#so slowly and painstakingly they work together to put them together to form a more complete picture

[berryblooo]

Scaramona (as in the Harbinger, Scaramouche, and Mona) will always be the blueprint for the bickering, the clash of beliefs and worldviews, but more and more I come to love and appreciate Wandermona.

As the Wanderer, he’s now had to confront his previously held notions, to challenge his sense of self and his place in the world. He is discovering who he can be in this second chance he’s been given.

Mona’s story is still just beginning. Like Scaramouche, she has a very defined sense of self—genius astrologist, set on surpassing her master. I believe that also like Scaramouche, she will be forced to confront her worldviews when they are thrown back in her face (“The stars, the sky… it’s all a gigantic hoax. A lie.”) and have to redefine herself with this new knowledge.

Where Scaramona was about bickering and clashing ideals, I see Wandermona has an opportunity for discovery, reflection, overcoming. Traveling Teyvat together is one of my favorite headcanons (it’s almost a motif for me at this point) for them, and it suits Wandermona even more than Scaramona.

Mona and the Wanderer, trekking across the seven nations, sleeping under the stars, stopping by every bookstore and library to read, arguing about academics and the nature of fate and self-determination.

[lovelytsunoda]

i saw mommy kissing santa claus // alex albon

summary: alex has to keep up the illusion that santa claus is real, and every year gets more extreme than the last. he's got footprints to put on the living room floor and cookies to eat and stocking to fill . . . and at this rate, he's going to wake up the whole house.

pairing: alex albon x wife! reader

warnings: set in the future, so alex is about 30, children ( their names are gabriel and isabella ), gabriel sees his mommy kissing santa claus (who's really just alex in a festive hat), honestly it's just fluff guys (aside from one joke about having george shove alex off a cliff if she left him to go out with santa claus)

it was the night before christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even alex albon's five cats. his wife was asleep in their bed upstairs, and the kids were down for the count, wrapped in layers of blankets as alexander tiptoes down to the living room, where the christmas tree was set up in the bay window.

he turned on the tree lights, slipping a santa hat over his dark heair and opening the walk-in closet to find the large canvas bag that he and his wife had filled with christmas presents.

above the fireplace hung four stockings. stockings that his wife had painstakingly bedazzeld for each member of the family: alex, y/n, gabriel and isabella.

he rubbed his palms together, looking at the pilsbury cookies on the coffee table.

he had some work to do.

meanwhile, y/n albon was stirring in bed, panic setting in as she groggily opened her eyes, finding her husband's side of the bed empty.

"alex?" she mumbled, slowly sitting up. a zit on her back had popped during the night, a small spattering of blood hardening on the back of her cotton nightdress.

she heard a crash coming from the basement, and she sprung out of the bed, her mama bear instincts kicking in and telling her to go and check on the kids.

first she checked on isabella, her youngest. she three-year-old had just migrated form crib to toddler bed, the small piece of ikea furniture made from stunning white wrought iron. the little girl was peacefully asleep, nestled under her snoopy blanket with a build a bear in her arms, three large stuffed animals watching over her from the foot of the bed.

she backed out of the room, closing the door before she moved further down the hall, past the sim room, to the white door decorated in glow-in-the-dark stars. gabriel was curled up in his twin bed, his head barely poking out from over his Spider-Man duvet, a stuffed reindeer clutches in his arms. a karting trophy sat on his dresser, next to a picture of him and his dad when he won his first race.

satisfied that both her kids were still soundly asleep, she set out to find her husband.

“alex?” she called out, pulling her bathrobe tight around her body as she made her way to the main floor. “alexander, what the hell are you doing?”

alex knelt in front of the couch, shaking flour over a card stock cutout of a boot print. “baby? what are you doing awake?”

“honey, you knocked the lamp over.” she chuckled, picking the ikea lamp up off the floor and setting back in the side table. “what are you doing?”

“setting the scene for Santa’s visit, obviously.” Alex chirped, yanking away the card stock. “see, snowy footprints!”

y/n laughed, fingertips against her temple. “you know that once isabella sees those presents she’s going to run right through all of the work you just put in to those footprints.”

“it’s all about the fun, love” one of the cats mewled, nuzzling against alex’s thigh as he leaned towards the coffee table, holding up the square plate. “cookie?”

"darling, it's four in the morning." she laughed, picking up a reindeer cookie from the plate. "you know that you'll eventually have to tell the kids that santa claus isn't real, right?"

"or i could let them figure it out for themselves." alex reasoned, getting to his feet and pulling his wife close. "isabella is smart, she'll figure it out before her brother does. she takes after you."

"and gabriel takes after his father. some days, it's like having three children in this house."

"hey!" alex feigned hurt. "give me a hand putting the presents under the tree? i've got springsteen."

she laughed, kissing him softly. "if you put the springsteen on, you're going to wake the kids."

"not if we use my airpods." he winked, tossing her the bluetooth case.

she let the airpods connect, putting one in her right ear before passing the case back to alexander. bruce springsteen's 'merry christmas baby' began to play as they started to empty out the canvas sack, stacking the beautifully wrapped presents underneath the white christmas tree. alex was dancing, shuffling around on the hardwood in his socks and messing up a few of the flour footprints, causing his wife to laugh.

"alex, you're going to wake the kids." she reminded, giggling as she reached for his hands, allowing him to pull her in for a dance.

she rested her head against his chest, allowing her husband to sway side to side with her, placing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"i'm so glad i met you. i love you, and i love our kids, and i love the life that i have created with you." alex whispered, still holding her close.

"i love you too." she hummed, leaning up to kiss him softly.

"mommy!"

alex and y/n startled, jumping and slipping apart, turning to face the stairs. gabriel stood in the middle of the staircase, white as a sheet as he clutched his stuffed reindeer.

"gabriel, honey, what are you doing awake?" y/n cooed, concerned as she walked over to her son.

"mommy, why were you kissing santa claus?"

she shot a glance at alex before taking her son's hand, walking up the stairs with gabriel as she tried to calm him down.

"sweetie, that wasn't santa claus. that was just your dad, he was tidying the living room for when santa comes to visit. we don't want santa claus tripping on any cat toys, do we?"

after she tucked gabriel back into bed, with his dinosaur nightlight switched on, she left the door open slightly, holding her robe tightly around her body as she watched him fall asleep through the crack in the door.

"who taught him that santa claus was a thirty year old thai man?" alex scoffed. "has he learned nothing from his aunties? do i look like i could eat eight billion plates of cookies in one night?"

y/n laughed, allowing her husband to hug her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. "didn't your brother try and teach him that santa claus was an alien?"

"yeah, he did, didn't he." alex chuckled. "what did you tell him?"

"that you were just moving gucci's cat toys out of the way so that santa wouldn't trip. he thought i was cheating on you with saint nick."

"baby, if you left me for an aging, overweight white man and went to go live in the arctic and bake cookies all day, i'd have george shove me off a cliff."

she tilted her head up to face alex, thumb rubbing circles over his knuckles. "we're doing a damn good job with these kids, aren't we?"

"yeah babe, we are. but soon they'll grow up, and then we'll be grandparents-"

"stop talking. you're going to make me feel old!"

TAGS:

@magnummagnussen @libraryofloveletters @lorarri @cartierre @httpiastri @sidcrosbyspuck @oconso @thatsdemko @twinkodium

[daydreaming-en-pointe]

A very Spidey Christmas - Hobie

Pairing: Hobie Brown x GN!Reader (1610!Miles, Gwen, 42!Miles, Margo, and Pavitr are here too)

Word count: 992

Warnings: One cuss word, usage of nicknames (peng, dove, my love) Hobie calls Miles ‘Peter Pan’ (not a warning per se but I just thought ppl might now understand it bc it might be a lil obscure or smth idk) slightly ooc Gwen, mild ghostflower/gwiles and some (subtle) prowlerbyte stuff <3

A/N: Can you tell I put the most effort into this 💔

VEE I USED YOUR GUIDE 😁 very helpful 10/10 would recommend so everyone go give it a read!

The sun was slowly sinking on the horizon, lighting up the frozen patterns inside the icicles hanging on the branches of trees as you finished determinedly constructing your snowman. Or rather, snow-building.

You had been hard at work for almost an hour now, and with the first traces of the evening starting to graze the darkening sky you stepped back to admire your handiwork, then decided to go over to everyone one by one to see their creations.

You had made an elaborately-designed snow-igloo, complete with miniature city built from snow surrounding it. You had painstakingly replicated the Brooklyn Bridge, the Statue of Liberty, and the Empire State Building out of small sticks and carefully-placed blankets of snow.

Your pride and joy of your entire display, however, was the diverse cast of tiny snow-people that sat on the ceiling dome of the igloo in various candid poses.

Snow-Hobie was distinguished by giant boots and a leather vest, the spikes on his mask and shoulders - made from twigs that were meticulously selected - sticking out at random angles as he played his little guitar for his audience. Which was, of course, namely the snow version of you - sitting cross-legged in front of him, every bit as supportive of him as you were in real life.

Ballet slippers and a hood set Gwen apart from the others as she danced en-pointe on the edge of the igloo, the perfect muse for an artist’s sketches. You had managed to replicate Miles’ hairstyle to a tee on his snow doppelgänger as he sat with his sketchbook in front of him, drawing Gwen as she posed for him.

Snow-Pavitr hung off one of the lower levels of the igloo’s walls, a thin web connecting him to the ceiling as his hair - and the fabric of his dhoti pants - all flopped to one side. Snow-Margo with her Afro puffs and the tiny version of the other Miles with his Prowler suit and braids were engaged in a conversation on the other side of the igloo dome, random parts of machinery scattered around them as they compared notes on everything they knew about technology and tinkering.

You wandered over to where Miles was working away at his snow sculpture, looking over his shoulder at the sharp edges and added flair of various leaves, stems and flowers which made his unique art style all the more recognizable even off the paper.

“What’re you making, Miles?”

“Oh, hi, Y/N! I’m actually trying to build Gwen… I’m not sure if it’s coming out well though.” He sat back and rubbed the back of his neck as he critically examined his creation. You took in the petals forming her hood, the leaves wrapped over each other to form her chucks, and the stems woven together to imitate a web shooting out from her wrist. “Well, I think it’s really cool.”

“Wait, really? Miles, that’s so sweet! I’m trying to make you too!” Gwen, who was sitting only a few feet away, gave him a warm smile and Miles just about lit up brighter than a Christmas tree. You chuckled under your breath at his reaction.

“I made a dog!” Pavitr piped up, proudly gesturing to his snow-dog. “His name’s Gulab Jamun!”

He was unfortunately sitting right in one of the sun’s last dying rays, so the dog’s face looked a little bit like a melted candle, but everything else had turned out pretty well.

“Pavi, I think now might not be the best time,” Margo murmured with a soft laugh, crouching to look at his sculpture. “It’s a good dog though.”

“They’re so in love it makes me sick,” Miles remarked, standing and looking at Gwen and Miles skeptically with his arms crossed. Margo lifted her head to glare up at him and he raised his palms in mock surrender. Though the small, fond smile that tugged at his lips as he looked at the purple spidergirl didn’t quite escape your watchful gaze.

