’ll start with what I gave you. When it wears off and you feel like you need more, you come find me.  If you have any issues or feel anything weird, you come find me.  I don’t care what time it is.  If it’s 3 in the morning, you come find me.”

A devilish grin spread across Dabi’s features as his head got a rather detailed less-than-pure mental picture of a late-night visit.  He knew that wasn’t what you meant, but he enjoyed where his imagination took him, nonetheless.  He eyed you for the first time since you came into his room, allowing himself to take in your appearance from head to toe, his eyes lingering where he wanted them to, without a care as to if you noticed.  He might not be willing to touch, but he was definitely willing to look. Life was too short to not appreciate the finer things in life, and at this moment the finer thing was you.

You shifted nervously under his penetrating gaze, your pulse quickening under your skin like a raging river. You weren’t quite sure what he was thinking, but the light of his eyes made you feel exposed.  You resisted the urge to wrap your arms around yourself protectively, your self-consciousness fighting to get the better of you.

Your forced yourself to continue, looking away abashedly.  “I’m still coming to take care of your bandages, so I’ll be checking up on you again tonight.  Do we have a deal?”

Dabi was quiet for a moment as he stared at your determined face.  Finally, he smiled.  “Yeah, doll. We got a deal.”

“Good.  Now let me check those bandages.”

He stood up and you instinctively took a step back as his presence filled yours within the tight space between his bed and the wall where you stood. The scent of him filled your nose and you resisted the urge to inhale.  You liked it and you couldn’t explain why.  He turned his back to you and removed his sweat-soaked shirt.  You waited to see if he would move to the more open space of his room, but he didn’t, and you stood awkwardly before deciding to just change his bandages where he was.  Maybe he had a headache and moving was a little too much for him.  It’d take about thirty minutes for the pills you gave him to really get into his system and start working, and you’d be long gone by then.

You changed his bandages quickly and efficiently as well as added a little boost with your quirk to make sure his back was pain-free until you returned to check on him later in the evening.  He seemed to have enough on his plate to deal with without having your quirk wear off.

He was silently grateful you changed his bandages in silence as he waited for the pills you gave him to kick in. He was familiar with them, of course – they weren’t the best for what he needed, but you were right when you said they’d take the edge off.  Still, he didn’t want to use up your supply.  He didn’t know if that was your only bottle, and at the rate that he typically popped pills, you’d be out within a few days.  He’d reach out to Giran again to get a hold of his own.

Once you were done, you packed up your items to leave.  But before you did, you reached into your bag and pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to him.

“Hydrate.  Please.” You said.  “You took those pills and they might make you nauseous on an empty stomach.  Besides, your body needs more than coffee, energy drinks, and alcohol.”

Dabi grinned.  “Have you been watching me, doll?  You’re not stalking me, are ya?”

“I watch all of my patients.” You replied with a critical eye.  “Nice try, though.”

“You got any ramen in that bag?” Dabi teased as he opened the water bottle and took a swig.

“No, but I got a granola bar.  You want it?” you replied casually. You pulled out said item and waved it in Dabi’s face.

Dabi’s lip turned up in disgust.  “That shit’ll get stuck in my rings.  And it’s disgusting.”

“It’s healthy.” You replied with an extra wave for added emphasis.

“You’re like a walking drug store.”  Dabi commented as he watched you put the offending food away.

“I feel like a damn mom with all this stuff, but you’d be surprised how often it comes in handy.” You replied.  “Alright, well I’m gonna go and let you rest.  Do you have my number?”

You said it so casually, that Dabi had to stare at you to process your words for a moment.  He didn’t easily fluster, but he also didn’t ever have pretty girls offering their number to him, his scars always scaring them off.  It was such a personal gesture and completely alien to him.

“What for?” he finally replied.

“In case you need me for anything.  Like if the drugs wear off, or your bandage comes loose or something. We might not always be in the same place at the same time and I’d hate for you to not be able to reach me if something’s wrong.”

The tension in Dabi’s chest eased slightly.  Of course, it had to do with his health.  He noticed that about you – when it came to business, you cut straight to the chase.

He wanted your number.  But as soon as he realized it wasn’t for health reasons, he immediately shot it down, his iron wall crashing down.  “I’ll be fine.”

You stared at him and shrugged.  “Suit yourself.  Just trying to be efficient.  If you change your mind, you can reach out to one of the others.  I think you’re the only one who doesn’t have it.”  You walked to the door and turned back to him.  “Like I said, I’ll be back tonight, probably at around 9pm.  You’d better be here, or you won’t get your pills.” Mischief danced in your eyes and Dabi realized you were teasing him. He grinned.

“You think you can manipulate me?” he challenged.

“We’ll see…” you replied casually and left his room.

After you were gone, he stood there for a moment staring at the water bottle in his hand before he realized he had a dumb fucking smile on his face. He threw the water bottle in his trashcan.

You were a goddamn pain in his ass.  And he was a damn idiot, getting flustered over a pretty face being kind to him. What was this, fucking middle school? Like he’d never been around a girl before?  You were here to treat him.  As soon as his wounds were healed up and he got his own drugs, things would go back to normal.

It had to go back to normal.

__________________________________________________________

Part 4

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Taglist: @lemonfvck @vs-redemption @inanabsentia ia @sheedaabee @toshiuwuu @marydragneell @chillinwithmybakubros​ @genuinelytodorokisbitch @sam-i-am-1025 @redflannel @axerrri​ @necccomancy​ @miadraws0​

[baoshan-sanren]

Chapter 28

of the wwx emperor au I’m thinking of calling Lan QiRen’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week oh god it’s only gonna get worse

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Part 1 | Chapter 8 Part 2 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 Part 1 | Chapter 15 Part 2 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 Part 1 | Chapter 22 Part 2 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27

There is a certain type of charm to YiLing that XiChen has never noticed before.

Yes, it is overwhelmingly chaotic, and yes, one can easily become lost in its winding alleys and dead end streets. Still, XiChen thinks that most of the clamor and commotion is solely due to the festival, and that the town itself must be perfectly pleasant when not overflowing with visitors from every corner of the Empire.

Although they lose sight of the Emperor and WangJi within the first hour, Nie MingJue does not appear to be worried. XiChen knows he has placed Sect members he trusts in every street in YiLing, all of them on alert for any sign of danger. Nie MingJue trusts his disciples, and XiChen trusts Nie MingJue, but he thinks he will spend the evening worrying, regardless of precautions taken.

He is wrong. Navigating the streets of YiLing with Nie MingJue is a wholly unique experience.

The man is in disguise, the same as the Emperor, but unlike the Emperor, Nie MingJue cannot conceal those attributes which have so often made him a subject of wild gossip. Even dressed in simple gray and green robes, his saber concealed in a plain leather scabbard, the General of the Emperor’s army is clearly no ordinary cultivator.

His sheer presence is conspicuous. Although the streets are crowded, no one dares stumble across his path. Those that come too close, scurry away when they meet his gaze. More than one person who would have grimaced at the sight of a Lan Sect member thinks better of it, a single glance from Nie MingJue enough to change their mind. Ordinarily, when XiChen is alone in any market, in any town, he must arm himself for the inevitable. He has learned, over the years, that there is a skill to existing in public places; how to avoid confrontations, how to remain polite in the face of deliberate insolence, and how to keep smiling even when the gesture feels painful on his face.

Nie MingJue’s commanding presence eliminates the need for any of those skills, and XiChen finds the lack of trepidation exhilarating. Yes, YiLing appears to be a charming town, but he has to wonder how much of that charm is solely due to his present company.

Towards XiChen, Nie MingJue is all attentive ease and courtesy. XiChen only has to express a fleeting interest in something for Nie MingJue to consider it a command. The man is capable of reciting the entire history of YiLing, all the way back to its humble beginnings. He is familiar with every street and every shortcut, educated in each type of architecture, informed about the local laws and customs, and even capable of adding small anecdotes for XiChen’s amusement, when the subject matter threatens to drift into tedium. In short, Nie MingJue is proving himself to be an excellent guide and companion, and XiChen is finding himself less and less capable of restraint.

He should not have to conceal the sheer amount of enjoyment he derives from the man’s company, but he is very well aware that this enjoyment is bound to be short-lived. Nie MingJue is the General of the Emperor’s army. He is a leader of a large and powerful Sect. The Emperor’s favor alone would have made him unreachable to someone like XiChen, but there are a thousand other factors, equally as substantial, which make any connection between them an impossibility. XiChen is going to be a Sect Leader as well, a responsibility he cannot, and will not relinquish. He cannot form an attachment to a man who is fated to be a little more than a stranger in the future, not without sacrificing his eventual well-being for a brief few moments of happiness in the present.

Yet, no matter how determined XiChen is to feel only fond friendship, he finds himself failing at every turn. Each time Nie MngJue offers his hand, XiChen takes it without thinking. Each time the man steers him through the crowd, or out of the way of a reckless carriage, XiChen shudders at the warm palm pressing against the small of his back. His face heats when Nie MingJue looks pleased, and his own answering smile cannot be reined in, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how he scolds himself for being overly familiar.  

It is an odd combination, this blissful elation and the ever-growing anguish. XiChen had never thought himself capable of such joy under a cloud of eventual heartache. Two more days, and the gifting ceremony will be upon them. Once this last obligation has been met, uncle will insist on returning to Cloud Recesses immediately, regardless of circumstance. Even if another Imperial summons were to arrive in the following months, uncle will insist on answering the invitation unaccompanied. It is entirely possible that a year or more will pass before XiChen finds himself in Nie MingJue’s company again.

“XiChen?”

They had paused at an old canal bridge, hopelessly clogged, two palanquins facing each other and neither willing to give way. On each side of the bridge, a row of weeping willows form a canopy over the water, their delicate leaves filtering the fading sunlight. The shadows they create are dancing across every available surface, the effect dizzying and dreamlike, giving the impression that nothing in the world is still or stable, but forever moving, changing, and fluctuating with the winds.

Instead of practicing restraint, XiChen had let his heartache overwhelm the happiness.  

Nie MingJue’s fingers brush his elbow, a light touch that would have gone unnoticed, had it been carried out by anyone else.

“Are you tired? Should we find a place to rest for a while?”

XiChen is not tired, but the noise and bustle of YiLing is suddenly too much to bear. In two days he must head back to Cloud Recesses. Five days have already passed. Those five days feel as long as five lifetimes, each one etching a million moments into XiChen’s memories, moments he will both cherish and detest. The two days feel as short as heartbeats, inevitable and fleeting, and never to be repeated.    

He wants to be the one to reach for Nie MingJue’s hand before the man offers. He wants to be the one to brush his fingers against Nie MingJue’s elbow.

He does not.

Instead, he smiles, a gesture as comfortable as an old set of robes, worn often, and threadbare with use.

“I am perfectly well. These weeping willows are lovely. Do you know how old they are?”

[trouvelle]

Striking Balance // Emogust 13.08—Misunderstanding

For the second prompt of the second week of DCMK Emogust — Misunderstanding! 

A/N: I hope this comes out somewhat decent and isn’t confusing. Loosely based on Avatar: The Last Airbender/ The Legend of Aang. And by loosely based I only mean, the only things similar between the two here is (the fact that) it’s set in the same universe hahaha. This is slightly longer than I intended it to be and I have to hold back from writing more. I hope you like it!! @mintchocolateleaves @sup-poki

It’s these soft arms that are rousing him, forcing him to pry his eyes open despite the heavy lashes gluing them together, and Kaito—he tries to blink, to make his bleary eyes focus. The face above him is the kindest he has ever seen.

With such beautiful, cloudy blue eyes, long hair like a halo of moonlight whipping around in the wind, Kaito’s sluggish mind determines that this must be a Goddess. Or a Spirit.