“Don’t worry about ‘im, Peter Pan! ‘E’s just taking the mick,” Hobie called out reassuringly to Miles, who was now frowning slightly at the version of himself from another universe. “Lay off him, bruv! Man’s trying his best, innit?”

You joined Hobie a few metres away from everyone, where he appeared to be taking a break. “‘Ey, dove!” He called, his eyes lighting up with a grin when he saw you. You went to sit next to him and he wrapped a long arm around you. “‘Ow’s it goin’?”

“It’s good! I just about finished.” You turned to angle your gaze down at his… sculpture? Was that the right word for it? Maybe the term abstract art piece fit better? “Hobie, love, what’s yours supposed to be?”

“Oh, it’s a me’aphor for capi’alism.”

“Did it… fall apart?” You asked carefully, not wanting to come off as rude but also trying your best to understand what was in front of you.

“What d’you mean, peng ting? I actually patterned up and made it as thought-provokin’ as I could,” He sounded so genuinely puzzled by your questions that you decided to stop beating around the bush.

“Okay, I’ll bite. Hobie, that’s a pile of snow throwing up a middle finger.” You leaned forward slightly to see his masterpiece - a deliberately messy pile of snow flipping the world off, complete with a Norman Osborne figurine drowning in the snow in the centre, it’s eyes scratched out in Sharpie with bold X’s. “And is that… an Osborne action figure? Is this supposed to be something about him drowning in money he doesn’t deserve or even need? And the snow is supposed to symbolize the money saying, ‘fuck the world’?”

“See, now ya got it!” Hobie said proudly, not at all offended by your confusion and slight skepticism. “Now let’s go inside, shall we? My fingers are startin’ to freeze.”

“Your fingers are always freezing. Honestly, you’re somehow always so cold it’s a wonder that you’re not perpetually an ice cube.”

“All I’m ‘earin’ is that you think ‘m cool.”

@vhstown @l0starl @tatumis-a @deritosmi @hobiebrownismygod @therealloopylupin2099

[pedrosbish]

as the world caves in

word count: 850

warnings: spoilers for the film, angst, blood

A/N: I just had to write about this man after seeing the film so pls enjoy and definitely expect more about him

The pain blossoming in your side isn't what has you shifting along the floor, grunts of effort falling from your mouth as you put one elbow in front of you and use it to drag yourself forward along the floor, bits of debris digging uncomfortably into the forming bruises and numerous cuts on your body - it’s Colonel Rick Flag, the leader of the infamous Suicide Squad (Task Force X - Rick always corrected). 

Serving in the army with Rick had meant that you got first class seats from Waller for the experience that came with having to control a small team of villains, the rowdy group almost impossible to get along with at first. The two of you only began to somewhat handle them when everyone realised that you were all stuck with each other. Waller made sure of that with the small chips inside each persons neck that she would activate without any hesitation. 

You had been there when Rick was hired by Waller; had been there when she purposefully made him watch over the archaeologist, Dr. June Moone who was possessed by some freaky witch from thousands of years ago; had been there when the two decided that it wouldn't work between them anymore. 

You would always probably be beside him for as long as you could, the need to protect each other keeping you together. 

You can hear your teammates through the rubble, their shouting echoing in the space around you and the fear that none of them will make it out of here alive has you straining, pushing through the pulsing pain emanating from the bullet hole located under your ribs, grazing against the fine lining of your lungs. 

Peacemaker is to thank for the bullet that's lodges in your body. The “hero” who would risk anything to save the great United Stats of America and its secrets of experimenting on innocent people. 

The evidence that Waller wanted to keep hidden from your squad sits off to the side, painstakingly just out of reach from where you're crawling right now and you know deep in your gut, mind screaming that Rick Flag would want you to retrieve it, run far away from this place and expose everything. 

But you can't. 

Mind telling you to run with the evidence while heart tells you to save your team-mate from Peacemaker, the two locked in a fight that only one would walk away from. At the moment, Rick seemed to be winning as he straddled Christopher, pipe pressing down hard into his throat and making him gurgle on the blood collecting in his mouth. 

Attempting to drag yourself faster is frivolous, the motion of hauling yourself over the debris sending the bullet up a bit higher until you can feel the lead finally digging into your lung, a surprised cry of agony escapes past your lips.  

The sound has Rick searching for you through the flickering lights and chaos that the giant starfish thing had caused. True agony must be etched onto your face because his eyes widen slightly as he takes in the state you’re in, tilting his body more to the side, the urge to help you overpowering the need to keep Peacemaker pinned beneath him. 

It’s a split second in time, too fast for your eyes to see and warn Rick to watch out as Peacemaker searches along the floor with his hand for something to defend himself with until a piece of sharp rubble meets his palm. The man doesn't even hesitate to lift it up and ram it into Rick’s chest, his eyes now wide due to the sheer pain that erupts. 

A scream explodes from your throat, bubbling up and pouring out in the same way the blood from Rick’s new wound pumps steadily from his heart. Time seems to slow as the two men stare at each other, Rick slowly beginning to slip forward. 

“Peacemaker,” he manages to spit out. “What a joke.”

He slumps forward, eyes still open and staring and you desperately hope that he’s still somehow alive, and Peacemaker pushes him to the side, the dirty floor no place for a man like Rick Flag to die. Ignoring your own pain, you urgently crawl forward until your hand meets the bottom of Rick’s boot and your hand slides along his side to help pull yourself up to see his face. 

Bottom lip quivering as you gently place a warm hand covered in your own blood to his face, you sob at the lack of reaction from him, the urge for him to meet your own eyes for one last time making your eyes burn. 

“I-” You turn your head to glare up at Peacemaker as he stands above you, gun pointed down at you. “I’m sorry.”

“Burn in Hell.” 

The sound of him clicking the safety off has no effect as you slump down onto your side, arm flung across Rick’s torso as you tilt your eyes to watch him, tracing over his face one last time. 

You wish you had told him how you felt before this. 

[onecanonlife]

Wilbur wakes up one morning to find white in his hair. This is—irritating, for several reasons, but that's all it is. An annoyance. A distraction.

There's nothing deeper at work here. There's nothing wrong at all.

(Or, the stresses of the presidency give Wilbur a white streak of hair earlier in canon, and somehow, this serves as the cry for help he can never bring himself to make.)

(word count: 5,039)

(second part) (third part) (fourth part)

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

Part One

He first notices it because he chances a glance in the mirror. Not something he does often, these days, because he dislikes looking at his appearance for longer than necessary. The mirror only tends to show him his flaws and imperfections: the bags under his eyes that he can never quite hide, the way his cheekbones jut out in too-telling prominence, the way his uniform never seems to fit right lately, and not just because he almost never finds the time or energy to give it a proper wash.

So, he doesn’t look in the mirror beyond a cursory glance in the mornings as he’s dragging himself out of bed, just long enough to be sure that his veneer of professionalism is holding, because frankly, he has nothing if he doesn’t have that. No one’s called him on his slowly slipping standards just yet, and he intends to keep it that way. He is president, after all; he must lead by example, and if the nation is to be a success then he must be as well. Or at least, his citizens must believe that he is.

But this morning, his gaze lingers just ever-so-slightly longer than he normally allows. And then, his vision catches on—something. He thinks he must be mistaken, and he hasn’t the time to figure it out, really, but he can’t help but lean in closer, searching his own reflection. What he sees makes dread beat out a two-timed rhythm in his chest.

There is white in his hair.

Not much. Just a few strands. But it’s strange enough to catch his attention. There has never been white in his hair before. He can’t imagine what caused it. He’s not that old. But nevertheless, the white is present, and it’s not so obvious that someone would catch it on a first glance, probably, but it stands out enough against the dark brown of the rest of his hair that it’s not inconceivable that someone might spot it. Spot it, and then ask questions. Questions that he would not want to answer, if only because it would be ridiculous for someone to be grilling him about his hair of all things.

He doesn’t want to deal with it. That’s the only reason why he’s bothered, surely.

He’s going to be late to a meeting if he dallies for too much longer. So his gaze flicks about his room—which is fairly bare, fairly utilitarian; decorating’s been the last thing on his mind in recent weeks, and it would be a waste of time that he could be devoting to bettering his nation—and lands on a sword leaning against the wall. One that he’s barely touched recently, and that he hardly knows how to use, and certainly not well at that, but if he’s looking for a quick solution, it will serve. So he crosses the room, snatches it up, and returns to the mirror.

With one hand, he picks out the white strands. With the other, he uses the sword to slice them off. Crude, and he’s certain he gets a few brown strands as well, but it’s effective, and that’s what’s important.

It only takes a few minutes more after that to prepare himself. He emerges from his room confident, his head held high, a president ready to take on the challenges of the day. Never mind that he barely slept last night. Never mind that he’s stopped eating regularly, grabbing a bite only when his schedule allows him. Never mind that he’s been feeling jumpy of late, more anxious, that he’s taken to tracking the whereabouts of everyone around him at all times, if only to know that they’re safe. Never mind any of that. He is the president, and sacrifices must be made.

He is, after all, only as good as the country he builds.

---

The incident slips his mind in the following weeks. It’s simply not important when there are so many other things to accomplish; infrastructure and food and an economy and all the other intricacies that go into running a nation, that lead to endless stacks of paperwork for him and hopefully, prosperity for his people. All the other intricacies that, as it turns out, he has no idea how to handle, but he’s trying.

Because it’s all worth it, if it’s for them.

But one night, he’s tugging off his hat, shucking off his coat, tears already pricking at his eyes for no other reason than the feeling of being terribly, desperately overwhelmed, and he happens to glance at that hated mirror. Rather than alighting on any of the other aspects of his physicality that annoy him—most recently, it’s the fact that he always feels that he’s not standing straight enough, and that other people are judging him for his lack of professionalism—he focuses on his hair.

There’s white in it. Again.

And more of it, this time. Not too much, still, but definitely more. Enough that someone else might actually notice. He’s not sure how he didn’t, up to this point. He strides over to the glass, already tugging at his hair hard enough to hurt, and sure enough, there they are. Strands of snow white hair. Like he’s bleached them, except—he takes one and rubs it between his fingers—without the brittle quality that often-bleached hair tends to take on.

He doesn’t understand why this is happening. He can’t feel anything about it other than annoyance, because this is just one more thing to deal with, one more thing to add to the pile. And it’s made worse because it’s practically a vanity project; sure, he doesn’t want people bothering him about it, but logically, he knows that hair shouldn’t be such a big deal to him. It’s only that professionalism is important, and he already feels like he’s not doing enough in that area. Not enough to garner the respect that a good president should command, at any rate. So he needs to keep this under control.

Somehow, the thought of doing anything about it tonight is too much. Exhaustion pulls at him like anchors tied to his legs, even though he knows his sleep will be broken and fitful, as it usually is of late. He breathes in and out, slowly and deliberately, hoping to attain some measure of calm, but it doesn’t work, only makes him more aware of the tears readying themselves to fall.

It’s a disgusting display of weakness, truly. He only allows himself this because there is no one else here to see it, no one else to realize just how weak a man their president truly is. He can break down in private, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the rest of his duties. There was even a time when crying into his pillow made him feel better, if only a little, made him feel as if he was getting rid of all the emotions and incessant whispers of failure that always build up in him over the course of a day. But those times are long gone. And yet, the tears still flow.