“You’re okay now. You’re safe.”

The voice is as harmonious as bells, sharp and clear yet somehow infinitely soft. Warmth caresses Kaito’s shoulders and a shudder wracks his frozen frame. The spirit’s face crumples in concern.

Kaito’s eyes slide close, darkness enveloping him just as he begins to feel himself moving, those arms locked around him and lifting, lifting, until Kaito feels like he might be flying. It would—and should—be horrifying, but all he can think of is the warmth of the spirit’s arms and the little soothing words— ah, alright there we go, now if I just do this... you’re safe, don’t worry...

Φ

When he awakens again it’s to a hand on his chin and hot, foul liquid trickling down the back of his throat. He chokes, spitting it out, his eyes flying open.

“I know, this has a bit of a repulsive taste. But you need all the nutrients you can get, and you can’t eat anything healthier than this!”

His eyes and throat burn and his brain is foggy but he can make out, even in the low lighting, the figure standing above him. His spirit, lingering over him and looking slightly less ethereal in the lamp-light, seems more like human now, with her cream-colored skin and dark hair and those eyes made not of glacial ice but warm blue sky.

“What’s your name?” she asks, a hand on his shoulder to prevent him from propping himself up.

All Kaito can think, all he can say is, “Who are you?”

The girl laughs, and Kaito couldn’t help but think that even her laughter sounds really light and has a gentle tone to it.

“I’d like to call you something other than Rockslide Boy, if that’s alright with you.”

He shudders, summons his energy, and against his better judgment, he finally croaks, “Kaito.”

“Kaito,” The girl repeats like those two syllables are preciously delicate.

“Now go back to sleep, you need rest. We’ll be there soon.”

Kaito obeys.

Φ 

There is something cool on his chest, chilling his skin and reaching down deep inside him. Strangely, nothing about it is unpleasant, but rather soothing like peppermint or a sea breeze or a cool bath after a long day of training.

It calms him, and through the overwhelmingly pleasurable sensation, he hears voices.

“This was a mistake, you should have just left him.”

“But why would I do that?”

The response sounds like a hiss. “That man sure as hell isn’t from one of our tribes.”

“No. He’s from the Earth Kingdom. Or did you not notice the color of the clothes he was wearing? And the coins we found?” Ah, Kaito recognizes this as the earlier girl’s voice.

“Does he look Earth people to you? Just because he was dressed like one doesn’t mean that he’s from there.” So came the gruff reply. This second voice sounds lower, definitely a man’s. 

“I was too busy trying to keep him alive, Shinichi! Why would I ask of his identity right after he survived a crash that big?”

There is some shuffling, and Kaito himself is fighting to stay awake so he can hear more. They are talking about him after all.

“I know you’re only trying to help him, but we have to be really careful out here. We can’t afford to trust the wrong person and you know that. Bringing back a stranger like this… I really don’t think it’s a good idea, Ran.”

Footsteps retreat and, soon after, the cold sensation in Kaito’s chest slips away. He shudders. He isn’t sure if he’s awake or asleep, but he feels oddly relieved of pain. There is a cool contact on his forehead, and in his sleep, he sees it as a faint glow in the darkness. He’s surprised to find that the glow is warm rather than cold, and it reminds of someone. Aoko! He feels panic rising in his throat and the realization makes him feel as if his heart just dropped.

The same sensation moves from his chest to his forehead and he finds himself rapidly losing control of his consciousness. He falls back into the darkness, all the while chanting Aoko’s name as if she can hear and reach out to him. 

Φ 

The ground below him isn’t moving. When his eyes open and his head finally clears, this is the first thing he notices.

The second is that he cannot feel the wind.

His breath is caught in his throat and he shoots straight up to a sitting position, frantically searching around him for some explanation, some understanding. His eyes are immediately well-adjusted to the dim lighting around him. The walls surrounding him looking rough in texture, the humidity and the lack of air circulation in here all contributes to the gnawing in his gut, right next to something far more potent and familiar—the terror that has his heart and lungs and ribcage locked in a vice grip.

He tries to tell himself to calm down, and it almost works until he remembers he has absolutely every reason to panic. His brain, foggy as it had been the past few times he woke, is working on overdrive now and he cannot deny what he knows must be true:

Somehow, Aoko is not with him. 

Somehow, he is trapped underground. He knows from the way his body moves that he is still physically hindered from making a swift escape from wherever he’s at, but he has to do everything he can to go back out there and find her. She must be injured as badly as he is and Kaito can only pray that he get to her before anything worse happens.

He has heard tales—horror stories—of the Savagers who occupy the underground land. Cannibalism, his father had told him once. Amongst other things. Truly, nobody wants to know. What if Aoko—

“Kaito! You’re awake!”

There, standing across gigantic hole they’re occupying, peeking in from the dim passageway, is Ran.

When the girl moves, Kaito cannot keep his eyes from her—not because he fears a threat, but because Ran glides across the room like water flowing down a stream, every bit of her fluid. Her hair floats out behind her, settling over her shoulders when she comes to a stop at Kaito’s side and sits. Her bangs have been woven into two thin, loose braids and swooped back around her head and partially covering her ears, before falling with the rest of her hair down her back to the waist.

Her eyes, though—her eyes are exactly as Kaito remembers, as cloudy and blue as the sky.

“Not before you get better. How are you feeling?” Ran asks, her head cocked to the side. At this moment, a man emerges from the passageway and stands next to Ran, eyes staring at Kaito up and down like a prey. Kaito takes a moment to attempt to calm his breathing to a more even pace. 

“Good,” he says eventually, and it’s the understatement of the century. 

“Ah, we should get a better fire going, then.” Panic seizes Kaito’s chest all over again, until he notices the man making his way to what must be a makeshift hearth. “Your body will never heal if it still thinks you’re about to freeze to death.” His brow furrows in concentration as he strikes spark rocks together vigorously until a flame finally appears and catches on a log of bleached driftwood. 

He spots it, then, as his eyes scan the room—his brown bag, hanging on a hook on the wall.

“Is that…?”

Ran straightens, looking away from the fire, and winces. “Ah, yes. We’re sorry. Shinichi insisted on going through it, when we got back earlier.”

The said boy doesn’t look guilty in the slightest, instead narrowing his eyes at Kaito even further.

Ran crosses the room, grabbing the bag off of the hook and a pot of water from the ground, placing both at Kaito’s side. “I told him there’s probably nothing harmful in your bag, but he insist we be careful. We haven’t met the kindest people out here lately.”

Not a prisoner, then, at least until Kaito screws up or lets something slip. Did the Savagers take anything from his possession? He tugs open the bag, emptying its contents onto his lap.

“Was I alone when you found me?”

At his side, Ran fidgets. “Yes. Were there anyone else with you before all that happened?”

Kaito nods, not trusting his voice. His jaw already aches from the worry that he’s been holding in, but he cannot show weakness in front of these Savagers—at least no more than he already has.

“I’m sorry about whoever you had to leave behind. I hope you get to see them again.” The girl sounds sincere. However, Kaito knows better than to offer her any further information. She extends her hand out to touch his shoulder and offer comfort but he jerks away sharply.

“I need to leave.” Kaito doesn’t miss the way Ran’s shoulders deflate at his rejection. He has a more important problem at hand than to worry about to apologize to a Savager. 

“Believe me, we’re planning to let you go as soon as possible.” The guy named Shinichi sighed. Kaito senses exasperation.

Ran, to her credit, doesn’t seem bothered for long. She shifts her attention to the pot at her side and, in a single, fluid motion, streams the water out into mid-air and lets it surround her hands like gloves.

Kaito gasps and flinches back before he can even register what has happened—his voice lags far behind his reflexes, “...You’re a waterbender!”

Ran looks just as startled as Kaito. She draws back, ever so slightly, giving Kaito some distance. The smile on her face looks slightly forced. “Are you surprised?”

Kaito’s mind is racing. These two aren’t Savagers, and that renders his self-drawn conclusion completely out of the window. He has misunderstood them and probably their intentions as well. What are they doing here anyway if they’re not part of the Savager people?

“Is it your first time seeing waterbending, then?”

“Us Water Tribes keep to ourselves,” Shinichi continues, eyes ever so calculating, “I don’t think you’d have many encounters with waterbenders, being from the Earth Kingdom.”

Kaito stays silent. This feels like a trap. Like he is supposed to correct him, like Shinichi is testing to see if he’ll correct him, but—no, they don’t know. They couldn’t possibly know the truth. All they have to go on is the contents of his bag, unambiguously Earth Kingdom, but ultimately reeks of secrets.

Kaito doesn’t reply to Shinichi one way or another, and Shinichi doesn’t pry further. Meanwhile, Ran is occupied in passing the water between her hands, streaming it back and forth and pulling out small flecks of dirt as she does. Kaito finds himself unable to look away, the movement utterly mesmerizing.

“Okay, Kaito, can you lay back?”

Kaito looks up to see Ran’s gaze intent on him, hands covered once again in purified water, extended slightly toward Kaito. Every single hair on Kaito’s body stands straight up. His spine goes ramrod straight.

“Why?”

Ran blinks. “To heal you, of course! I thought you said you needed to leave?”

“Yeah,” Kaito shakes his head as if to clear his mind, “I need to find someone. But you, how are you gonna heal me?”

“You don’t remember?” Ran’s eyes widen in confusion.

“Don’t remember what?”

“On the way back here. I explained it then, I thought you were awake, but maybe I was wrong.” Ran frowns. “I’m a waterbender-healer. Well, I’m trying to be. But I promise, I know what I’m doing! You’re in good hands.”

Kaito notes how much she resembles Aoko, and it’s kind of creepy. This girl looks as if what Aoko would look like if she was born as one of the Water tribespeople, with their neat, braided hairstyle and long flowing robes. Kaito fidgets, only then realizing that he has been sleeping on a hard surface. Honestly, he could care less. As long as he gets to go out there and finds Aoko as soon as possible.

Ran laughs lightly. “Have you never heard of this? It’s nothing to worry about, I assure you. I’ve tried to heal you as much as I could while you were sleeping, but there are a few that I missed earlier, can I…?”

She’s holding out her hands, still surrounded in floating water, toward Kaito’s left hand. There are a few nasty bruises on his arm, he observes. Being a human catapult during the rockslide had left his body completely torn up, he’s pretty sure he broke a lot of bones—but, come to think of it, he feels great, not at all like someone whose bones are broken everywhere.

Kaito extends his hand and Ran takes it in hers. The water in her hand envelopes his arm almost completely. There’s a small crease between Ran’s eyebrows as her eyes narrow in focus, but Kaito’s gaze is torn from Ran’s face as he notices something start to glow.

The water. It’s the water, glowing brightly that for a moment he fears his skin is about to be burned. There’s no heat, though, only a tingling sensation, and when Ran’s hands pull the water away, the bruises are almost completely faded. Aside from his constant discomfort (if he could gnaw at his nonexistent collar, he would. This uneasiness is suffocating him.)

“Woah,” Kaito silently agrees, his eyes flickering wide back and forth between his hand and Ran’s pleased smile.

“See? All I do is use the water to connect with your chi, and redirect it to help your body heal itself faster. Nothing to worry about at all!”

“Nothing at all,” Kaito echoes, clearly stunned. “And is this, can you all Water people…?”

“No, Ran is one of the few people to manage to do that,” explains Shinichi, the rough tone from before completely gone.

“As I said though, I’m still learning. But don’t worry, Kaito, I’ll have you back in good health in no time!”

And, despite the thousands of questions and uncertainties and fears-bordering-on-terrors bouncing around his mind, Kaito realizes he can believe in them.