Here, alone, in the privacy of his chambers, he can never manage to stop them. He lacks willpower.

Weakness. It’s pathetic. He knows it is.

But if he has to be weak here in order to successfully pretend at strength for everyone else, then he will put up with the self-loathing that he can’t seem to shake, and he’ll let himself cry. It’s not as if anyone will ever know about it. No one will be able to judge—except for himself, that is, but dealing with his own judgments is nothing new. In a way, it’s what keeps him going, his self-criticisms. They keep him sharp, doing what needs doing; he can always trust himself to tell himself the truth, after all, even if he can trust no one else.

He casts one more glance at his hair, disgust flooding him. He’ll trim it out in the morning, same as before. For the moment, he crosses his bare floor to his bed, slumping into it. Almost immediately, his eyes begin stinging with more intensity, and the first of the tears roll down his cheeks. He turns his face, burying it in his pillow as emotions well up in him, too many at once, washing over him and drowning him, because it’s all so much and this is the only way he can deal with them, because he has to be strong. Has to have himself together.

It truly is pathetic, how much trouble he’s having with handling this. He should be able to do better, and yet, here he is. He can’t help but wonder what they would all think if they knew. Surely, they would consider him unfit to lead them, and the trouble is, they might even be right. But that would destroy him, he thinks, if they were to believe him unworthy of their trust, of their love.

And sometimes, he wonders what Phil would say if he could see him now. But he always shies away from that. And besides, Phil doesn’t need to know. He’ll keep sending letters that emphasize the good, and Phil will be happy, and Phil will be proud of him, and—he needs to stop thinking about this.

Morning comes too soon, but he forces himself out of bed, as per usual. Cuts the white hairs until there’s no sign they were there at all, and hopes that will be the end of it.

---

The problem is, that’s not the end of it. The white hairs keep appearing, and at an increasing frequency as time goes on. It starts to be that he can’t go more than a day or two without checking for them, lest they become noticeable to literally everyone else around him.

The most troublesome thing about it, though, is that he simply doesn’t have the time to deal with it. He doesn’t have time to painstakingly comb through his hair every morning, not when there’s so many more important things he could be doing, so many tasks to accomplish, ideas to form and sign off on, an entire goddamn nation to keep afloat. He doesn’t have the time, and it’s wearing on him already, so he needs a different solution.

He considers hair dye. He could get his hands on some fairly easily, and likely surreptitiously. No one would have to know. But the trouble with hair dye would lie in finding the right color; if no one has noticed the white hairs cropping up until now, they certainly would notice if he came into the office with his hair an entirely different shade of brown. And that would make it obvious that he’s hiding something; no one dyes their hair a different shade of its original color unless they’re trying to cover something up.

Possibly, through trial and error, he could make a dye that matches his hair color exactly, or at least, close enough that the difference is imperceptible. But there’s the time issue again. He can’t waste his efforts on experimenting with hair dye when he’s meant to be trying to better the lives of his citizens, to build up a prosperous, glorious country. What kind of president would that make him? He’s already well aware that he’s not a very good one; he doesn’t need to make matters worse.

So, hair dye is impractical. He’ll revisit the idea if he truly gets desperate. But the situation as it is is untenable. He’s been having difficulty getting out of bed at all in the morning, recently, a combination of exhaustion and a strange, pervasive apathy serving to keep him under his covers long past when he should have been preparing for the day ahead, even though staying in bed longer doesn’t seem to help him catch up on sleep at all. Why he finds himself wanting to lie there, doing absolutely nothing other than staring at the ceiling for hours on end, he has no idea. He doesn’t let himself, of course, or at least, not for more than an hour or two just after dawn, but the fact remains that the temptation is there, and growing stronger every day. He can’t be spending ages on his hair every morning. It’s not feasible.

But that leaves only one real solution. And that’s to leave the white hairs as they are, and simply try to hide them. The more he considers it, the more he believes it’s the only real avenue worth pursuing. He could probably manage; his hat is a part of his uniform anyway. He rarely takes it off outside of his bedroom. So, all it will take is an extra moment of styling to make sure that all of the white has been pushed up under it. And perhaps checking a few times during the day to be sure that nothing has come loose, but that should take seconds at most. He can spare a few seconds, probably.

At the very least, it will take less time than what he’s been doing. That’s the goal here, really.

He hates that this is something that he’s having to put any amount of thought into at all. But he’s reached a decision, and the next morning, he gives it a shot. Arranges his hair so that more of it lies hidden under his hat than usual, and sets out for the day.

No one comments on it. Not this day, nor the next day, nor the next. He supposes he could consider that a success.

It does mean, of course, that the amount of white in his hair only increases as time goes by, until his hair is streaked with it. But if he’s careful, if he continues to be cautious with it, no one will know about it but him, and he can dislike it in the privacy of his own quarters. Just as he dislikes everything else.

---

On the rare occasions that he has any time to himself before retiring for the night, an instance that becomes more and more seldom as the days and weeks pass on, he often finds his feet carrying him to Niki’s. There is a safety here that is difficult to find anywhere else, even in his own quarters. Perhaps especially in his own quarters, because there is nothing warm, nothing personal about his room. Here, though, there is the scent of baking bread and cookies, a heat that gets trapped under his skin and chases the chill away, and there is, of course, Niki herself.

He finds it hard to lend too much trust to anyone these days, but Niki is an exception to that.

So, here he comes, and here he stays, when he has an hour or two to spare. He comes here, and they talk, about little things, unimportant things, about how her days have been or the latest prank that Fundy has performed—and it’s nice to hear about Fundy. He barely sees his boy, busy as he is, and it’s good to hear that he’s doing well, that he’s still the upbeat, rambunctious lad he knows and loves.

They talk about these things, and they talk about other things, and sometimes, they talk about nothing at all. Sometimes, talking is asking too much, and Niki always seems to see it, and she kneads dough and lets him sit in front of her and watch. He likes watching. The motions are repetitive, soothing. If he had the time, he might ask if he could join in; he thinks he might enjoy it, even if he’s never had a deft hand in the kitchen. But he never has the time, of course, so he just watches, for whatever time he can spare.

Today is one of those days. It’s nearing nightfall, but for once, he’s cleared his desk of a majority of his paperwork, so here he is, slumped against Niki’s counter, letting his cheek rest on the cold stone as she pats down the space in front of her with flour, rolls out her dough with a rolling pin. Cookies, then, rather than bread. He likes watching this, too, likes watching as she spreads out the dough again and again, cutting out more shapes until all the dough is gone, used up, in the oven and baking.

He likes being here in general. He could be doing other things—he told Fundy he’d take him fishing soon, for instance, but soon keeps on being put off, and he feels terrible about it, but the job has to come first. His country has to come first. Or, there’s a new redstone gimmick that Tubbo worked out that he wanted to show him, but that can probably wait for a bit. Or, Tommy wanted to watch a movie with him, he thinks, but he never has time during the day, and by the time night comes, he’s far too exhausted, so he comes here, instead. Comes to see Niki, where, somehow, the weight of all the expectations placed on him seems to lighten, if only for a little while.

He always ends up being horribly unprofessional here, in this bakery. Always ends up messing up his uniform, taking off his coat, getting a smudge of something on his face, not sitting straight enough, not keeping his shoulders set, slumping in general, a whole list of faults. But it’s harder to care when it’s Niki in front of him. Because she’s always glad to see him, and she’s one of the few people from whom he can believe that the sentiment is the truth.

But that is always, and this is now: Niki’s making cookies, the last batch of the day, and he’s watching, head resting against the table. He almost feels like he could fall asleep like this, which would be a miracle in of itself. He wouldn’t let himself, of course; a bit of unprofessionalism is one thing, but falling asleep where anyone could see him, where anyone could get to him, that is quite another.

He wonders if he should tell her any of the things he’s been thinking about. About his own ineffectiveness, about how all his work seems to amount to very little actually being done. About how he’s sure everyone is losing faith in him, and he can’t even blame them, because he’s losing faith in himself. About how in the end, he has no idea what he’s doing, and he was a fool to think that he did. About power and its nature, and who has it and who doesn’t, and about how his words might not amount to very much at all, actually.

Probably not. He’s not sure she would understand. And he shouldn’t burden her with his troubled mind.

So he just watches, and lets himself drift a little.

“Rough day today?” Niki asks, working her rolling pin, smoothing out all the clumps.

“No worse than usual,” he says. “It’s just tiring.”

Niki hums. He likes when she does that. From someone else, it might sound dismissive, but when she does it, it means the opposite, means she’s considering all of your words, giving them due thought.

“I’ve noticed you’ve been tired a lot, lately,” she says. She sets the rolling pin to the side, picking up a cookie cutter. It’s leaf-shaped. For autumn, he assumes. Outside, the trees are beginning to change colors, though the shift to reds and oranges and yellows won’t really get going for a few more weeks. It’s that hazy, indistinct time of year when it’s not still summer and not yet fall, too hot for one and too cool for the other.

Not that he’s been paying that much attention. It’s been a while since he was outside for any significant length of time. Or rather, for a reason other than approving construction or checking on borders or something of the like. For a reason not presidentially important.

“It’s a tiring job,” he says. “Who would’ve thought? I’m alright, though. It’s well within the bounds of what I can handle.”

“Have you been getting enough sleep?” she asks. She presses the cutter into the dough. Lifts it. Pushes the shape out of the cutter and onto her baking sheet. Repeats.

He laughs, quietly. “I don’t need you to mother hen me, Niki,” he says, and without looking up, she reaches across the counter and swats him on the arm.

“I am not mother henning,” she says. “I’m being your friend. Your eyebags could hold second, smaller eyebags in them.”

“What, you don’t think I’m gorgeous?” he asks wryly, and she snorts.

“I’m sure someone out there would,” she says. “Tiredness has to be considered hot somewhere.”

“Mm. I think I’m hot. Very sexy.”

“You would think so.” She’s got enough cookies on the sheet for a batch, now. The next step is to put the sheet on a pan and put the pan in the oven, and that’s exactly what she does. It pleases him that he has the steps memorized. “I’m serious, though, if you have too much work to do, give some to your cabinet. I’m sure Tommy or Tubbo would love to help out more. Or Fundy.”

“Fundy’s too young.” It’s a bit of a longstanding argument between them. He tries not to let it get to him.

“And the other two aren’t?” She returns from the oven, an eyebrow raised, and then goes for another baking sheet. She’s still got dough left to roll out. One more batch will do it, he thinks. “You—oh, wait a moment.”

He watches bemusedly as she leaves the counter again and crosses to her sink, washing off her hands and then dampening a dishtowel. He’s not sure what she’s doing; it doesn’t make sense to wash up when she still has another batch to make. Her hands will just get dirty again. But now she’s walking back over, towel extended toward him and—now she’s rubbing it on his head. He blinks as a corner of the towel flops over his eye.

“Sorry, I got a lot of flour in your hair,” she says. “I’ll get it, hang on.”

And then, her motions slow, and then stop.

“It’s not coming out,” she says slowly. “Wilbur, did you dye your hair?”

The question doesn’t make any sense at all, at first. Because no, of course he hasn’t dyed his hair. Part of the whole problem is that he doesn’t have time to dye his hair. Not properly. Not in a way that no one would notice.

And then his brain realizes that that’s not what she’s asking about at all. Realizes that he’s been lying with his cheek resting against the counter for the past half hour, face parallel with the surface it’s resting on. Realizes that his hat has long passed the point of being merely askew and is now barely touching his head at all. Realizes that his hair is splayed out for anyone to look at.

He shoots upright, grabbing his hat and slamming it down on his head. Too late, of course; the damage has been done. Niki jerks back at the suddenness of his motion. Her damp towel drips a bit.

“No,” he says instinctively, and then curses himself, because—because hair dye would work as an excuse, wouldn’t it? A reason for why it’s like that? It might get her to not push further, and he’s not even sure why it’s so important to him that she doesn’t, because it’s Niki of all people, and Niki won’t use this against him later. Probably. Hopefully. Most likely. Maybe it’s just that he doesn’t want her to worry, because he knows that she will, even though it’s not a big deal at all and her efforts would be better expended on other problems, other people.

Fuck, wait, it’s been too long since he said something. Can he still change his answer without arousing suspicion?

“Yes,” he says, and internally cringes. It was definitely too late for that, because Niki’s just staring at him now, eyes wide. “Um, yeah, I thought it’d be fun. And then it went a bit wonky, so I’ve been covering it up. It doesn’t look very nice, does it?”

Is this what he’s been reduced to? Lying to one of his closest friends?

Gods, he’s pathetic.

“It looks fine,” Niki says, in that soft tone of voice she uses when she either doesn’t know what’s going on or doesn’t know how to proceed without scaring someone off. Like she’s talking to a frightened animal. “Wil, are you—are you really alright?”

“Of course,” he says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Her mouth works for a second.

“Wilbur,” she says, just that, and something in his chest turns hot, wrenches all around, squeezes, and for a brief, panicked second, he thinks he’s having a heart attack. But no, he can feel his heart pounding. A bit faster than it should be, if anything, but strong. His vision blurs, too, but he blinks hard, and everything comes back into focus. Which might be a mistake, because if anything, Niki looks even more distressed.

“Wil, please, you can talk to me if something’s wrong,” she says, and he laughs, shaking his head and standing. His stool scrapes against the floor, loud and grating to his ears.

“There’s nothing wrong, Niki,” he says. “You don’t need to worry so much. Though I have realized, I do have a bit more work to do tonight, so I should probably get back to it.” He smiles at her, though she doesn’t smile back. “But it was very good to talk to you. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Wilbur—”

He’s already leaving. His chest feels tight again. Tight and hot. For absolutely no reason at all, because even if Niki did ask him more questions, it’s just hair, for crying out loud. It’s hardly the end of the world.

But he needed out of there. He doesn’t quite understand why.

His parting words were not a lie. He does have a bit more work to do. There is always a bit more work to do. The work never ends. He can’t actually remember the last time he didn’t have work to do. Before getting independence, surely. Back when he still felt entirely sure that he could do this, that he could build a country, that peace through words was a sustainable option, that he could look at the mess of things that need to be done to form an effective nation and actually accomplish them.

He tries not to think about that.

But instead of to his office, his feet carry him back to his room. To his blank walls and floor, his few pieces of furniture, his few sets of the same uniform. He really does need to get around to washing them. His gaze falls on his sword, next, still leaning against the wall, and then his guitar, propped up in the corner. There’s a layer of dust collecting on it. He should clean it off. That’s not good for the wood or the strings, and he’s sure it’s terribly out of tune. How long has it been since the last time he played?

There’s no time for music, nowadays. Not when other things need to take priority. He’s got a country to run; he can’t be wasting his time. He can’t afford to.

But rather than do anything productive, he winds up in front of the mirror. He takes off his hat, though it’s almost unnecessary; his hair sticks out from under it every which way, after how he shoved it on so carelessly. He hopes no one was watching him as he returned here.

There is a broad white streak in his hair. Right in the front, right where people tend to look. He tugs at it, and his scalp stings. He’s not sure what else he was expecting.

He definitely can’t cut it out now. It’s far past that point; people will definitely notice if he goes about with a whole chunk of hair missing. And they’ll also still notice if he dyes it, so that problem remains.

He just needs to be more careful, that’s all. The thing with Niki was a foible. An error on his part, a lapse in judgment. He’ll take more care from now on to ensure it doesn’t happen again.

He lets out a shaky breath, and then, he blinks and finds himself kneeling on the floor, still in front of the mirror. He looks at himself, and then immediately looks away, because he can’t stand what he sees. It’s not just the white streak, though that’s awful enough on his own; it’s all the inadequacies stacked together, all the imperfections that he can’t help but pick out, all the screaming signs that seem to point directly toward his own incompetency.

It’s a wonder no one else has seen it yet.

Tears burn his eyes, and he can’t seem to blink them away. They go rolling down his cheeks, and he watches their progress in his reflection as best he can. His breathing hitches, and a small gasp escapes him, and he can’t have that, can’t make too much noise, so he stuffs a fist in his mouth.

He’s fine. The fit will pass, and he’ll be fine. He’ll spend the next three or four hours in bed staring at the ceiling, wishing he could fall asleep, and then, at last, he will, and he’ll wake up in the morning feeling more tired than ever, and he’ll drag himself out of bed because he has to, because he’s got responsibilities that he can’t shirk, even if he can’t fulfill any of them well enough. And he’ll be fine, because he can’t afford to not be, because he’s got a country on his shoulders and that means he needs to keep standing.

He’ll be fine. He is fine.

He is.

He is.

He still can’t bring himself to look in the mirror. The next morning, he covers it with a sheet, and tells himself that it’s not a defeat.

[80s4life]

The Thought Of Losing You

Word Count: 2,507

Status: Not Requested!

Fandom: Lethal Weapon 1987 {1}

A/N: This follows sort of around the ending of the first Lethal Weapon film where both Riggs, Murtaugh, and Rianne were being tortured in separate ways. I know it sounds brutal, but trust me, it isn't that bad. AND! Happy ending! (Spent all night on this!)

Relationship: Martin Riggs x Reader

Summary: When a team is formed, Roger Murtaugh and Martin Riggs are solidified together once Y/N is added to the mix, squeezing in perfectly. Although very fiery and stubborn at heart, childish games and teasing became common place for sergeant Y/N and Martin, unable to let the other out-trash their own trash talk. But, when there is a complication during the final breakthrough of the whereabouts of the heroin-trafficking cartel, Y/N is separated from the duo. Only coming together when a kidnapping sends her in a desperate spiral trying to save the people she loves, especially Riggs.

Warnings: violent themes, kidnap, manipulation, torture, violence, language, attempted!self-surrender/suicide, 18+ audience suggested, read at own risk

Masterlist Lethal Weapon Masterlist

Prompts: #67, #68, #100 (from this list @palettes-and-prompts) & #6, #8, #17 (from this list @waiting-for-motivation)

{I do not own any of the prompts, credits to original owners above, nor do I own the gif below -> @leofromthedark}

Strolling around to the back of the supposed drug dealer's extravagant condo, Murtaugh, Riggs, and I engage in light conversation, silently noting and observing our surroundings. Stopping just near the edge of the rather expensive-looking below ground pool, Murtaugh and Riggs catch sight of two brunette women inside. Rolling my eyes, I expect Riggs to do something flirtatious, a painstakingly common reaction to almost every woman he lays eyes on. Every woman... except me. Yet, I pay no mind, Riggs' crazy nature probably too much for me to handle anyway.

Murtaugh flashes his gun, indicating to the women that he is armed. In a flash of a second, just merely after he had shown his weapon, the women duck and run from within the glass-paned wall, just in time for a man to blast a shot from behind. More specifically, the source being a shed occupying the space on the opposite side of the pool we resided on, destroying bits of its siding from the sheer distance and voracity of his attempt of subduing at least one of us.

But, we came prepared, although we were slightly taken aback, Murtaugh's swift abilities with a gun coming in handy as he lands on the drug dealer's right knee, lower thigh area. Splitting off, Murtaugh and I take either end of the pool's side, desperately trying to corral the person of interest. All the while as Riggs takes the women from in the house outside and to the nearest tree, in case of them being suspects as well, handcuffing their wrists together around the tree.

Once the task is done, Riggs hurries over to our aid, following our one, sole purpose: keeping the suspect alive for questioning.

Coming around the perimeter of the pool, Murtaugh reminds Riggs of this rule, replaying it to refresh his sometimes questionable mind. This, however, does not work in our favor as the man pulls yet another gun, this time a pistol, as Riggs had went to pull the man up.

"He's got a gun!" I scream, yet it's all in vain, as Riggs tries to act just as fast as his reflexes would've allowed, lifting the man's aimed arm as the trigger was pulled.

Yelping in surprise, I clench my teeth as the copper red liquid instantly encompasses the injured area, jerking as far away from the incident as possible.

"Y/N!" Murtaugh yells, instantly coming to my side as I go crashing to the concrete floor, catching my head and my left side as I now slowly lean into the ground below me, clutching the stinging injury to the right of my abdomen.

As Murtaugh had come to my side, Riggs took care of the suspect, unfortunately not being able to accomplish our sole purpose of being here, but overall getting rid of the threat.

"Cocksucker," he all but grunts, as he makes sure to shoot the man once more, pissed at the fact that I had gotten shot, although that fact being unbeknownst to me. "I'll call the ambulance," he all put spits out some time later, not making any attempt to check on my well being nor even making eye contact, stalking back through the side gate we had entered through.

//Some time later//

Now nestled safely and securely, I lay within the gloomy walls of the hospital, hooked up with some anesthetics and monitors, all for separate purposes. The stitches surely going to leave an awesome scar, only adding to my aggravation and exhaustion as the day finally settles and the slightest of movements constantly sending sharp pains within my whole body.

The doctors, coming in every so often, had reassured me of a discharge after the course of at least 2-4 days, only needing to ensure the proper sanitary measures are used and stitches being durable and strong without issues or tears.

Staring off at one of the four blank and colorless walls, in a daze, my ears perk up at the sound of a knock on my door, followed by Roger and Martin entering the room.

Handing me a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates, I smile at Roger as he pulls a chair beside my bed, asking, "How ya' feeling, Shortie? How're they treatin' ya' here?"

Giggling at the nickname, I respond with an, "I'm doing just as good as I can I guess. It's not so bad here either. The nurses are nice, although they're all pitiful glances and meek gestures, coming in and out as quickly as possible. I guess bullet wounds aren't their preferred cases?" I joke lightly, trying to lighten the tension in the room.

Roger catches on instantly, having caught wind on Martin's rather uncharacteristically quiet sulking in the far corner of the room. Turning to look at him briefly, he all but shrugs at me as he comes up with no response or solution to his partner's unknown issue.

Checking the time, I make up an excuse, assuming Riggs just didn't want to be here maybe? "Damn, look at the time...It's almost 9 pm guys, don't wanna be late for Trish's cooking do ya'?"

"Shit, really? Come on Riggs, you know the ass whoopin' I'm gonna get? Let's go, minus well feed you too, huh?" Murtaugh says, getting his coat and squeezing my shoulder, giving me a sympathetic look that I swipe away quickly. Riggs just gets up, side-eyeing me once quickly, but above all, ignores my presence and leaves the room. With one final look from Rog, he shuts the door, leaving me to my boredom for the remainder of my stay.