“Where are we anyway? Why are we taking shelter in Savager-like habitat?” Kaito fires the questions he has been aching to ask. His throat feels extremely dry and it hurts when he swallows. He circles a hand around the front part of his neck to help ease the discomfort.

Shinichi looks amused, and he responds without skipping a beat. “Quite sharp for someone from Earth Kingdom. Did you think we were Savagers?” 

Kaito hears a high-pitched “What?!” from Ran. He figures she must be offended, but he wants his answers when he asks for them, “You didn’t answer my questions.”

“We’ve exposed enough that we’re Water Tribe, being in Earth Kingdom territory, and that’s already more than you need to know. As for the location, I cannot inform you any further without risking everything. For all we know, you could be reporting to your King and have us arrested immediately.” Shinichi points out, a smirk on his face, but not looking snide. 

Under normal circumstances, Kaito would have shot him a disparaging look of what-the-actual-hell and bit back with a quick-witted reply. He doesn’t want to admit this, but he is in dire need of help. He prefers working alone, but he knows he needs all the help he can get if he wants to find Aoko quickly. His arrogance won’t get him anywhere at this point, let alone to earn anyone’s trust. He figures the sooner he confides in them, the sooner they can help him. 

“Look, I think you misunderstood,” starts Kaito slowly. He draws a long breath.

Shinichi has one eyebrow raised like he’s been expecting this, and crosses his arms, waiting for Kaito to proceed with his explanation.

Kaito turns to face Ran, throwing her an apologetic look (at least he hopes it comes across as apologetic). He continues, choosing his words carefully, “My friend and I⁠—we’re far away from home and we’ve been staying in the city of Gaoling. We decided to keep moving north but unfortunately, the whole region north of Gaoling is, as you know it, terribly mountainous terrains and that’s where you found me.”

Ran finally exhales. She knows where this is going. Shinichi is right from the beginning. She doesn’t like it when Shinichi is proven right, but then again, he always is. 

Kaito squares himself in the shoulders to admit, “I used to be part of the Air Nomads.” 

That, Shinichi didn’t see coming. He has his suspicions that Kaito was sent from the Fire Nation, the thought that he might be an airbender never once crossed his mind. Then it hit him all at once. The short ragged breaths (even though Ran said that Kaito sustains no internal injuries to his respiratory system), his hands constantly coming up to feel his neck and chest.

“Yeah, the air flow down here isn’t exactly the best,” Shinichi grins sheepishly. 

Beside him, Ran is starting to panic. She rises up from her seat and exclaims, “Oh dear, you must be very uncomfortable down here.” 

“I’ll live,” Kaito assures her, nodding in affirmation. He is grateful, and he certainly owes her a big one. If she hadn’t found him, he wouldn’t have been healed and would probably still be lying out there, heavily injured and in no condition to find nor help Aoko.

Sure, he’s separated from her right now. But he’s determined he can find her. He always does, anyway.

Part II ✥ III

[ktavey]

Memories

‘Please kill me, vampire.’ 

Years before reuniting with Yuuichirou, Mikaela finds himself on a mission regarding human experimentation in Europe and gains an understanding of the wretchedness of humanity. 

Also known as the source of Mika’s desperation to rescue Yuuichirou as shown in the manga.

Marble swirled an elegant mural over the floor, as through dancers had pulled the stone with their movements. The air held a chill, and with an aridness befitting of an underground palace. The spacious entryway Mika was situated in, along with several other vampires tapered down to the throne. Pillars stretched from floor to ceiling, perhaps twice Mika’s height, pulling the eyes of onlookers towards the ceiling. A mural-lined the ceiling, full of sombre colour and tiny useless details no one could see.

Ignoring the potential majesty, the vampires that stood as statues around him, Mika watched Krull’s hands. Krull watched Mika. The throne was made from a mix of ivory and a deep redwood and adorned with precious jewels by the arch of the back. Krull’s fingers drummed repetitively on the armrest, seated upon that ancient throne in a startling aesthetic juxtaposition of youth and ancient.

Mika studied the lace lining Krull's sleeve, only half listening to her commands, attention partially stolen by the nagging in his throat.    

'-There has been a recent uprising in reports of illegal human experimentation in west Europe.' Although she was dwarfed by her throne Krull’s words spoke of her millennium of experience. ‘I expect an extermination team to go and rid us of these humans, and any of their mistakes that may remain. There's a plane bound for the Netherlands leaving from Xamu Court in an hour; the head of divisions will oversee the journey. You are dismissed.’

The vampires dispersed, the low chattering of being inconvenienced whispered through the group. ‘Mika, remain here.' Krull added before Mika too could leave.

Mika tensed at the singling him out, at the feeling their dispassionate eyes raking over him. No doubt envious of what a mere city guard had done to earn the Queen's attention -and if rumour where to be believed- favour. Their weight of the stares sent shivers crawling over Mika’s skin; the attention of vampires only wrought pain and tragedy. Mika’s face was well schooled his blank.

'Mika. Come here.' Krull commanded. The skin on the back of his neck prickled, warning him of his Turner’s summons. It was a private game Mika liked to play, how far could he ignore the Queen before irritating her, before anxiety prompted him. Mika moved. As Mika reached the stairs leading to the throne Krull stood, a symbolic gesture of her willingness to meet him halfway that was lost on Mika.

'This mission could keep you for up to a week.'  Krull handed him a small packet. Thick leather masked any possible scent, but Mika had become familiar with his food coming from cold vials. Mika clipped it on to his belt silently.

'Mika. Look at me.' A shudder went through him as cold hands cupped his face. Always so cold. Mika had grown taller than the Queen over the two years spent by her side, a lost quality Krull privately mourned. With that time Krull had learnt how to expertly read her pet’s body language- there was not much Mika could hide from her.

Mika’s looked away from her eyes.

Mika couldn't remember what warmth and heat felt like, sometimes he thought he felt it in himself, in the difference between himself and the touch of rock, but was too small to keep a grasp on. He of memories of Yuu's arm slung over his shoulders; of him and Akane trapping one of the younger kids in a double hug; the nights one of the kids had a nightmare and couldn't sleep unless they were snuggled up to him or Yuu. Mika missed the touchable heat. Once, in a rare moment of vulnerability, Mika had told Krull of how he couldn't stop obsessing over that forgotten human sensations. Krull reassured him that soon enough his human life would be distant enough for it to lose all relevancy.

With a sigh Krull took out a cup she now kept near her, resisting the temptation to tut. Mika was proving himself to hold on to fledgeling status for longer than she hoped, motivated by sheer stubbornness she suspected. It was cumbersome to have to manage his eating habits as though he were a toddler, but Krull could appreciate having a completely dependent subject. Krull said nothing on the issue as she slit open her wrist, close enough to major her veins to produce a bright red, but still be a controlled stream. Neither of them missed how Mika flinched as the scent hit the air. Mika took the cup from her, eyes trained on the patterns on the wall. It tasted better when it was warm. Mika still hated it, the weight and texture were wrong, and it tasted like pennies. Her wound healed before their eyes. Krull eyed him as he left, not bothering to be displeased with the lack of thanks.

The package weighed heavily on Mika’s thigh through the trip, though only a couple of vials, all too aware of its presence. Mika filed silently off with a subgroup upon landing, one to smoke the humans out, the other to execute them. The humans were in the process of evacuating when the brood of vampires set upon them. Mika could hear their screams -screams of fear, anger, and finally agony. Mika let his pace drop so he was slightly behind his peers.

Mika averted his gaze from the bodies on the floor. The smell of fresh blood rose from the corpses, Mika’s nose wrinkled in distaste. The head vampire, Miguel, directed them to search the building for experiments. Sword still clean, Mika walked away. Sharp halogen lights lit the way, less irritating than the sun but still prickling at his eyes. Why would anyone create their complexes underground when they were so overwhelmingly incompatible? Mika found a room large glass cylinders rows upon rows. They were sparkling clean and showcased animals Mika had never seen before. In one of them, multiple pairs of wings were held aloft with a small furred body slumped under them. Another possessed multiple faces and Mika couldn’t bear to look at it. Dead, certainly, Mika decided, no living thing could sleep through the slaughter. Mika examined the tubes syphoned coloured chemicals and gas into the cylinders. The area had clearly been cleared out in a hurry, shattered vials littered the floor. The air tasted strange, it held a sharpness that didn’t belong so deep. Mika neared what appeared to be a station for the human experimenters, judging by the large stone surface, tools, and buttons decorating it. Mika gave one of the buttons an experimental jab, nothing happened. The few markings there were made no sense to Mika. Under the bench, Mika found a thick book that had pictures of the glass cylinders, and diagrams in a language he couldn’t read. He decided to take it, maybe another would make sense of it.

A voice spoke. 'Please kill me. Please kill me.' Mika froze.

One of the experiments had opened their eyes. Mika stared at the child's ruined body. And it was only a child, Mika recognized now. Enfeebled eyes gazed at him, beckoning him closer. Disspropionate arms had clawed their way out of the child, something black but unlike blood crusted at the exit site. The child’s skin too grey, too thin, threatening to split under the pressure of protruding bones. They were too young, too haggard, too starved for Mika to place their age. The child’s eyes were sunken and entirely black.

‘Kill me. Kill what I've become.' The voice was despairingly soft.  

Mika's hand moved to his sword unbidden, but he didn't draw it. Mika had been kept out of the military so far. He had only been sent on occasional recon missions and hadn't killed a single being. Mika didn't want to change that, even for this poor, mangled creature. He felt selfishness settle on his soul like a curse.

‘There was only this.’ Mika explained to Miguel when he regrouped, holding a book on medication interaction, and tried to forget the child’s eyes.

[alchemistc]

sure as the sun will rise

an: blame this entirely on @weezly14. she encouraged me. she MADE me do it. (or, alternately, i sent her a message, and i’m paraphrasing here, but the gist was basically ‘i need them to fuck’. So. After all that talk about how pure my experience watching the movie was, here is where I ended up.

Beauty and the Beast post-movie fic

It’s the summons from the King that does it.

Everything is going fine - swimmingly, really, up until the moment Lumiere drops the card in Adam’s lap and scurries away at the annoyed look on the other man’s face, so very familiar to Belle that she has to cover her mouth with the book on her lap to hide her amusement.

Over the edge of the book, she can see him reading through the letter, his brow furrowing, his lips thinning, his expression turning mutinous. She half expects him to tear the letter into pieces and fling it into the air, his flair for the dramatic being what it is.

Instead, she watches him carefully curl his fist around it, stand slowly, and take careful, measured steps across the length of the library to the hearth.

He tosses it into the flames and turns back to his chair and his book.

Well.

That won’t do.

“Is there...something wrong?”

When he glances up, his smile is half manic. “Of course not.”

Slowly, she sets her book back down in her lap and settles him with a questioning look.

“It’s a quite complicated matter, which you -.”

She raises a warning eyebrow.

She wants to ask more questions, but the matter is apparently closed, by which she means he is going to thoroughly ignore it by burying himself in his book. Greek, she notes, so he’d been lying about that, and by midday she’s managed to drive herself into a tizzy over the letter and his reticence. 

Her father laughs, when she barges into the study he’s taken on as his own, and settles her with a fond smile. “Come now, perhaps you’re overreacting.”

She’s not.

The second letter he drops in a goblet of wine, his eyes narrowing while he worries his jaw and grinds his teeth.

The third he feeds to the dog without bothering to open it.

By the time the fourth comes along, she and Adam have had themselves a glorious row out in the gardens for everyone to hear, and he’s locked himself up in the west wing. If she didn’t find him so infuriating, she might laugh at him.

And since he’s not there to receive it, Belle gives Lumiere a reassuring smile and assures the man she’ll deliver it directly to its recipient. She needn’t have bothered trying to be charming, he hands it off with a nod and a grateful smile, and she’s already finished with the letter by the time Cogsworth comes sprinting - attempting it, at the very least - into the hall.