//Some time later//

Having been discharged, Roger had caught me up on the recent news, and how they had left to finish the job a day before I had gotten out of the hospital, that being yesterday evening, and it now being a full 24 hours of no communication from them.

This had struck me as odd, given that they were very advanced in their fields. Finding the whereabouts was the last big hump of every mission, the rest supposedly coming easy. This had all changed as soon as I had stepped foot onto my front porch, a not left hanging slightly within the pocket of my mailbox.

The words shocking me to the core;

"Come to xxxxxxxxxx if you want to save your partners. 8 o'clock. Sharp."

Rushing to my car, I waste no time, pulling out of the driveway and to the given destination, the time being almost too close to the deadline as I preferred it to be.

Once outside of the destination, an old, run-down warehouse stands gloomily in front of me as I slip my gun into the waistband of my jeans. Another, tucked against my ankle within my boots.

I move quietly, staying alert as I enter the warehouse quietly, instantly hit with the cries of what could only belong to Riggs, my heart wrenching. A new feeling that I instantly push aside. Following the pained screams, inching closer to the source, I catch wind of yet another's set of booming cries as well, recognizing it as Murtaugh.

With this new set of knowledge, my heart does another painful flip, as the sheer terror now courses through my veins as if it was my blood. They were the toughest men I had ever known. At least that is how I had always felt, how I feel right now, but with their pained screams, it makes me feel utterly hopeless.

Drawing my gun, I aim it before me, right beside the wall I hide on, lining it up around the corner, my full intention at being able to at least shoot down one of the three men guarding one of my teammates; their identity unknown to me at the moment with the unfortunate dimness.

Taking the shot, I hit one man, the two now swinging to guard the area, looking my direction. The man held captured, Riggs, tied to the ceiling, consistently doused in water, making the homemade shock therapy increasingly unbearable with multiple relentless blows.

"Come out now, Little Rabbit, or I pull the trigger," a booming voice commands, me now peeking out from the corner to see none other than Mr. Joshua, the man we've been after, pressing a firm gun to Riggs' limp form.

Coming out from my hiding space, Joshua motions for his goons to grab me, now taking Riggs off the hook, and into another room. The room we are led to happens to be the room Murtaugh is in, his daughter beside him, both incarcerated and handcuffed. Moving Riggs to the chair beside the pair, he is tied down just as I am, the four of us now completely helpless.

Mr. Joshua, confident and prideful of his work, moves Riggs to the center of the room, starting his interrogation, answering with beatings and threats here and there. The cause: the information given by Hunsaker on his heroin-trafficking cartel.

Just as Joshua leaves yet another powerful blow, Riggs' strength starts to run low, just watching him making me squirm in my chair, wanting nothing but to take him in my arms and drag him as far away from here as possible.

"If you have to kill one of us, kill me. Take me instead, please? Just stop! Stop all of this now," I say breathlessly, doing anything in my will to get their hands off of Riggs.

"What would I want with someone as pathetic as you?" Mr. Joshua answers bitterly.

"Information. That's all you want right? You just want details about the business, you went through all this trouble, and for what? Just to kill us in the end? I know your type. You can't get off without getting what you want, and this would've all gone to waste without it," I respond, determined now.

"So, what do you want? To strike a deal?" I nod. "So, if I let them go, you'll give me what I want?" I nod again.

"Y/N no," Riggs says, now worried about what you're going up against.

"Shut it," Joshua states strictly.

"Y/N, listen to Riggs! You can't do this!" Murtaugh adds, now borderline terrified as everyone in this room is filled with the most important people in his life, all threatened with the only thing that could take them all away: death.

"SHUT IT!" Joshua all but screams now. "Fine. I'll take you up on your little deal. However, you fuck with me, I'm killing them."

"I don't agree with you unless you cut them loose right now, and I am assured that they are out of this building," I say confidently, yet shaking with fear.

He nods his agreement, showing a security camera view from one of his computers, watching as Rianne, Roger, and Martin are all led back outside, handcuffs removed, and all moved into my car, them pulling away from the warehouse.

Pulling the computer's view away from me now, he turns to me sharply, my gaze turning upward as my arms are still strapped behind my back, behind the chair. "Now," he starts, the voice strict like a parent beginning to question a toddler, "The information. What did Hunsaker tell you?"

Taking a breath in through my nose, I exhale through my mouth as I ponder my response, "Just as much as he's told you."

With this, Mr. Joshua lets out a scream, landing a punch to the jaw, my body leaning in on the stitches. Taking notice to my sharp intake of breath from the movement, Joshua uses that to his advantage, grabbing a knife, lifting my shirt, and pressing the cool metal along the line of handiwork. The only thing keeping my skin together at the moment.

"Let's try this again, what information did you receive from Hunsaker?"

"I told you. I. Don't. Know."

"Bullshit!" He digs into the skin, smirking at the cry of agony and shaking engulf my body.

"I-I don't know anymore than you do! Please! He was killed before we got anything from him!"

"Bullshit," he answers playfully now, dragging the blade of the knife wherever he pleases now, enjoying my pleads.

As he opens up my stitched bullet wound, he goes to start at another spot, the attempt being short-lived as a bullet wound of his own goes through his skull, the source standing in the doorway alongside Murtaugh with Rianne tucked under her father's arm.

Crying now, I sigh in relief as Riggs rushes to me, cutting me loose and lifting my limp body. Carrying me to the car, we make our way to the hospital once more.

During the wait and multiple switching of rooms, Riggs stays, waiting for me, only getting up once I emerge from the exit, patched up and clean. He smirks at me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders, leading me to Rog's car, taking us to the only place we find comfort; his house.

//Some time later//

Getting settled in at the Murtaugh residence, Riggs and I share Rianne's room, which was so generously offered as one of the youngest decide to have a sleepover with her.

Looking over at Riggs, he looks at me, covered in open cuts and bruises, dirt and grime, and, taking a first aid kit from Rianne's desk, I make it my priority to get them fixed up.

"What are you doing?" Riggs asks, tiredly amused.

"Taking care of you, it's the least I can do," I reply determined once again.

"Awww! Someone's got a little crush on me huh?"

"Hey! When I finish patching you up, I swear to God I'm gonna kick your ass for making me worry about you," I say jokingly. Riggs replying by grabbing me by the waist and pulling me closer.

Locking eyes on one another now, I couldn't help but joke once more, adding a sly, "Is this the moment that we kiss?"

Giggling, he looks down, placing his head on my chest, murmuring, "I think I'm in love with you and I don't know what to do. I mean, I've been married before, and I- I lost her and I don't wanna lose you too- I couldn't live if you go too, I-"

Grabbing his chin, I tilt his head upwards to meet my gaze, "Look at me, Riggs. Look at me. I love you."

Eyes watering, he leans in for a kiss, my hands finding way to his hair, while his pull my hips into his lap, wrapping lightly around them. After leaning back for air, we giggle once more, leaning our foreheads against one another.

"I never want to ever feel the fear of the thought of losing you again, okay? So don't be a dumbass, Dumbass."

"Yeah, yeah," Riggs answers once more, leaning in for another kiss.

[liron-ao3]

Happy birthday, Alexander

A Malec Oneshot 🔞

Having your birthday on a Sunday has its perks. You can sleep in, have a relaxed breakfast in bed, can cuddle with your partner for hours. Okay, you might have to interrupt it for all the birthday calls, but really, no one can drag you out of bed if you don't want to.

And Alec definitely doesn't.

The bed is empty beside him, but he can hear Magnus puttering about in the kitchen. He probably has bought Alec's favourite chocolate cake from the Parisian patisserie they had their first overseas date at. Or maybe he conjures up a French toast feast or Belgian waffles. Alec scents the air, but the bedroom is too far away from the kitchen to smell what Magnus might be up to.

It doesn't matter anyway. Alec is already in high spirits. This is their day, painstakingly shovelled out of their busy schedules. It's one of many things that Magnus has taught him. It's important to take time for the things you care about. And caring about their husband, both of them do.

There are footsteps and the sound of quietly clacking dishes coming through the open bedroom door, and it doesn't take long for Magnus to appear in it, a delicately filled breakfast tray in hand, red rose and all. He wears the maroon dressing gown that Alec loves so much on him and the warmest smile that still elicits tiny butterflies in Alec's stomach. This man is his, and Alec is the luckiest guy in the world.

"Good morning, Alexander."

Alec smiles back at him. "Good morning, love."

Magnus puts the tray on the bedside table and leans in for a languid kiss that makes Alec's blood rush south. By the Angels! Magnus is such a good kisser.

Alec pulls Magnus on top of him, and then they make out for long minutes, only shortly interrupted by a snap of Magnus' fingers to keep their coffees and oven-fresh pains au chocolat warm.

Alec's hands run over the smooth fabric of Magnus' clothes. He loves the feel of Magnus' muscles under his hands, the knowledge of how wonderful the skin itself would feel if he'd pull the gown away from his husband's perfect body.

Alec knows every millimetre of skin, every edge and curve of Magnus' body. He mapped it out a thousand times with his hands and lips. He loves his scent, especially in the morning when the remnants of his shampoo and shower gel have dissipated and Magnus only smells of himself.

Alec rolls Magnus on his back and kisses him fiercely. Magnus lets him, moans quietly into his mouth. It's a heated slide of lips and tongues, teeth joining now and then. It's perfect, familiar and still full of surprises. Kissing Magnus never gets dull. And judging by the way the warlock returns it with enthusiasm, Magnus would agree with his husband on this.

Alec pulls back after a while, catching his breath. He sends a questioning look down to chocolate coloured eyes. They perfected these silent conversations over the last two years, the wordless 'Can I?' hanging in the air between them.

Magnus smiles at him softly as he usually does, his lips red and slightly swollen. Alec gets rid of his boxers, opens the belt of Magnus' bathrobe and pulls his satin shorts down, just enough to settle his throbbing erection in the crease right above Magnus' hip bone. To his surprise, Magnus lets out a discontent sound. Alec furrows his brow in confusion.

"It's your birthday, Alexander."

Alec huffs a laugh. "Yes, and?"

"You can have me."

It takes Alec embarrassingly long until he understands. His cock gets the message immediately after, though, and a shiver works itself through Alec's body.

"You don't have to," he replies nonetheless when the spike of arousal subsides. It's nice that Magnus is willing to sleep with him from time to time, even though he doesn't derive any pleasure from it. At least not in the traditional sense of sexual satisfaction. But Alec would never expect this from him, much less over the fact that it's his birthday. He wants Magnus to be in the mood for this kind of intimacy.

Magnus cards his fingers through Alec's hair, just the way the shadowhunter loves it. "I want to," he simply states.

And it is that simple. Honesty, that's what they promised each other. No pretending to be fine, no important words postponed to later, no doing things out of a misguided sense of duty.

Alec dives in for another kiss. He'll never get enough of these lips, of this man, of holding his heart and Magnus his in return.

He brushes the fabric to the side and kisses a long trail from the spot behind Magnus' ear to the place where he should have a belly button. Alec grins and enjoys the goosebumps that he can conjure on Magnus' skin when he does things like this. His husband is so responsive, and Alec loves it. Loves him so much.

When Alec pulls down Magnus' shorts, his dick is lying there, not even semi-erect. Alec ignores it. He learnt that Magnus' arousal is unpredictable and says nothing about how much he loves him, of how beautiful Alec is in his eyes, of how much he likes to feel and taste him.

Alec's eyes roam over Magnus' caramel skin up to his beautiful cat eyes. They smile at each other for a long moment as if frozen in time. Alec could bathe in the glow of their love for all eternity.

Magnus breaks the moment with a snap of his fingers, and Alec chuckles in surprise when he feels his fingers slick with warm lube.

"Impatient, are we?" Alec smirks.

"For you? Always, darling." Magnus grins up at him and spreads his legs invitingly. Alec's eyes fix on the inviting hole. He gives his own cock a few strokes before he touches the rim, a heady feeling overwhelming him.

It's not that they never have sex. No, far from it. Alec enjoys Magnus' body, his hands and mouth ever so often. But this here? This is special. This is something they haven't done since their wedding anniversary.

Alec loves being inside Magnus. It's not that he loves it more than all the other sexual things they share, but it's different. Very good different. Nothing compares to the tightness of Magnus' ass, the way he clenches around him, the feeling of being so utterly connected that they become one.

It's stupid, Alec thinks, as if we weren't one at all times and especially in bed. But tell that to his cock that springs excitedly at the mere thought of burying himself in Magnus' narrow heat.

Alec pushes a finger slowly inside. It always fills him with wonder how easily Magnus lets him in. It's trust in its purest form, and it doesn't cease to amaze him, doesn't cease to flood his body with all-encompassing want. Magnus does this for him out of love because he wants to give him what Alec could live without but is happy that he doesn't have to. They always do this on Magnus' terms, and knowing that his husband wants it, too, makes the sex for Alec only better.

"I love you so damn much," Alec breathes, looking up in his husband's eyes, and Magnus clenches around him as he laughs.

"I love you too, Alexander." It's spoken with such joy and sincerity, it takes Alec's breath away. How is this not a fairy tale?

"I can take more," Magnus states, and Alec chuckles. He complies, feels Magnus stretching around his fingers.

Briefly, Alec wonders if he is the only gay man with a cis partner who has no clue where his lover's prostate is. He only knows that he will stimulate it by mistake when he adds a third finger. But Magnus takes it. Alec hates it when he makes him bolt up the bed, the touch too intense and arrow sharp, nothing like the pleasure Alec experiences when Magnus does the same to him.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

"It's quite alright, Alexander," Magnus breathes. "I think I'm ready."

Alec furrows his brow in concern, but Magnus is already moving. He cleans Alec's hand with a snap of his fingers and pushes him on his back. Alec can't help but think that he's one lucky bastard as he watches his husband getting ready to ride him. He loves the sight of Magnus hovering over him, lining himself up with his dick. He looks so good like this, all sexy muscles framed by maroon silk, a masterpiece of art.

But it's nothing compared to the feeling of Magnus sinking down on him. Alec closes his eyes for a moment, tries to keep in the lewd moan threatening to fall from his lips.

Magnus clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Let me hear you, Alexander. Your passion is my greatest reward."

And so, Alec lets it out, moans Magnus' name and praises him as he starts moving. The drag of Magnus' walls over his cock, the quiet moans falling from his husband's lips—Alec can't help but think that Magnus enjoys himself.

It's not exactly true, he knows that. But Alec learnt to relish it nonetheless. Magnus wants to make him feel good, and who is he to deny his beloved anything? Magnus is in charge, can control the intensity of what he feels. And Alec is in for the ride, can enjoy the pressure of Magnus' hand on his chest and the slide of his ass over his cock.

Magnus moves his hips exactly how Alec likes it, pulls himself up just to slam down again, a constant assault on Alec's nerve endings. It feels like ages and seconds, an eternal tide. Alec gets lost in it, lost in Magnus' loving ministrations.

Alec hums when the telltale sign of concentred heat pooling in his stomach announces his near climax. He doesn't warn Magnus, well-knowing he might stop and prolong their love-making. But this is enough, will always be more than enough for Alec. The fact that Magnus allows him to have him like this—glistening with a sheen of sweat, eyes closed in concentration, his body moving in ways Alec's blood-drained brain can't properly process but that he enjoys to the fullest—is the greatest gift of all, birthday or not.

But something must have given him away. Magnus surely knows how to read his body, or maybe his mind even. He opens his unglamoured eyes, looks at him with so much adoration and love, it pushes Alec only closer to the edge.

"Come for me, darling," Magnus huffs out, strain clear in his voice, as he keeps on slamming their bodies together with clear intent. And Alec does. His body spasms, his sight is replaced with darkness and fireworks. He moans Magnus' name as he fills him as if there were a way to get even closer than this.

When he opens his eyes afterwards, his brain still far from being back online again, they are already magically cleaned, and Magnus lies in Alec's boneless arms.

"Happy birthday, Alexander," he chuckles against his shoulder.

Happy birthday, indeed.

[stoneworldsimp]

the dying poet

senku x reader

warnings: angst, mentions of food/water deprivation, swearing

day seven.

fuck, fuck, FUCK!

it felt like you had been running for hours, trying to shake this wild animal off. you made sharp turns behind large bushes in hopes of losing it, you’d hold as still as possible behind large roots on the ground, but the animal kept finding you in one way or another.

“please go away,”you panted. “c’mon. you’ve been chasing me fucking forever, can’t you just give up?!”

you were tired; your legs were about to buckle in on themselves. dinner one night was suddenly ruined when you realized the fucker was watching you eat. in the beginning you thought it was only after your food, not you; you threw a random ration away from your camp in hopes to get it away from you. in hindsight, it only worked until you fell asleep.

you were lucky to wake up the next morning alive; your set up had been ripped to shreds, and footprints were on the ground around your body. it was painstakingly slow and nerve wracking to escape your position, but once you had everything you absolutely needed, you booked it.

sprinting for miles after miles proved to be very difficult for quite some time now.

the phone...it’s weighing me down. my bag of food isn’t even half as heavy as the phone.

looking down at the call button in your hand, you thought about tossing the phone. maybe i can fix it.. no, i don’t have any tools, the fucking animal chewed on them like dog bones. is there any way to put the wire back together...?

“FUCK my life!”

you took the phone off your back and threw it to you left, careful not to trip yourself in the process. immediately, you and your body felt the difference. with your new found energy, the run away was becoming easier, and helped you see a large cave just over the horizon. using the last of your energy, you took as large of steps as you can, and practically threw your body into the cave. the animal’s footsteps were nowhere to be heard, but you figured you didn’t want to take any chances and look behind you. you were finally breaking free from being chased, just a little deeper into this cave, and if i can find specific markings then i can backtrack—

a deep, loud rumble took you away from your thoughts. in no time, you were engulfed in dust and thick particles you didn’t know of.

the caved had closed in.

day one.

“i can do it.”

“are you sure? its a pretty perilous trip—“

“you should at least bring one other person with you—“

you sighed, exasperated that you had to defend your case once again. it had been days since the decision was made; you were going to make a trip to another part of the island in hopes to find extremely specific materials for one of senku’s projects... and it was far, far away.

quite frankly, you were the only one fit for the adventure. you were known to travel well on foot, had an exceptional sense of direction and you had a good eye for natural elements, as well as food; you also were unintentionally the least helpful when staying in the village. you didn’t have the crafting skills to successfully make glass or metal components for his experiments, and you never trusted your brain when helping senku with calculations and blueprints.

hearing senku and gen talk about this long trip to another part of the island was almost a dream come true. it was perfect for someone with your skillset, and kept you from being in the way of everybody else.

“it’ll be fine. c’mon, you guys have SOME faith in our traveler, right?”

you turned around, a smile on your face as you caught senku walking out of his lab. thank you, you mouthed.

once senku reached you and the group of villagers crowding near you, he spoke up again. “this trip is a straight shot from the bridge, the only problem would be that it’s going to take some time. possibly a month just to get there. but you,” he turned to face you,”have excellent outdoorsy-type skills that will make it really easy for you to spot what we need right away. everyone needs to stop worrying, because you’ll be there and back in no time. two months will pass like nothing.”

as the rest of the group walked away, mumbling their skepticisms, senku took your hand and tugged you back to the lab.

“what’re you taking me here for? oh wait,”you planted your feet at the front of the lab curtains, keeping the both of you from entering. “are you making me help you with your math again? because—”

“no, you’re pretty terrible at calculations,”he replied. “i have something for you.”

you puffed out your cheeks in embarrassment, but your expression completely changed once the curtain was opened.

on the table, there was a telephone. if was the size of a backpack, but it still had a speaker, a microphone, and a call button.

“i made it for you to take on the trip, in case you have any emergencies. i fully trust you in your own survival skills, but you never know if something extreme happens.”

you gave his hand a squeeze before letting go. as you walked closer to the table, you touched the outer fabric. you turned back to senku. “thank you.”

“you don’t have to thank me. i’m only making something that’s essential to your travels.”

“even still,” you trailed off. “i appreciate it.”

you turned back around and beamed at senku. “i’m not going to call you until i get there. i want to make sure that no enemies try to tail me if they hear me, as much as i’d want to give in right away and hear your voice. something like that...”

“how corny.” senku smiled and pulled you close while you laughed. you jumped a bit when his hands made their way around your waist.

“a bit touchy today,” you asked, grabbing hold of his shoulders. “but i’m not complaining.”

“i’m stockpiling the feeling of you for the weeks to come. we’ve never spent this much time apart before; it’s only logical.”

“i guess you’re right.”

he kissed you, multiple times; each one was deeper than the last.

day eleven.

he brought me a flower every morning, because i always slept in later than him. he’d wake up at the asscrack of dawn, just to have more time to jot ideas down. i used to try and pull him back to sleep with me, but he was so overflowing with plans, i didn’t want to stop him.

you turned on your side.

i remember he went to explore with chrome really early one morning, and apparently they found some huge meadow with a bunch of plants. ever since then, he would bring me a different kind; it was always a single flower, too. they were different colors and shapes, and some were enormous and some were smaller than my finger. he never woke me up for it, though. he would just leave it for me when i woke up on my own. it was always a surprise, almost startling when i’d open my eyes. it was my own pick-me-up for the day, in a sense.. no matter what happened the night before, waking up to a new type of flower would put me in a good mood every time. it was better than a coffee in the morning.

i wonder if he’s looking at the flowers with chrome everyday while i’m gone. man, i still wake up hoping to see a new one in front of me.

sure, reminiscing was fun and felt good, but what’s the point? you had eaten all of your food approximately two days ago, you only had about a teaspoon of water left, and there was no getting out of there. the way you came in had been covered in a dam of rocks. you couldn’t even dig yourself out.

you furiously wiped the tears that fell from your eyes. “senku...why did i think i could go alone?”

day fifteen.

poke, poke—

something was touching you. no, someone was touching you. your head bobbed side to side, in an attempt to shake them off.

damn, that’s persistent.

opening your eyes, you woke up to senku smiling. he was knelt beside your form. “wake up, sleeping beauty! it’s been almost three hours.”

it’s only been three hours?!

you sat up way too fast, and felt lightheaded as you tried to ask,”but...why didn’t you.. wake me up earlier? did everybody...did everyone eat already?”

he laughed. “yeah, sorry. we all thought you were out doing something with chrome. but,” he turned around, to grab something behind him,”i saved some in case you got hungry when you came back.”

you took the food in a dizzy haze. was it even food? you didn’t care too much, it felt like you hadn’t eaten for a long time. any food at this point was good food.

you couldn’t even swallow the first bite. “do you- is there..any water?”