------

Mrs. Potts is often the first to tell anyone how romantic their story is, but if Belle had to choose a single word, it would be loud.

No one is surprised to hear the doors to his rooms echoing as she pushes them in and they bang against the walls, no one is surprised to hear them arguing in the west wing - no one is surprised when Adam attempts to avoid her by fleeing, the sound of their voices carrying across the halls and corridors as she follows.

“You can’t run away from every problem that arises, Adam!”

“I’m not running! I’m walking. Swiftly!”

“You have to answer him!”

“Until last week he’d forgotten this entire castle and the village beyond existed! I don’t have to answer anything!”

The voices fade as they disappear into the library together, and no one follows. They’ll sort things out for themselves. 

------

“There’s nothing for it. We’ll have to marry now, before he can attempt to get one of his wretched daughters here to sink their hooks in me.”

“...no.”

Adam rounds on her, more confusion on his face than anything else, and Belle moves forward to ease her fingers over the furrow of his brow. He swallows, painfully, it seems, as he searches her gaze. “No?”

“Well, I’m sorry, but that was an even worse proposal than the last I received.”

“Fine. Belle, will you please do me the honor of -.”

“No,” she tells him, more firmly this time, and he huffs.

“What on earth are you on about, woman?”

She explains it to him, her words stilted, trying to make him understand. It’s not that she doesn’t want to be here, with him. It’s not that she doesn’t want to spend her life with him, it’s just...

“I won’t be your little wife, traipsing around like a bauble on your arm before the court.” Before she’s said the words she knows they’re cruel. He wouldn’t dream of her in such a way. “That’s not - I don’t...”

Understanding dawns, his eyes softening as he takes her hands in his own.

“I suppose you’ve been forced into a great number of things without a choice of your own,” he says, looking wryly at her. “Although I had hoped...someday...” He carefully cups both of her hands in one of his own so that he can brush a lock of hair behind her ear, and there is something serious and warm in his gaze, something that makes her blush to the tips of her toes. She can feel his wandering eyes admiring the blush along her neck.

Belle clears her throat, something clenching in her gut. They’ve shared more than a few kisses by now, some of which she’d left wild-eyed and shaking, terrified more of the fire in her blood than the responding flame in his eyes, his fingers making a mess of her hair and the laces of his shirt half undone. This is the same feeling, but there is a promise, there, too, of something more.

“Adam, I spent half a year in this castle with only the furniture for chaperones. I’ve been thoroughly ruined in every way except the one you seem so concerned about, at the moment.”

It is his turn to cough, his cheeks rising with color. “I didn’t mean...”

Belle presses closer to him, taking the lapels of his jacket in her hands, grinning up at him as she steps into the space between his boots. He gulps.

Her breath brushes across the hollow of his throat moments before she presses her lips to the pulse point on the side of his neck, and one of his hands slides across the small of her back, a groan rumbling from deep in his chest. 

“Whenever you’re ready to mean it, please inform me,” she whispers, and spins away with a coquettish grin, catching sight of his dazed look a moment before he disappears from her view as she rounds a corner.

------

The next day, she helps him compose a letter to the King, and is surprised to find him much more diplomatic than she. 

“We can’t tell him that,” Adam says, his fingers toying with a lock of her hair as he leans over her shoulder, his breath hot on her neck. 

It’s altogether quite distracting, and she balls up the piece of parchment to start over when she realizes she’s let the ink drift halfway across the page.

“Well, it’s true. Your father may have promised him support, even offered him an alliance, but it’s still your kingdom, and he can’t order you around.”

He grins against her cheek and plucks the quill from her hand. “I do enjoy you in a mood.”

She plucks it right back. “And a good thing, since you drive me to irritation on a daily basis.”

“Perhaps I do it on purpose.” Any sense of propriety he might have had, she seemed to have dashed the day before, as evidenced by the way his gaze drops pointedly to the lace of her gown. 

“The letter, first,” she demands, and he presses his lips to her hair in acquiescence. 

Together they manage something resembling diplomatic, and she’s barely blotted the wax with his seal before he’s spun her and hauled her up on the table, sidling between her open legs as his hands make a disaster of the hair she hadn’t bothered to pull up this morning. 

“We’ll -.” She sighs when his lips find a spot beneath her jaw he’d discovered a few weeks before, her fingers working into the collar of his shirt. “We’ll send the letter in the morning.”

“If you wish it,” he tells her, fingertips trailing along her shoulder, now, his thumb catching on the line of her collarbone.

“Adam,” she attempts to admonish, but his other hand is curling around her waist, tugging her closer to him, so she can feel the press of his hard length against her thigh. 

“Belle,” he teases, and she forgets to worry about the king for a few moments, her own hands beginning their own wandering. His jaw is covered in a few weeks worth of hair, but she’d found, to her quiet dismay, that it took him ages to grow a beard, and it’s still a fine stubble, rasping against her fingertips.

She makes a high, keening noise, low in her throat, when his palm passes by the side of her breast on it’s journey to meet it’s fellow at her waist, and he pauses, pulling back to glance at her face. 

“Don’t you dare get chivalrous on me now.”

His laugh is clear and rumbling, and it’s sets her aflame, makes her tug more ferociously at the laces of his shirt, desperate to feel the downy soft dusting of hair on his chest. He catches her lips in his own, his laughter swallowed by her tongue in a moment.

It is, of course, that same moment that they hear her father’s voice echoing along the corridor outside, and Chip’s excited one too, and he makes a noise of frustration that leaves her feeling both overwhelmingly satisfied and quite miffed at the interruption. 

Her father rounds the corner to the wing they are in just as Belle is straightening her skirts, and the three of them all pause, staring at each other while Chip rattles on at her father’s hip.

“Papa,” Belle says, immediately regretting it when her voice comes out much higher than she would like.

“Belle.” He shifts his gaze. “Adam.”

“Beautiful day, Maurice,” Adam responds with a desperate wave of his hand, just as Belle notices how badly she’s mussed his hair.

“Yes. Quite beautiful. Perhaps we should all...take a turn about the gardens. Get some fresh air.”

“Yes!” Belle cries, while at the same time Adam says, “Splendid idea!”

------

Weeks. They are rounding on a full month now, with someone new to stumble upon them at every turn, and Belle has gotten no further in her plans than reaching for the laces of Adam’s trousers. She’d have been happy to just follow him to his rooms one night and force him to ease the ache he’s become so proficient in causing in her, but in recent weeks the castle has been inundated by Lords and Ladies, intent on catching the favor of the newly crowned king, and Adam had been worried how it might look. Honestly.  

The King sends a missive back quickly to voice his displeasure at Adam’s letter, but he hadn’t given any demands, and Belle had half dragged her prince into a shadowy alcove to celebrate, her fingers tugging the shirt tails out of his waistband to slide her palms over the skin of his abdomen, Adam pressing her into the wall and whispering absolutely filthy things in her ear while he tugged at her bodice, fingers dancing nimbly along every inch of skin he could bare. It was pure luck they’d been in the only wing of the castle guests weren’t allowed.

It had been Cogsworth, this time, humming to himself as he tottered down the hall, shrieking the moment he noticed them, and Belle had knocked her head against the wall behind her while Adam made an attempt to shield her from view, her hand trapped between them. She had a moment to wonder what he’d do if she just...shifted her hand, just so, when Plumette rounded the opposite corner, and the shriek of frustration this time had been Belle’s.

Later, much later, as they sat across from each other, the entire length of the table in the dining hall between them in an attempt to keep some space between them, he chanced a glance up at her.

“...if we married...”

He didn’t continue at the sight of her glare.

“I doubt that would stop us from attacking each other like dogs in heat. Besides, I have a better idea.”

------

“...Travelling.”

“Yes.” Papa raises an eyebrow, his gaze flitting over Belle’s shoulder to Adam. 

“Alone.”

“Yes,” she intones, resisting the urge, only barely, to stamp her feet. “Papa, you know I’ve always wanted to see the world.”

“Well, yes, that is true.”

“I assure you, monsieur, that you could not leave her in more capable hands.”

Belle closes her eyes, but when she opens them back up, it is to see her father staring at Adam with amusement twinkling in his gaze. “Yes. That is what I was afraid you’d say.”

“Papa, I’ve already packed. We leave on the morrow.”

“So soon?” He’s teasing her. Her dear father is teasing her, and though it must be an amusing sort of way to torture Adam, he hasn’t raised any concern other than how quickly they’d made the decision.

“We can...delay it...for a few days...” Adam tries, and Papa’s grin turns up on one side. Belle shoots him a warning look in reply.

“Nonsense. You’ve already made a plan. Though how you’ll find two rooms at every inn you stop at, this time of the year...”

He trails off, still grinning, and Belle can hear Adam swallow behind her.

“Papa,” she warns, and he winks over her shoulder.

“Oh, alright, I’ve had my fun. Would you like a drink, Adam? At least one of the wines over there isn’t poisoned.”

------

They take the enchantresses book with them, stopping at an inn a days ride from the castle. It’s a blessing, really, that it’s been so long since anyone has seen Adam outside his castle - he goes unrecognized once they’re beyond Villeneuve.

No one bats an eye when they take a room for the night, not with the both of them dressed down, and looking like nothing more than a weary couple travelling the countryside.

And they are tired, an unfortunate side effect of travelling such a distance over horseback, one which Belle feels ridiculously annoyed with as they stumble up the stairs, yawning all the way, shoulders jostling as they attempt valiantly to remain upright.

There is only one bed, which had been the entire point, but as they stare at it, all that overcomes them is a desperate desire to slumber.

“We should have used the book,” she mutters to him, and he smiles, soft and warm, and curls an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into him, pressing his lips to her hair. 

“In the morning. In the morning we’ll use the book.”

------

She wakes in a tangle of limbs, her fingers locked in his where his hand rests between her breasts, a thigh tucked firmly between her own, Adam hard against her back. 

She hasn’t felt so well rested in ages, and she smiles, pressing back into his warmth.

Adam hums, low in his throat, his fingers squeezing at her own. “Shall we get some food, first, or would you like to choose our destination?”

Belle blinks, unsure for a moment why the words have irritated her so, and finally curls her fingers around his own in annoyance. 

“You’re teasing me.”

“It’s quite possible,” he mutters, his voice rumbling against her neck, amusement in his voice. “Though now we’re alone, I must admit I’m beginning to wonder if the charm of having you was being unable to.”

Belle knocks her elbow into his ribs in retaliation, using the opportunity of him dropping her hand with a muffled groan to duck under his arm. She rolls to face him, and in nearly the same breath throws a leg across his hips in an effort to straddle him, pleased to note that whatever he might say, he still rolls to the side to match her.

Some of her ire leaves her as she stares down at him, with his mussy bed head and still sleepy eyes, staring up at her in something she might call reverence, if she were to name it.

“Belle, I...”

“No more talking,” she tells him, her hips slotting just right, and he groans, a hand darting out from the coverlet to reach for her, fingers sifting through the hair at the back of her neck, pulling her towards him.

He seems in agreement, his lips rising to meet hers. In the force of the movement she nearly bites his lip, but that only seems to spur him on, a noise she might characterize as keening leaping from his throat as he finally, finally, catches her lips in his own.

It’s not enough. Though they’d stripped wearily to their smallclothes the night before, there are still at least two layers of clothing between them, and Belle’s hands slide down as he curls his tongue against hers, nimble fingers catching at the hem of his shift and tugging them past the weight of her thighs. 

He lets out a huff of breath against her cheek when she drags her nails across his sides, but she holds herself back from letting her palms slide up and over, wanting to see him, see the way gooseflesh pebbles across his skin when her fingers catch in the hair on his chest, the way he looks when he pulls in a deep breath. 

Impatient, she drags the hem up to his armpits, swaying back, ready to yank the damn thing over his head, but he chases her lips, following her until they’re both sitting up.

The change in angles causes Belle to sway her hips into his, again, and the delicious wave of electricity that rolls over her skin makes her tilt her head back.

He shucks the shirt over his head and halfway across the room in her distraction, already angling his head to press his lips to her neck, to bite and suckle at a spot below her ear, his hands already scrambling desperately for the edge of her shift. 

How he manages to get the thing off is beyond her - distracted as she is by the trail of his lips along her collarbone, down towards the freckles dotting her chest, she is grateful for the broad expanse of his palm across the skin of her back, keeping her anchored to him as he murmurs something against her breast before capturing a pebbled nipple against his tongue.

She whines, fingers scrabbling at his back for purchase, knowing she’s leaving angry red marks and not caring a wit about it.

When he tilts his head back up to capture her lips, the hand at her back slides up and into her hair, and the other slips, slow and meandering, over the neglected breast, his thumb rolling and kneading for a moment before heading lower. Belle tilts her hips in response, or retribution, she’s not entirely sure which, smiling against his lips at the rumble in his chest that follows.

He drives her backward, and she lands on her back with barely an inch to spare at the edge of the bed, but it’s hardly her biggest concern at the moment, because he is staring at her, seemingly unable to choose one place to look for long, and his expression is mildly overwhelmed. 

In a haze, she reaches out a hand to his face, curling her fingers against his jaw, her thumb sliding along the corner of his lip. 

He presses a kiss into her palm, some inkling of a decision crossing his face, and bends low to kiss her once, twice, the quick, dry press of his lips leaving her wanting, and then he blazes a path downward, his teeth scraping at her neck, his tongue dipping into the hollow of her throat. He catches a nipple in his mouth again, drawing a strangled moan from her as one hand curls against her waist, and then the heat of him is drawing away.

“What are -?” she chances a glance in the general direction he’d been heading, only for him to press his lips to her navel, and lower, lower, until he detours, frustratingly, to the small of her knee, her legs bent up on either side of him. 

“Darling, you all but demanded I grow this beard. At least let me use it to my advantage.”

She blinks, wonderingly, as he slides his jaw over the sensitive skin of her thigh, dropping featherlight kisses as he moves closer to his goal. “Oh,” she says, and her voice is rough and low. “As you were.”

He grins against the junction of her thighs, catching her gaze for a breath of a moment, raising his brow as she watches him curiously. 

“What is it now?” she asks, desperate for him, desperate for something, and he tilts his head up, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom like.

“My dear, you’re soaking wet already.” Were she not already flushed from the activities of the last few minutes, her color would surely have risen at the comment - not from embarrassment, but from the realization that Adam knew just how very much she enjoyed it when he spoke so.

“Oh, just get on with it!”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, and Belle forgets to think, for a while, as his tongue swirls against her, one of his hands splayed out against her thigh while the other settles between her legs. 

He slides a wet kiss along her slit, two fingers pressing along the edges of her sex, and the wet, lapping noises he’s making are obscene, but so are the ones dragging out of her throat. Her skin is hot in the cool air, a slight breeze drifting in from the window, and her hips jump when his tongue slides up and catches on the nub there, her fingers curling into the coverlet, and she lets out a low, hoarse moan.

He chuckles against her, his beard rasping against her thigh, the rumble of it vibrating against her skin, and one hand unfurls to grip his hair, half in retaliation, half to spur him on. 

He huffs out a breath, the air blowing hot over her, and then slides a finger over her while he focuses his mouth on the bundle of nerves.

Belle lets out a breath, her nails sliding along his scalp as he circles his fingers around her and slows his pace, ever so slightly - hardly noticeable, but enough to make her cant her hips towards him in annoyance.

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit greedy?” he asks, and Belle would scream in frustration if the tilt of his head upwards hadn’t slid the rasp of his beard over her.

“I think,” she began, while curling a handful of his hair into her fist, “that you should finish what you started.”

He gives her a careful, concentrated look, similar to the one he’d had in the moment before he’d knocked her flat on her back in the snow, all those months ago.

“Unless you’re not sure you can.”

“I know what you’re doing,” he tells her. “Fortunately for you, it’s working.”

She hums, pleased, and lets him return to his ministrations, working her into a frenzy of muffled curses and cries, the sensations overriding any thought of the thin walls of the inn and the open window facing the street. Her entire body feels coiled and tight, and the hand not currently in Adam’s hair slides over his shoulder, gripping at his arm.

It builds, and builds, while he swirls and presses, slipping a finger in and out of her wet heat while he catalogs each new noise she makes, the way she cants her hips, and finally he curls two fingers into her, catching on something that makes her toss her head back, blinking away stars, so close to the precipice of something new and wonderful.

Her fingers cling so tight to his shoulder that she’d be surprised if she hadn’t drawn blood, and his tongue slides over her just as he catches that spot inside of her. Belle feels the tension coil so tight as to be unbearable, and then it breaks, washing over her in heat and light, blinding in it’s intensity, until she feels limp and boneless, barely able to lift her head when she finally opens her eyes.

He’s watching her, his jaw tucked carefully against her, the scrape of his beard sliding across her stomach, a soft smile on his face as he takes her in, and Belle pulls the hand clenched in his hair forward, curling her fingers around to cup his cheek. He nuzzles into the touch, watching her.

“That was...”

He hums, pleased with himself, but the soft smile doesn’t leave his eyes. “I’ve already eaten, but you look famished, my love.”

Now that her skin has begun to cool, she can feel the rise of color in her cheeks, but she leans up to face him more fully. “But...what about you?”

“It’ll keep,” he tells her, grinning, rubbing small circles into her side. “We have plenty of time.”

[rayraywrites]

Title: Arabesque

Chapter 1: Arabesque Penchee

Fandom: Yuri on ice | Yuri!!! On Ice

Pairing: Yuuri Katsuki x Viktor Nikiforov | other ships to come

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 3377

Betas: @yourplisetsky & @daiyanodumpster (thank you <3)

AO3

Summary:

Being royal doesn’t mean perfection.

Being common doesn’t mean imperfection. 

And sometimes, mistakes happen? But sometimes it’s okay.

In. Out.

In. Out.

A constant cycle of the mantra helped him to slowly calm down. He groaned pitifully, as the much needed air flowed through his body. It filled his lungs, spreading through the cavity with a life-sustaining roar. His chest heaved as he tried to keep control of himself. He could feel the bile climbing up his throat, but he quickly pushed it down, and followed that with a glass of cool water. His head was pounding, the panic of the moment setting his mind down a painful route.

Patting himself with a moist towel, as his entire body had broken into sweat, he glanced up at the mirror in front of him. He didn’t see the alluring, confident, beauty that most saw. He saw the fear in his eyes, the small bruise on his shoulder from where he had landed badly in practice, the mussed up hair from pulling on it. Tears pooled at his eyes, just above the large purple bruises that dotted his under-eye. He rarely got enough sleep, his body crying out for rest, but his mind always saying it wasn't enough. His mouth curved into a perpetual frown — an appealing pout by most — though he tried to lift the corner of his lips up into a semblance of a smile, producing a pained grimace.

But most all, he saw the lack of talent filling his every pore. The uncouth manner with which he stood, the terror leaving every hair on his body on edge, the sadness in his face. All spoke of one who was not accustomed to such a skill-based life.

Yet as he dragged the skin tight costume over his body, ignoring the remarks in his head which spoke about the pudginess he’d never been able to work off or the stretch marks from constant weight gain and loss, he felt more alive than he had all night.

Looking back into the mirror, he ignored the voices in his head and focussed on making his face presentable. Eyeliner brought the power to his eyes, but the mascara brought the doe-like look he was famous for. However, it was the simple yet elegant swipe of clear balm on his lips that completed the beautiful look.

Taking another deep breath, he pulled his lips into a smirk, winking at his own reflection. He could feel himself beginning slip into his performance persona. The final touch to pull stage persona out was his hair. Brushing his hair back, he pulled it back into a small bun though a few stray hairs escaped their tight confines.

He slowly stepped back from the mirror, his eyes running down the reflection of his entire body. He still avoided looking to his own eyes, not wanting to see the struggles in them, yet he knew that eventually he would have to. He began stretching his body for the strenuous activity that he’d be doing very soon. His thoughts were still occupied with his panic from before, but slowly he began entering a completely focussed mindspace.

Placing his hands on his hips, he kept his entire body motionless before slowly rotating his head from side to side. Up, and down, he moved his head, trying to awaken his neck. Rolling his shoulders and then rotating his arms around, he brought the muscles there to attention. Using his right arm, he pulled his left arm to the side and breathed deeply, feeling the slow burn building as he held it for two counts of eight.

He had already warmed his lower body up beforehand through some jogging, but after his panic attack, his muscles had begun cooling down once more. Thus, he began doing more dynamic stretches alongside his usual stretches.

Knowing that he would be forced to stretch his body beyond the extent most humans were able to, he took care to make sure that all of his positions were strong. He sighed, brooding over the time his legs had cramped in a performance. Flinching, he closed his eyes, already remembering the mortification he’d felt. His eyes slowly flickered open before sitting down onto the ground, keeping his hands on his lap. As he would be doing quite a few splits and leg stretches, he began with extending his legs and touching his toes, and then further, grasping his heels.  He held it for a little while, smiling through the familiar pain.

Slowly building up through his stretches, from sitting in a straddle position and reaching out, to doing his lunges. Stepping into a forward lunge, he kept his back straight as his front leg slipped forward, and held the flexed form for thirty seconds. Then he stood once more before gliding into the forehead lunge. He straightened his front leg and arched his back over, his hands crossing over to lace over his lower calf. The stretch was much more evident here, but he relished in the pain.

The warming of his muscles slowly began melting the tension in his body, his confidence slowly improving. He still felt nervous, unhappy, and uncomfortable with himself, but his mind had begun to rewind, to suppress the panic. He had dealt with his anxiety almost all of his life, yet he found that even when he surrounded himself with supportive people he got in his own way.

Standing up, he moved to the side of the room, and swiftly lifted his left leg onto the barre. Keeping it straight, he reached over with his right arm, breathing in through his nose and then exhaling out slowly through his mouth. Holding that pose for thirty seconds, he then switched to his other leg and did the same motion again. Continuing with his barre stretches, he allowed himself to slip into one of his favourite stretches, extending his left leg to the side of his body, he held onto his foot tightly, while his other hand grasped onto the barre keeping his support.

Finally, he let go of his foot, only to pivot on his right foot and turn to face the barre once more. His arms switched positions to grasp the bar at a much farther position, pulling his core into a deep arch. His right arm then grasped his raised knee, pulling it up straight. He let himself bask in the beautiful stretch of the arabesque penchee before slowly letting his body down after a minute.

Pressing his hands against the mirror, he twisted his hips to the side, his final stretch. As he finished, he finally glanced up, seeing his nose barely brushing the reflective glass. A soft smirk stretched across his lips as he saw the final bit of tension leave his shoulders. Staring at his eyes, he was relieved to see that they had finally cleared, leaving his calm and focussed self behind.

Yuuri Katsuki was finally ready to take the stage by storm, to put all of him out there. Eros was ready to appear .

—

The doors made a soft creaking sound which was luckily lost in the cacophony of the backstage. A small grin rested on his lips as he walked through the bustling group of courtesans and court dancers. This was his home, he could feel the pre-performance jitters in performers and the managers. There was a strong smell of sweat and almost overwhelmingly strong perfume.