“what?” senku pulled away from you, a look of disbelief painted across his face. it was clear as day.

you hesitated, feeling more lightheaded than before. “w- water?”

“don’t you remember?” he asked. he turned away from you. “there hasn’t been any water in days.”

it’s been days.

your body jolted from its spot, and harsh reality hit you square in the face.

yes, right. you shakily rubbed your eyes to make sure they weren’t cemented shut.

in the cave, finished your food, no water to be found. making yourself walk around was no use, either; without the fuel, your body was essentially just a trembling mess.

you scowled at yourself; unsure of what to do, what to even think.

day eighteen.

you remembered how he kissed you. the first kisses the most; you always had to tell him to not look so terrified. you also had to remind him to not stand like a statue when you kissed. pretty soon, after some reassurance, he got comfortable. there was nothing but confidence in the way he caressed your face in his hands. usually he was the one to pull away; you were so mesmerized, it felt as if the world completely stopped.

they were always quick and out of the way in public. usually, it was on your forehead or your one of your cheeks. the deep kisses you felt when you two were alone were incomparable. soft lips remained on yours for what felt like centuries. he tasted sweet, in his own way—

wait, who?

you licked your lips slowly, trying to think.

it was no use; you couldn’t even remember what he looked like. you lolled your head to the side and stared at the outline of a rock a couple of feet away.

once i get out of here, i’ll kiss him. whoever it was. it won’t matter if it’s just us, or more people. i’ll kiss him forever.

maybe if i go to sleep.. i can see him again.

[clefairymuke]

regrets | chapter eleven

prev. chapter | next chapter

pairing: levi ackerman x reader

themes: enemies to lovers, slowburn, angst, fluff, smut

tw: violence / explicit sexual content

word count: 1913

Ten feet. That's how far you had walked today without stopping to rest. Hange was practically jumping up and down, and Jean hugged you more tightly than he ever had before. For the first time in weeks, you started to feel a little less helpless. On the way back to the infirmary room, you held on to Jean's arm and limped back rather than being carried. It made you feel strong. Today was a happy day, which you had decided for yourself when you woke up, warm and cozy as you could possibly be under the thin white blanket that adorned the soft mattress. You felt refreshed; ready to work on your leg that morning, ready to see Jean, ready to make more progress. In the furthest part of your brain, you were also ready to see Levi that night. He was gone already when you woke up, like every other day, but that had never bothered you. The thought of good-morning small talk with Levi was awkward at best.

Now, you sat across from Jean with a hand of cards. You thumbed through them for what felt like the tenth time as Jean took his sweet time on his turn. He finally laid down a card, only for you to play one of the moves you'd thought out over the last five minutes as soon as he did. As the cycle started again, you found yourself looking out the window. The sun was almost ready to begin sinking, the blue of the sky becoming duller by the minute. You greedily awaited the purples and pinks that meant teatime. Throughout the day, the quietly nagging piece of your mind that wanted to see Levi grew bigger and bigger, until you finally had to admit to yourself that you were excited for it. You decided it was half because the tea was good, partially because he was good company, and a little bit because your hand still tingled when you thought of him.

Jean's turns got painstakingly longer as the game went on, so much so that you thought he was doing it deliberately. Your impatience grew as the sky turned orange, and Jean put the cards away. When he left, the sun touched the horizon.

The brevity of your alone time was unexpected yet welcome; the thoughts that possessed your brain while you sat in that room were hardly ever pleasant. You decided you were grateful that you didn't have your own bedroom -- the presence of company had become necessary in recent weeks. In that brief alone time, however, your mind did not hesitate to race. You recounted the events of the day before: Eren's anger, Levi's affection. For someone confined to a room, the past few weeks had surely been interesting.

You wondered about how it felt when he had touched you; you had many theories, but the leading one was that Levi put some sort of numbing solution on his hand to mess with you. Sure, it was out of character for him, but it was also out of character for you to do anything but dislike him. That was the theory you intended to stick beside.

Every time you heard the tiniest sound, your eyes shot to the door. Each time, you were met with disappointment. You looked around the room absentmindedly, eyes landing on the table that held only a glass of water. You leaned up as far as you could and grabbed it on two sides, sliding it between the chair and your bed. You felt accomplished when you laid back down, resting your hands on your stomach and focusing your eyes on the ceiling. You tried to push the thoughts of yesterday as far out of your mind as you could, but it was difficult. When the orange of the sky finally moved to pink, the door opened. There was Levi, as always, carrying along his tea set.

"Hey, Levi," you greeted him, a welcoming smile finding its way to the corners of your mouth. He nodded his head back to you as he sat down, his dark hair falling slightly forward as he leaned to pour his tea. For the first time, you studied the man sat in front of you. His lips were formed into a slight frown, more often than not. Though he was looking at his teacup, you knew his grey eyes looked focused, his thin eyebrows perpetually drawn down. You followed the slope of his nose with your eyes. His features were graceful yet sharp, all fitting cleanly together. The ends of his hair fell fell haphazardly along his cheekbones and ears, perhaps the one thing about him that wasn't perfectly neat.

"Why are you staring at me?" he asked when he looked up, sending blood rushing to your cheeks.

"I've been looking at this room for three weeks. There's nothing new about it. People look a little bit different every day," you answered him, your face hot. You pulled your eyes away from him in search of literally anything else to look at, finally focusing on your own folded hands.

"You're a pretty good liar, you know."

The two of you sat there chatting for at least an hour before you were interrupted by a knock at the door. Levi looked at you expectantly, and you told them to come in. It was a scout you didn't recognize, relatively tall, with shaggy brown hair that fell across his forehead. He only came in about a foot, then saluted. "Captain, the Commander needs to speak with you. He'd like you to come to his office as soon as possible," he said.

Levi nodded at him in dismissal, and the boy left as quickly as he had arrived. "I shouldn't be long. I'll be back soon," he told you as he stood. He followed the boy out the door and left you to the candlelit room all alone.

---

After two hours, you had long understood that Levi was a good liar, too.

It was now pitch black outside, the candle failing to provide much light. Sleep was fighting you tooth and nail as you shifted around the bed, attempting to find even one comfortable place. Your eyes were begging to shut, but your body wouldn't allow it. You continued like this for another half hour before your mind finally found rest, closer to passing out than comfortably drifting.

When Levi finally returned, the tea was cold. He was quiet as could be, careful not to wake you as he sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair; your position was less than peaceful, he noticed, your body more sprawled out than curled up and your hair in a tangled mess. Your eyebrows were drawn in tightly, your face displaying blatant discomfort. When he looked away, his eyes were pulled right back by a sound escaping your lips. It was soft, yet distressed. He wondered if he should wake you.

You started to toss and turn, your little gasps and groans growing more frequent and closer together. His brow furrowed, and he leaned forward. He tried to make out words, only deciphering the occasional "help" and "mom." Admittedly, it struck his curiosity. He sat and watched you for a moment more before rising from his seat and laying his hand on your shoulder, shaking you gently. "Hey, wake up," he said, trying to sound soft, but really only getting his typical tone across. He called your name, which tasted sweeter than it should have, twice before you finally roused awake.

You sat straight up, practically throwing his hand from your shoulder as you drew in shallow breaths. Your eyes darted around the room, vision a bit blurry, and you jumped when you saw Levi at your side. You were disoriented at best, not taking the time to speak. You noticed the tears brimming in your eyes after a moment, and immediately lifted your hands to wipe them.

"You were having a nightmare, I think. I'm sorry I took so long," Levi finally spoke up, not moving from your immediate bedside.

You cleared your throat, knowing sleep would still be present in your voice, before you replied. You looked over at him, his typical concerned expression more prominent than usual. "It's okay. It isn't your fault," you told him, laying your head in your hands. You felt vulnerable, and you didn't like it. Part of you wished Jean was here to snore loudly while you woke up in tears, not requiring you to interact with anyone.

"Are you okay?" he asked you. You noticed his hand twitch forward and then return to his side -- was he going to reach for you? You found yourself hoping he would.

"I'm . . ." you started, not really knowing how to finish your sentence. You tugged at a tangle in your hair. "Used to it, I guess. Not okay, not terrible. Just indifferent." You figured it summed up your emotions enough. Sleep had started to nag at your eyelids again, likely knowing it would be refreshing rather than restless now that you were no longer alone.

You laid your head back down and looked over at Levi, waiting for him to either reply or sit back down. He did neither; he stood there, studying your face as you had studied his only hours before. He didn't answer until his eyes finally met yours. "Do you need anything? At all?"

The look in his eyes was confusing, one you had never seen before. It was soft, almost endearing. Your voice answered him before your brain permitted it, and you regretted it as soon as it left your lips. "Would you lay with me?" You cursed your mouth and nearly vowed to never open it again. You felt yourself blushing, so much so that you wanted to turn over and bury your face in your pillow to never be seen again.

He wasn't embarrassed, though. His eyes widened a fraction for only a moment before he nodded, then sat on the edge of your bed and unlaced his boots. He pulled them off slowly and set them under the wooden frame, then stood and took off his jacket. He pulled his cravat from his neck swiftly and laid both over the back of the chair. He unbuttoned his shirt quickly, leaving only the gray shirt he wore beneath it. It joined the rest of his clothes on the chair. You moved away from the middle of the bed, allowing him plenty of room.

He didn't use it. He lifted the blanket and climbed in close to you, sliding his arm underneath your shoulders and gently guiding your head to his chest with his hand. Your heart had built up so much pressure you were sure it would explode out of your chest and leave the both of you a bloody mess. You adjusted yourself, shifting to face him and allowing your arm to drape over his stomach. You avoided looking up at him at all costs, but you could feel his eyes burning into the top of your head. This was the strangest, most foreign thing you had ever felt. The most off-center part was that you were entirely comfortable, your body more than relaxed despite your chest's unrelenting tightening.

"I --" you began, unsure of exactly what you were going to say. It didn't matter, because he was quick to interrupt you.

"Hush," he whispered. "Get some sleep."

[moral-turpitudes]

Swan Lake:

Masterlist | Rules | Peaky Prompts

A/N: This idea came to me at like 3 am and idk why, it’s totally not canon or whatever but it was fun to write. I also don’t know anything about ballet so don’t come for my neck lol. 

Trigger Warnings: Swearing, Fluff, Angst, Slight Mentions of/Implied Physical and Emotional Abuse, Descriptions of Death/Fighting etc.

Word Count: 3,977

Characters: Thomas Shelby x Female!Reader

+ Jack Timmons (OC, albeit a shitty one)

Requested: No

Summary: After constant threats of losing her position in a prominent ballet company, Y/N feels trapped in her circumstances. That is until an infamous blue-eyed gangster stumbles upon her one night, helping her leave her past behind, because sometimes that’s the best thing you can do.