He noticed a group of resting performers all clumped in the back, clearly already performed, seeing as they were all covered in sweat. Backup dancers were essential to every performance. There was just something so freeing yet homely about dancing in a group of talented people.

Noticing a few of his friends, Yuuri waved at them before looking around the room. Spying the man he’d been looking for, he walked over. Taking a shaky breath he tapped Giacometti-san on the shoulder. Sometimes Yuuri was still in awe that he was allowed to work with such an amazing group. Giacometti had been in the ballet industry for a couple years longer than Yuuri, with his more unique style of ballet really taking the stage by storm.

Seeing the tight smile on his face, Yuuri tilted an eyebrow, confused since majority of the performances should have already been completed by the time Yuuri had gotten ready.

“Giacometti-san, is everything okay? You seem...worried?” Yuuri placed a hand gently on the other’s shoulder, before quickly removing it. He had never grown comfortable with much physical contact, especially with Japan being such a traditional country. Even his parents weren’t overly loving towards him. Truthfully, excessive physical contact terrified Yuuri thus he tended to keep it brief if he couldn’t avoid it.

“Yuuri~ I thought I told you that Chris was fine! I mean...if you’d like some other names,” Giacometti’s voice dropped to a deeper tonality, his voice soft and almost caressing Yuuri’s face, “I’m not opposed to any you would choose.” An arm had snaked around Yuuri’s waist, pulling him flush against the other man’s body which produced a stark blush on Yuuri’s face.

Placing his hands firmly on Giacom— Chris’ —chest, Yuuri pushed him away lightly, and took a step back. Summoning up his courage, even as his face burned, he replied while smirking, “But Chris...I couldn’t do that. What about Stéphane?” He could see the surprised look on Chris’ face and just continued speaking. “Anyway, what happened? You really looked upset?”

Chris’ face showed worry before he replied, “well, you know Sasha? She was supposed to close after you? As the most experienced courtesan and dancer.” The worry soon melted into a smirk as his eyes suddenly brightened with a thought. “She’s sick, and I know you don’t like performing last. But what if you did this time?  I know that the last time wasn’t... perfect .”

No, perfect definitely wasn’t the word to describe his last performance. Even thinking of that time turned his stomach to knots. Closing his eyes, Yuuri forced the contents of his stomach down as he took a deep breath. It was time to try again. He couldn’t let it hold him back anymore. He hurt, but there was still something he felt he could give to the dancing world. Forcing his eyes open, he looked at Chris, ignoring the flicker of concern that passed across the man’s face, and spoke softly.

“I’ll do it. I can’t let that performance stop me.”

The large grin that spread across Chris’ face was enough for Yuuri to feel nervous once more, yet there was a sort of confidence in him. Someone believed enough in him, even after his mistakes.

He took a deep breath and headed towards the doorway, waiting for his cue to enter the royal court. He sat down against the wall, bringing one of his legs up to his chest and crossed his arms gracefully around it. A couple of the other performers from that night walked towards him. His friend, Phichit Chulanont, and a couple of the younger courtesans—Guang Hong Ji and Leo de la Iglesia. Having seen Yuuri looking at them, Phichit clapped his hands together, his bright smile infectious, pulling a small smile from Yuuri.

“Yuuri! I heard that you’re going to perform the final dance! I’m so happy for you.” Phichit gracefully sunk down to sit beside him, motioning for Guang Hong and Leo to sit down as well. Nodding his head in thanks, Yuuri took another deep breath, expelling the air from his lungs slowly. He was extremely nervous to perform as the last dancer, knowing that his performance would be the one most easily remembered. Yet, he couldn’t help the rush flowing through him at the thought of being able to perform.

Phichit reached out to grab his hand, squeezing gently. Yuuri glanced at their hands, his eyes slowly travelling up Phichit’s arm to lock eyes with him. Smiling gently, Phichit spoke, “I know you’re worried, but I really believe in you. It’ll go amazing this time. I promise .” At that Leo and Guang Hong also chimed in their words of support, which made Yuuri’s smile grow larger. He took another deep breath, and squared his shoulders before nodding at Phichit.

“I can do this.”

Hearing the soft steps of someone walking, he saw a younger boy hovering near their group obviously wanting to say something but not wanting to interfere. Smiling what he hoped was a reassuring smile, he beckoned the boy to come over, “you can join us. We’re not busy or anything.” At first Yuuri thought he’d come join them, even Phichit and the others were nodding, but to their astonishment, tears built up in the younger boy’s eyes.

Scrambling up, Yuuri walked over quickly, worry filling his entire body. “Are you okay, are you hurt? Did I do something? Is everything okay? What’s wrong?” He threw out the questions hoping for an answer but only received an extremely watery smile and a few hiccups. However, the younger boy looked fine to him at the least.

“Katsuki-senpai!” The younger boy wailed slightly, pulling a surprised gasp from Yuuri’s lips. He hadn’t heard much Japanese since he’d stepped into Russia a few months prior. Minako-sensei had been quick to switch to Russian to keep him fluent. Furthermore, a younger dancer knowing who he was? Yuuri wasn’t very popular in Russia so this was a surprise.

Coughing into his hands awkwardly, Yuuri tilted his head to the side slightly, replying slowly. “Er, yes...I’m sorry, what’s your name? Did you want something?” He walked a little closer, hoping that the younger boy, who in hindsight looked a little familiar, would be more comfortable. But, unsurprisingly, he quickly backed away, tears still in his eyes as he almost shouted his response.

“I’m okay senpai!! I can’t believe you’re speaking to me! This...this is...” the boy covered his mouth as he noticed Yuuri’s growing anxiety at the entire room’s attention on them. Taking a deep breath, he moved his hands to his side and continued speaking, “this is a dream come true. You’re...I mean I’m such a huge fan Katsuki-senpai!”

Blushing slightly, Yuuri stuttered out a reply, “oh...erm...” He chuckled awkwardly trying to act normal, but the blush on his face and uncomfort in his stance was blatant for anyone to see. Rubbing the back of his head he replied shyly, “thank you...erm what’s your nam—”

The boy quickly cut him off to shout his name before quickly slapping his hands on his mouth, “Minami Kenjirou!”

Seeing how panicked Minami looked, Yuuri couldn’t help but laugh lightly, it was cute, in an extremely loud and lively way. “Well it’s nice to meet you Minami-kun, though I have to admit...I’m not really sure why you’re so amazed to see me?” Self-consciously he looked away, glancing back at Phichit who just threw a thumbs-up at him. Thanks Phichit .

That question seemed to shock the younger boy who quickly began gesticulating wordlessly, opening and closing his mouth as if speaking, before realizing he hadn’t made any noise. Colouring even more, Minami took a deep breath and began speaking, “I’m a ....I’m a huge fan Katsuki-senpai! I’ve been following your dancing career for nearly ten years! You’re beautiful on the stage.”

Yuuri’s face was bright red, but it was Minami’s final words that made his face turn completely red.

“You’re the Dance Queen of Japan! I’ve been trying to reach your level for years! I’m wearing your costume for my favourite performance of yours! Lohengrin .” Minami quickly opened the overcoat he’d been wearing to show a very familiar outfit.

Even Phichit who had been standing beside him seemed shocked. Yuuri hadn’t expected to meet anyone who knew him here from Japan. It was true in Japan that Yuuri was quite famous, holding the title of Japan’s best dancer, but really Yuuri was just a dime-a-dozen dancer. Nothing special. But before he could convey any of this to the younger dancer, Minami was quickly pulled away by one of the stage hands. It was time for Minami to perform and then Yuuri would take the stage as the final dancer.

A little while later he was standing at the closed doors that lead into the royal court. Taking a deep breath, he glanced back at the dancers who had followed him to watch his dance. Nodding awkwardly, he let the air out of his lungs. He slowly pushed open the doors with both his hands, closing his eyes for a second. His eyes burned with a passion that hadn’t been seen before.

“ Let’s do this .”

—

Walking into the room, his eyes moved around the room discreetly, noticing his other dancers taking the stairs to the viewing balcony. He could see courtiers speaking to each other, tittering to themselves behind their hand-covered mouths. Though he didn’t necessarily feel the confidence, he was already exuding an aura of sultriness and beauty. He had become the character he embodied in the dance — illustrious and seductive. Winking at the ladies-in-waiting he smirked at their blushes.

As he glanced around the room, his eyes inevitably moved towards grandiose royal family. But his eyes remained glued to the Crown Prince, Viktor Nikiforov, heir to the royal throne of Russia and the future Tsar. Their majesties, the Tsar and Tsarina were a truly magnificent pair, and his royal highness, Prince Yuri Nikiforov, the second in line was just as powerful a character. However, even then, Yuuri only had eyes for the older prince.

As he approached the center of the room, he bowed gracefully at the waist, giving the royal family the respect they deserved. However, unlike any other dancer, Yuuri also turned towards the rest of the room, giving a half bow in respect towards his audience. Introductions would be presented after his performance but the minute he entered the room, Yuuri was a performer. Respect was owed to the audience as much as it was owed to him.

Nodding towards the musicians, Yuuri got into position for his act to begin. As the first strums of the guitar came through, he raised his arms and began the routine.

Keeping his eyes locked on Viktor’s face, he let himself pull Eros into the open. He moved his arms sensually down his body, his hip cocked to the side. Licking his lips slightly he winked at Viktor eliciting a soft whistle from the Prince.

The song had originally been a story of a playboy’s games with a beautiful lady but Yuuri had never connected with the confident and strong male character. Instead he had embraced his more feminine side. He became, not the playboy, but the seductress, toying and tempting the man as he entered her city.

She was the one in power, and through her dance, she kept each eye on her. Yuuri pulled every straying eye onto himself. Never allowing anyone's glance to bore.

As he danced, Yuuri kept glancing over at the prince, completely enthralled with the royal. The dance slowly reached its crescendo as he leapt into the air, smoothly completing his grand jeté. Gliding across the room, Yuuri allowed himself the moment to purely enjoy his craft.    

Dance was his salvation, and his home. There was nothing Yuuri loved more, but at times it was also the thing he hated the most. The demands of a career in dance were tough, hard to handle.

Yet, as he wound down from the final difficult step sequence, he could see that he had kept the entire audience enthralled with his enticing performance. Nearly complete, he slipped into his final stance, and his calling card. Gently lifting his left leg, he kept his body steady with his supporting right leg. His left arm extended back while his right arm stretched in front of him, pointing towards the front of the room, unintentionally towards Prince Viktor.

His hand seemed to cup Viktor's face as Yuuri settled into his final arabesque.

The brilliant smile on Viktor's face, mirrored his own amid the bright red blush spreading across his face.

As the music died down, he put his leg down, settling back into first position before taking his bow. His eyes never left Viktor's face, and only when his head was tilted down did he look somewhere else. He was quick, however, to gaze back at the Prince once more.

His blush intensified, though his smile was steady as Viktor clapped gracefully at his performance.

[skittidyne]

this is for @kaiyouchan and i won’t explain why

Kenma couldn’t really be called ‘awake’ just yet. The morning is still grey and drab, full of fog and dew, like the day is still in the same semi-conscious state the little witch is in. 

Tetsurou has a lot of fondness for the quiet parts of the morning. There’s a ritual to it all, full of softness and silence, all of it drenched in familiarity. He’s never been able to replicate this kind of feeling with either of the tengu, not like this, not in the cottony parts of the morning, but that’s alright. Tetsurou hoards these mornings like precious gems. 

Kenma gets out of bed usually on his own (usually spurred on by Midna), but that’s about as much as he’ll do without further provocation. Tetsurou likes to think that the cat is on his side; she’s already been fed by the time she drags Kenma out of bed, so there’s no real reason except to get him upright and out in the kitchen. 

Tetsurou slides a bowl of fruit loops across the table as Kenma sits down. His eyes are still scrunched shut, nose a bit scrunched too, like the entire idea of consciousness still offends his dreaming mind. Kenma pours milk into his cereal with magic so he doesn’t have to move more than he must. It’s always best to give him a bit of sugar in the mornings, to help kickstart the waking process, Tetsurou has found. Cereal works as well as pancakes, if a little less fun to prepare. 

Tetsurou sets his chin in his hands and happily watches Kenma try to feed himself. He himself isn’t hungry yet; he usually doesn’t eat until whenever lunch is, as much as that varies; Tetsurou has his own routines, and he prefers them that way, despite Keiji’s occasional nagging. 

Kenma isn’t much more conscious by the time he’s worked through most of his breakfast. Tetsurou can only see a sliver of eye peer up at him, like he’s checking to make sure he’s present, before Kenma turns away again. His hair hasn’t quite grown out again, but it’s long enough to hide his eyes when he wants. 

(Not right now, though. It’s still unruly from bed - and the night before - and Kenma hasn’t bothered to brush it yet. For everyone who says Tetsurou’s hair is a mess, he’d like to point them to Kenma some time.) 

Kenma curls up on the couch, using Tetsurou as a pillow, and they both check the news and cat apps and email on Kenma’s phone. Tetsurou feeds the Neko Atsume cats for him, Kenma scrolls through news sites and taps out the accurate ones, and Kenma has dozed off again by the time Tetsurou is invested in a feel-good story about big cat cubs in an overseas zoo. The grey of the morning has turned to silver, then to bright pink and blue as the sun is well up over the horizon, but neither stir just yet. There’s no need yet. 

Midna, yet again, is the one to decide Kenma’s schedule. She jumps down onto his stomach from the back of the couch with little remorse, making him oof and hiss in pain. She meows directly in his face. 

“I think she says it’s morning time,” Tetsurou says quietly, not wanting to break the morning’s peace. 

“She kept me up last night,” Kenma petulantly replies, “so I’m still tired. Brat.” 

Midna meows again, then headbutts him, purring loudly. Tetsurou can’t help but chuckle. “It’s not her fault it stormed.” 

“How did I end up with two babies about loud noises?” 

“Hey, I’m good with thunder!” 

“You’re both still bad with fireworks and gunshots.” 

Tetsurou hums and doesn’t reply; Kenma certainly doesn’t push the issue. He’s never judged Tetsurou for that kind of thing, but neither will he shy from the topic, and it comes up from time to time without warning, like now. He doesn’t like to think about it. 

“Sorry,” Kenma murmurs. From this angle, Tetsurou can’t see his eyes, but his mouth has a hint of a frown in the corners. 

“You’re fine, you’re just cranky because your sleep was interrupted by a ball of fur and claws. Do I need to dress you too?” he coos. Kenma’s mouth immediately twists down into a scowl, but as he shifts around so he can glare up at Tetsurou, he knows the heavy bit has passed. 

They may be into the talking portion of the morning, but it’s still soft at the edges. 

They continue through their routine - Tetsurou does, Kenma goes along like a limp noodle. Speech doesn’t always equal ready for the day, and since there isn’t much on the plate for today, Tetsurou lets it slide. He kind of wishes his lazy days corresponded to Kenma’s, though. It’d be nice to lay around in bed and cuddle for an extra few hours, groggy and warm and extra affectionate. 

Eventually, Tetsurou drags Kenma into something close to clothing. He still doesn’t really see the difference between sweatpants and pajama pants, but he trusts Kenma’s preference, and he himself likes wearing soft pants out and about, too. They haven’t been able to find a size that perfectly fits both his hips and his long legs, but they’re trying, and Tetsurou doesn’t matter the exposed ankles when it’s warm out. 

It’s well past noon when they manage to leave. Kenma has pulled on that ridiculous hoodie with the pouch on the front that Tadashi had gotten him (as a joke, Tetsurou thinks, but he’d also given one to Suga, so maybe not) and Midna eagerly clambers in. It’s not as kangaroo-ish as Kei claims, but it’s still an overwhelmingly adorable sight. Kenma’s phone is full of pictures like this. 

(Midna goes along with it because she doesn’t have to wear her harness if she stays in the pocket. Tetsurou doesn’t understand the connection between witch and familiar, but it results in a spectacularly well-trained animal, he’ll give them that.) 

They walk instead of taking a broom or trying to squish onto the train. This way takes them through the shopping district, so while Tetsurou doesn’t know what’s on the list of today’s errands, he can guess. He window shops as they make their way toward the bookstore. 

Tetsurou considers it a bad omen when they find the part timers standing outside the store. 

Tadashi isn’t on shift, apparently, but Kei is, and his mood doesn’t seem to approve when he spots them. Not that that’s all that surprising or indicative of what’s going on inside, since that’s his default expression (disdain), but the others are worrisome. “Is Tadashi not here today?” Kenma asks as soon as they’re near enough. Midna pops her head out of the top of the pocket and the tall redheaded guy - Tetsurou thinks his name is Inuoka, or something, all he knows is that he’s the guy Tadashi accidentally turned into a werewolf - coos at her. She lays her ears flat and glares at him. 

“He caught something, I guess?” the werewolf guy volunteers after a cheery little wave. “Tsukki’s filling in for him!” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“I borrowed a book from Sugawara from him. Can you return it?” Kenma asks. 

“Ah, Sugawara is actually...” Werepuppy makes a complicated hand gesture, seeming embarrassed, and Kei’s mood doesn’t improve, either. 

“What trouble has he started now?” Tetsurou asks with a dramatic sigh. Kenma inclines his head toward the store, and Tetsurou steps around him to investigate in his stead. 

Inside, he is surprised to see Suga here again. But more surprising than that is that that his beau is nowhere to be found. Yukie glances over to him, three sticks of pocky stuck in her mouth, and otherwise dismisses him. “Kuroo!” Suga calls as soon as he spots him, meaning Tetsurou can’t just back out of the store again. “Alright, you’re a neutral enough party. Settle something for us!” 

Yukie slurps down the pocky like they’re noodles. He doesn’t want to know how. “He’s not exactly a neutral party,” she points out. 

“We can’t use your coworkers, they’re too biased.” 

“What about the little witch who summoned him? He doesn’t like you.” 

“Now you’re just being rude,” Suga pouts. With a gesture and a running leap, he clambers up onto one of the bookshelves, peering over into the next aisle over. 

Something breathes a jet of fire back at him. 

“What the hell are you two up to in here?” Tetsurou groans. 

Yukie swipes the pomegranate smoothie off of the countertop and slurps it loudly as she sidles around to stand at his side. Suga spares them both a particularly dirty look. “So, there’s like, a thing here, and Koushi thinks he gets rights to it? Even though it’s not his store and it’s my job to eat trespassing creatures.” 

“Iwaizumi told me that Tooru told him that Kyoutani is missing a wrymling from his clinic. I’m not about to let her eat someone’s pet!” 

“That’s quite the chain of events,” Tetsurou remarks. 

“Also, it’s totally not a wyrmling,” Yukie adds with another slurp. 

“I think I know a wyrmling when I see one.” 

“It’s some kind of feral salamander.” 

“It’s definitely a wyrmling!” 

“It doesn’t have wings.” 

“You can see the wing joints, it’s just missing them right now. I think I know what amputated wings look like,” Suga exclaims, exasperated, and peeks down into the aisle again. More fire. 

“So you want me to guess at what this thing is?” Tetsurou asks, definitely not here for this kind of bickering. 

“No, you need to decide who gets it! Do you want me to return this to some poor soul who lost their pet?” Suga demands. 

“It’s setting the store on fire,” Yukie retorts. She finishes the smoothie with one last, extra loud slurp. (Tetsurou kind of wonders if hunger spirits are immune to things like brain freeze.) “Daichi would be ma-aa-ad,” she sings, taunting. 

Suga gives her a baleful, kicked puppy look. 

“Let’s see what this thing is,” Tetsurou breaks in, and he and Yukie sidle around bookshelves until he sees a squat, fat little reptile thing sitting in the middle of the aisle, happily gnawing on a selection of burnt romance novels. 

Tetsurou has never seen a salamander before, and he’d only seen a wyrmling once, years ago. 

“No clue, guys.” 

Both Suga and Yukie groan. 

“But I can help you catch it. I feel kinda bad for the books,” he adds. 

It takes an ingenious (read: ridiculous) mixture of sleep soot (who knew that shit was flammable?), levitation, another smoothie, Suga’s coat, and Yukie’s stockings to tie it off before the thing is angrily swaddled and definitely doused. It squirms and squeaks wetly, looking particularly sorry for itself, if such mystery creatures are capable of that kind of thing. 

And, because he’s good-hearted but stupid, Tetsurou stashes the thing under one arm and announced, “Alright, I’ll be taking this, then!” 

“Huh?” 

“We have to stop by the clinic later for Midna, so I can see if this little thing is the missing pet.” 

“You just want to eat it yourself,” Yukie accuses with narrowed eyes. Even Suga looks like he agrees. 

“That’s rude. I would never eat something that has the possibility of burning me from the inside-out.” If it’s not the pet, though, he thinks he may give it to Kei. He may have mellowed out on the spiritual diet front, but Tetsurou still feels the need to feed him whenever they see each other. 

Not that they need to know he’s sniping this for such a reason. 

“I’ll be calling Tooru later to check on that,” Suga says, relenting with a scowl. 

“You do that. Oh - but Kenma has a book to return to you. We borrowed it from Tadashi awhile back.” 

Suga trails him out of the store, to Yukie’s irritation. The part timers take in their sooty appearances and the angry reptile under Tetsurou’s arm, but none of them comment; with a shooing motion, they scurry back into the store to hopefully fix things before a less lax manager comes in to see the mess. 

Kenma’s eyes fix onto the mystery creature. To Tetsurou’s disappointment, he doesn’t immediately identify it, or even comment on it. Instead, he holds out a battered old notebook in Suga’s direction. 

“That little shit! I didn’t even know he had this!” Suga exclaims, affronted, and clutches at the notebook like he’s being reunited with something particularly valuable. It hadn’t even been that useful of a book. Kenma doesn’t comment, so neither does Tetsurou, though he does shift the angry little creature away from Kenma and Midna, just in case it decides to start spitting fire again. 

After Suga leaves, and Kenma drags Tetsurou away from the bookstore before more can happen, Kenma quietly says, “You get into trouble a lot.” 

“Nah, this is just another regular day.” 

“Not really.” 

“Sleepy morning, extra cuddles, running errands with a cat and running into magical mayhem? Yeah, it’s a normal day.” 

“We have other, more normal days.” 

“Do not.” 

“Do too.” 

Tetsurou grins, and tries not to laugh at Kenma’s face when he realizes they’ve lapsed into another one of their little arguments. He always does the scrunchy nose thing when he does. “We can try again tomorrow for a ‘normal’ day, whatever that means.” 

“...Kay,” Kenma sighs, and reaches over to grab Tetsurou’s free hand. “Tomorrow, then.” 

[danithebookaholic-blog]

Top 10 to Run To

Top 10 to Run To

The following are my favorite books to listen to while running. The more detail there is to paint a picture for me and to keep my thoughts off of my burning lungs and aching hip flexors, the better! That's why Stephen King's IT is my number 1 choice. So much detail in that book, and if you're not paying attention to the detail, you're not going to understand what's happening.

Comedies are usually something that I don't listen to while running because I tend to lose control of my breathing when I'm laughing hysterically (I don't know if this is just me, or what?).  But Kevin Hart and Jim Gaffigan's books are perfect for those grey rainy days when you need a laugh just to get you through.

And then any time I can find a series that I enjoy running to, the more excited I am about running (I hate running, but I love it at the same time. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about!), and that's why I love The Warded Man (The Demon Cycle, Book 1). I'm anxiously waiting for book 5 to come out in October; perfect timing if you ask me!

The others on this list I love to run to just as much as the above mentioned for their own different reasons. Hopefully one of the following will be your perfect companion for that next run you have planned!

1) IT by Stephen King

Looking for a suspense-thriller? King's IT is the way to go! And just in time for the reboot that came out earlier this month.

To the children, the town was their whole world. To the adults, knowing better, Derry, Maine was just their home town: familiar, well-ordered for the most part. A good place to live. It was the children who saw - and felt - what made Derry so horribly different. In the storm drains, in the sewers, IT lurked, taking on the shape of every nightmare, each one's deepest dread. Sometimes IT reached up, seizing, tearing, killing . . . The adults, knowing better, knew nothing. Time passed and the children grew up, moved away. The horror of IT was deep-buried, wrapped in forgetfulness. Until they were called back, once more to confront IT as IT stirred and coiled in the sullen depths of their memories, reaching up again to make their past nightmares a terrible present reality. (source)

2) The Warded Man by Peter V. Brett

For the sci-fi fantasy lovers out there, this is the one for you! 

As darkness falls after sunset, the corelings rise—demons who possess supernatural powers and burn with a consuming hatred of humanity. For hundreds of years the demons have terrorized the night, slowly culling the human herd that shelters behind magical wards—symbols of power whose origins are lost in myth and whose protection is terrifyingly fragile. It was not always this way. Once, men and women battled the corelings on equal terms, but those days are gone. Night by night the demons grow stronger, while human numbers dwindle under their relentless assault. Now, with hope for the future fading, three young survivors of vicious demon attacks will dare the impossible, stepping beyond the crumbling safety of the wards to risk everything in a desperate quest to regain the secrets of the past. Together, they will stand against the night. (Source)

3) I Can't Make this Up: Life Lessons by Kevin Hart

 Hysterical memoir with a serious side. Kevin will have you laughing and thinking of your journey to success at the same time.

Superstar comedian and Hollywood box office star Kevin Hart turns his immense talent to the written word by writing some words. Some of those words include: the, a, for, above, and even even. Put them together and you have the funniest, most heartfelt, and most inspirational memoir on survival, success, and the importance of believing in yourself since Old Yeller. The question you’re probably asking yourself right now is: What does Kevin Hart have that a book also has? According to the three people who have seen Kevin Hart and a book in the same room, the answer is clear: A book is compact. Kevin Hart is compact. A book has a spine that holds it together. Kevin Hart has a spine that holds him together. A book has a beginning. Kevin Hart’s life uniquely qualifies him to write this book by also having a beginning. It begins in North Philadelphia. He was born an accident, unwanted by his parents. His father was a drug addict who was in and out of jail. His brother was a crack dealer and petty thief. And his mother was overwhelmingly strict, beating him with belts, frying pans, and his own toys. The odds, in short, were stacked against our young hero, just like the odds that are stacked against the release of a new book in this era of social media (where Hart has a following of over 100 million, by the way). But Kevin Hart, like Ernest Hemingway, JK Rowling, and Chocolate Droppa before him, was able to defy the odds and turn it around. In his literary debut, he takes the reader on a journey through what his life was, what it is today, and how he’s overcome each challenge to become the man he is today. And that man happens to be the biggest comedian in the world, with tours that sell out football stadiums and films that have collectively grossed over $3.5 billion. He achieved this not just through hard work, determination, and talent: It was through his unique way of looking at the world. Because just like a book has chapters, Hart sees life as a collection of chapters that each person gets to write for himself or herself. “Not only do you get to choose how you interpret each chapter, but your interpretation writes the next chapter,” he says. “So why not choose the interpretation that serves your life the best?” (source)

4) Outliers: The Story of Success by Malcolm Gladwell

For the analytic and the student to life, Outliers will have you questioning what your parents should have done differently that would have helped you win the race.

In this stunning new book, Malcolm Gladwell takes us on an intellectual journey through the world of "outliers"--the best and the brightest, the most famous and the most successful. He asks the question: what makes high-achievers different? His answer is that we pay too much attention to what successful people are like, and too little attention to where they are from: that is, their culture, their family, their generation, and the idiosyncratic experiences of their upbringing. Along the way he explains the secrets of software billionaires, what it takes to be a great soccer player, why Asians are good at math, and what made the Beatles the greatest rock band. (source)

5) The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

Beautiful imagery, well written story, the only thing that would make The Night Circus better would be to listen to it while running in the dark.

The circus arrives without warning. No announcements precede it. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not. Within the black-and-white striped canvas tents is an utterly unique experience full of breathtaking amazements. It is called Le Cirque des Rêves, and it is only open at night... But behind the scenes, a fierce competition is underway - a duel between two young magicians, Celia and Marco, who have been trained since childhood expressly for this purpose by their mercurial instructors. Unbeknownst to them, this is a game in which only one can be left standing, and the circus is but the stage for a remarkable battle of imagination and will. Despite themselves, however, Celia and Marco tumble headfirst into love - a deep, magical love that makes the lights flicker and the room grow warm whenever they so much as brush hands.  True love or not, the game must play out, and the fates of everyone involved, from the cast of extraordinary circus performers to the patrons, hang in the balance, suspended as precariously as the daring acrobats overhead. (source)

6) See Me by Nicholas Sparks

Part romance, part thriller, See Me will satisfy a fan of either genre.

See me just as I see you . . . Colin Hancock is giving his second chance his best shot. With a history of violence and bad decisions behind him and the threat of prison dogging his every step, he's determined to walk a straight line. To Colin, that means applying himself single-mindedly toward his teaching degree and avoiding everything that proved destructive in his earlier life. Reminding himself daily of his hard-earned lessons, the last thing he is looking for is a serious relationship. Maria Sanchez, the hardworking daughter of Mexican immigrants, is the picture of conventional success. With a degree from Duke Law School and a job at a prestigious firm in Wilmington, she is a dark-haired beauty with a seemingly flawless professional track record. And yet Maria has a traumatic history of her own, one that compelled her to return to her hometown and left her questioning so much of what she once believed. A chance encounter on a rain-swept road will alter the course of both Colin and Maria's lives, challenging deeply held assumptions about each other and ultimately, themselves. As love unexpectedly takes hold between them, they dare to envision what a future together could possibly look like . . . until menacing reminders of events in Maria's past begin to surface. As a series of threatening incidents wreaks chaos in Maria's life, Maria and Colin will be tested in increasingly terrifying ways. Will demons from their past destroy the tenuous relationship they've begun to build, or will their love protect them, even in the darkest hour? (source)

7) Angels & Demons by Dan Brown

Start at the beginning of Robert Langdon's story in anticipation of the fifth (and final?) installment to his legend which is to hit shelves in early October.

An ancient secret brotherhood. A devastating new weapon of destruction. An unthinkable target...  When world-renowned Harvard symbologist Robert Langdon is summoned to a Swiss research facility to analyze a mysterious symbol -- seared into the chest of a murdered physicist -- he discovers evidence of the unimaginable: the resurgence of an ancient secret brotherhood known as the Illuminati... the most powerful underground organization ever to walk the earth. The Illuminati has surfaced from the shadows to carry out the final phase of its legendary vendetta against its most hated enemy... the Catholic Church.  Langdon's worst fears are confirmed on the eve of the Vatican's holy conclave, when a messenger of the Illuminati announces he has hidden an unstoppable time bomb at the very heart of Vatican City. With the countdown under way, Langdon jets to Rome to join forces with Vittoria Vetra, a beautiful and mysterious Italian scientist, to assist the Vatican in a desperate bid for survival.  Embarking on a frantic hunt through sealed crypts, dangerous catacombs, deserted cathedrals, and even to the heart of the most secretive vault on earth, Langdon and Vetra follow a 400-year old trail of ancient symbols that snakes across Rome toward the long-forgotten Illuminati lair... a secret location that contains the only hope for Vatican salvation.  An explosive international thriller, Angels & Demons careens from enlightening epiphanies to dark truths as the battle between science and religion turns to war. (source)

8) Dad is Fat by Jim Gaffigan

A great comedic laugh is always needed while on a long run. If you have young children in the house, then this is a double win for you!

In Dad is Fat, stand-up comedian Jim Gaffigan, who’s best known for his legendary riffs on Hot Pockets, bacon, manatees, and McDonald's, expresses all the joys and horrors of life with five young children—everything from cousins ("celebrities for little kids") to toddlers’ communication skills (“they always sound like they have traveled by horseback for hours to deliver important news”), to the eating habits of four year olds (“there is no difference between a four year old eating a taco and throwing a taco on the floor”). Reminiscent of Bill Cosby’s Fatherhood, Dad is Fat is sharply observed, explosively funny, and a cry for help from a man who has realized he and his wife are outnumbered in their own home. (source)

9) Finding Ultra by Rich Roll

What book list for runners would be complete without a book about physical limits and running itself?

Finding Ultra is Rich Roll’s incredible-but-true account of achieving one of the most awe-inspiring midlife physical transformations ever.   One cool evening in October 2006, the night before he was to turn forty, Rich experienced a chilling glimpse of his future. Nearly fifty pounds overweight at the time and unable to climb the stairs without stopping, he could see where his current sedentary lifestyle was taking him.   Most of us, when granted such a moment of clarity, look the other way—but not Rich.   Plunging into a new way of eating that made processed foods off-limits and that prioritized plant nutrition, and vowing to train daily, Rich morphed—in a matter of mere months—from out-of-shape midlifer to endurance machine. When one morning ninety days into his physical overhaul, Rich left the house to embark on a light jog and found himself running a near marathon, he knew he had to scale up his goals. How many of us take up a sport at age forty and compete for the title of the world’s best within two years? Finding Ultra recounts Rich’s remarkable journey to the starting line of the elite Ultraman competition, which pits the world’s fittest humans against each other in a 320-mile ordeal of swimming, biking, and running. And following that test, Rich conquered an even greater one: the Epic5—five Ironman-distance triathlons, each on a different Hawaiian island, all completed in less than a week.   But Finding Ultra is much more than an edge-of-the-seat look at a series of jaw-dropping athletic feats—and much more than a practical training manual for those who would attempt a similar transformation. Yes, Rich’s account rivets—and, yes, it instructs,providing information that will be invaluable to anyone who wants to change their physique. But this book is most notable as a powerful testament to human resiliency, for as we learn early on, Rich’s childhood posed numerous physical and social challenges, and his early adulthood featured a fierce battle with alcoholism.   Ultimately, Finding Ultra is a beautifully written portrait of what willpower can accomplish. It challenges all of us to rethink what we’re capable of and urges us, implicitly and explicitly, to “go for it.”(source)

10) Grey by E. L. James

With this add on to Fifty Shades, trust me, you're mind will be focus on the book, and not the task at hand! *This book is intended for mature audiences

Christian Grey exercises control in all things; his world is neat, disciplined, and utterly empty—until the day that Anastasia Steele falls into his office, in a tangle of shapely limbs and tumbling brown hair. He tries to forget her, but instead is swept up in a storm of emotion he cannot comprehend and cannot resist. Unlike any woman he has known before, shy, unworldly Ana seems to see right through him—past the business prodigy and the penthouse lifestyle to Christian’s cold, wounded heart.   Will being with Ana dispel the horrors of his childhood that haunt Christian every night? Or will his dark sexual desires, his compulsion to control, and the self-loathing that fills his soul drive this girl away and destroy the fragile hope she offers him? (source)

From one wine-loving bookaholic to another, I hope I've helped you find you next fix!     -Dani

[naecromancy]

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