“One, two, three. One, two, three.” Y/N counted to herself as she rehearsed in the quiet concert hall. Her nerves still a mess as the ear-splitting voice of her department head played on a loop in her mind. His harsh words stinging as she continued on.

With every leap and pirouette, her toes and tired muscles screamed to be free from their routine binds that held them together. Her corset digging into her skin, the paper thin pantyhose ripping on her knees from a nasty fall, and her feet cracking and bleeding with each new pair of ballet slippers she broke-in. On nights like this, she often questioned what she was doing this for. Was it for glory? For money? For distraction? It seemed only time could tell.

Unbeknownst to her, a man looked on from the dark entrance. A cigarette in hand as he observed her movements. His eyes alert as he’d heard a man yelling moments before.

Smoke escaped his lips as he watched in silence. The only music coming from inside the woman’s head, her body moving in strict motions to the beat she’d memorized from the orchestra that would usually play during shows. Her instructors voices in her head, threatening to fire her if she didn’t do better.

She never thought that something that brought her so much joy could bring her so much pain, but that seemed to be how things went in life, at least for her.

As she ended her dance, she sat on the cold stage, untying the stiff slippers and wincing as the fabric clung to her bloodied feet. No matter the cloth she put around them, she always found cuts and blisters ambushing her skin. This was the price she paid for perfection. Dancing was her “thing.” Her one gift to the world. The one thing that she’d always have, that no one could ever take away from her.

But with tear filled eyes she looked up at the spotlight beaming down on her, the makeup that was once well kept, slowly being washed away by the tears rushing down her cheeks.

As she ripped her gaze from the blinding light, she thought she felt eyes on her. Feverishly blinking the colorful spots on her vision away as she looked out into the empty seats, where a set of blue eyes stared back, their owner stoic and unmoving.

“Hello?” She asked, her heart racing slightly as she painstakingly walked off the stage and down the middle isle towards the man. Trying her best to wipe her tears away.

“Sorry to startle you miss. Just observing.” He said gruffly, cigarette smoke escaping his lips.

“Why are you here...? What’s your name...? Who do you work for...?” She asked in a barrage of questions, her nerves frazzled as she stood before him.

His blue eyes pierced hers as he took in the state of her. Elegantly hiding the pain behind a powder pink façade.

“I stopped in while on business and I heard yelling.” He said, adjusting his peaked cap, the razor blades glinting off the dull light from outside the theater.

Her breath hitched in her throat as she realized what gang he was a part of. Remembering talk around the city that they were moving in on London. Making threats and crashing party halls more often than not.

“Everything’s fine, sir.” She said, wiping a stray tear from her cheek.

“You don’t look fine.” He said.

“You haven’t answered my questions, sir.” She said, deflecting his comments and looking at him skeptically. With a sigh, and a long drag from his cigarette, he spoke.

“My name is Thomas, Thomas Shelby. But you can call me Tommy if you like...” He said walking towards her. Her heart racing slightly as she stood in place.

“...and I’m a man who does bad things. But don’t worry love, I have no bad business with you.” He said, gradually walking towards door.

“Wait....” She said, looking around the empty theater nervously as he stopped in his tracks.

“Why exactly were you watching me?” She asked, walking to him.

He sighed as the cigarette burnt down to the last little bit, ending with him throwing it on the tiled floor and stomping it out.

“I wanted to make sure you were alright....and then I saw you dancing to no music. It intrigued me.” He said flatly.

“How so?” She said, crossing her arms at the infamous gang leader.

“Because I can hear it too.” He said.

“You memorized the song? How? You haven’t seen the show.” She said, walking down the stairs with the mysterious man.

“My mother used to play it at home and she’d dance, quite like you. I recognized the routine.” He said, standing near the exit. The streets bustling with people under the moonlit sky.

“You don’t look like someone who listens to music. Do you dance?” She asked, beguiled by the rather handsome blinder.

“I liked a lot of things before the war. Dancing was one of them. But now?.....No.” he said shaking his head slightly as he continued.

“Sometimes life has a way of taking things from us.” He said softly, lighting another cigarette as he stood before her.

“That it does.” She said, glancing at her tired hands as he observed her once more, how she stood and how her hair fell limply around her face, framing it ever so gently.

“I’m probably overstepping my bounds...Tommy. But uh, if you’re ever in need of dancing lessons...I can help. Free of charge.” She said, the thought escaping her lips on a whim. Her mind racing with wanting to dance anywhere but there in that dreadful theater.

“Free of charge aye? Do you make a lot at these shows?” He asked, his eyes boring into hers.

“No. I’m actually on my way out. Was almost fired for the last show. I wasn’t good enough.” She said looking down.

“That’s a shame. I thought you did great.” He said.

“Tell that to the department head. I’m tired of ruining my body for something that doesn’t pay. I’d rather do it for fun. At least then life might be worth living.” She said, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her pent up feelings slowly trickling out as the minutes passed.

“What do you do for fun, Tommy?” She asked, changing the subject.

He stood in thought, never really taking into account anything besides the noise in his head or the ache in his heart. Never giving himself the time for anything reminiscent of fun.

“I uh, work with horses I guess.” He said.

She nodded and sat in a chair near the exit, wincing and fiddling with the tulle of her tutu.

“So what do you say? Dancing or no?” She asked, a small smirk playing at her lips.

“I’ll accept your offer, on two conditions.” He said.

“Alright, what are your conditions oh infamous Mr. Shelby?” She asked, seeing a small smirk on his face. One that seemed to be uncomfortable, like it had been hidden for years.

“That you give me the name of your department head, and let me employ you.” He said bluntly.

“I’m not a killer, I’m just a dancer.” She said, looking down at her wrists. Bruises forming from many routines throughout the week and from her vile department head.

“You won’t deal with that kind of business. But I’d like to pay you. I can see that you work hard for what you want.” He said sitting next to her.

“You want me to dance for you? What like at some whore house?” She scoffed.

“No. You can dance for fun or teach or whatever it is you want to do. But a job with me, in my shop, can bring you the money you’re looking for. You won’t have to beat yourself up anymore.” He said, noticing the bruising hand prints around her wrists.

“I’ll think about it.” She said quietly, getting up and stretching out her arms, her muscles aching at the movement. Thomas headed towards the door abruptly, not wanting to keep her any longer considering he’d given orders to his brothers a while ago.

“Hey...” She said, stopping him.

“Mhmm?” He mumbled, lighting another cigarette.

“His name is Mr. Timmons. Jack Timmons. I hope you find him.” She said giving him a small, hurting smile before heading back towards the theater.

“Oh and miss?” He called back, making her turn around.

“Yes?”

“I never got your name.” He said.

“It’s Y/N...Y/N Y/L/N.” she said. Thomas nodded and reluctantly turned around, walking slowly into the night the next man on his hit list already buzzing through his mind.

As he stepped onto the cold London streets, he saw his brothers drinking and waiting by the car. Their faces covered in smoke-residue from their mission.

“Oi! What the fuck took you so long aye? We torched the bar down the road so we need to go.” Arthur said, taking a swig from a bottle of whiskey he’d stolen.

“I was doing a bit of legitimate business. Did you lot get the money?” He asked, revving the engine and peeling out onto the cold, damp roads towards Small Heath.

“Yeah. Got the whole thing. They won’t mess with us again. What kind of business were you doing in a fucking theater?” Arthur asked.

“Probably fucking one of the dancers.” John said, the toothpick dangling precariously on the edge of his mouth.

“I saw people leaving the show and decided to go there to clean off from our last raid. And I heard a man yelling at some woman there. He’s uh, been a bit of a problem but I can’t tell by how much just yet. He’s been working the woman to death for little pay...so I offered her a spot here.” He said.

“Why are you so caught up on the woman? What, is she gonna dance around the shop all day?” John asked, earning a chuckle from a drunken Arthur.

“I’m thinking she’d make a good assistant. I watched her after he left. She was the only one there, working on the same routine for an hour straight. Was bleeding by the time she was done.” He said.

“Well besides the woman, what are you wanting to do with the man aye? We’ve caused enough trouble here so far.” John said.

“I have a feeling this man is abusing the whole company or at least the woman I spoke to. She’s miserable, you can see it in her eyes. I only saw eyes like that in the trenches.” He said quietly, looking out at the sky through the thin windshield.

Over the next few days, it seemed her plight only grew as the dancers rehearsed, their instructors criticizing more than helping them as they moved to the beat. Y/N’s eyes fearful as their department head entered the room. The music stopping as they all sat on the stage as instructed.

Behind the stage, Thomas watched silently as the instructor eyed the women. The mans eyes only seeing money and fame instead of them as people. But his gaze seemed reserved for Y/N especially.

She was bruised from the repeated practice, the falls, and from the mans calloused hands that beat her beyond the theater walls. Threatening to fire her if she didn’t improve. Claiming he was “trying to save the company’s image.” Telling her she’d be working the streets in no time if she failed again.

Even though she tried her best, often putting in more work than her peers, it still wasn’t enough for Mr. Timmons and his dreadful company. The only thing getting her by was knowing that after the big show, things would settle down, knowing he’d go back to just yelling at her and occasionally at the others, instead of talking with his fists. But the pay remained the same, barely keeping a roof over her head throughout the years.

“Y/N, I’ve seen your performances these past few weeks and they’re all the same. The turns are too loose, your footing is off, and you’re out of step with the others. I don’t see why you can’t do better.” He said loudly as she stared him down. White-hot tears brimmed in her eyes as her face heated up in a mixture of anger and embarrassment. None the wiser to the blinder who’d watched it all unfold.

“Meet me backstage after this will ya? We have to discuss some matters over your position here.” He said, walking to the next girl and nodding his head. He moved on from each person giving small snide remarks, but they were nothing compared to what she’d gotten, and it filled her with rage. With a sigh, she wiped her tears and stood up. Decided then and there that she’d walk out. To make a scene like she’d dreamt to during the 5 years she’d worked there.

“Mr. Timmons...the only thing you’ll be doing backstage is shoving these up your ass.” She said, chucking the bloodied ballet slippers at him before exiting the stage and going to her dressing room, locking the door.

Thomas watched silently until Mr. Timmons excused the rest of them, leaving only him and the poor excuse for a man in the dimly lit area back stage.

As the man walked with a master key towards Y/N’s dressing room, Thomas quickly came up behind him. Hitting him in the back of the head with his gun and wrestling him to the floor. The man screaming through a bloodied mouth as he landed punch after punch to his face. Thomas soon removing his cap and slicing the mans eyes, blinding him instantly before shooting him.

Y/N watched from the doorway, dressed from head to toe in her normal clothes she’d came in with. Her eyes red and swollen from crying and her body aching from the mornings work.

She stood there silently, the sight of the man who tormented her making her smile slightly as she realized she was free of him.

“Y/N....” Thomas said, wiping the blood from his face as best he could as he stood up from the mans limp body.

“Thank you.” She said, sniffling a bit as she kept her tears at bay this time. Walking quickly out the door to the outside of the building, the cars whizzing by as the cold wind crept through her clothes.

Thomas quickly draped a nearby blanket over Timmons’ body, dragging it to the dressing room. But before leaving he retrieved the master key from his limp hand, locking the dead man inside as he cleaned up the mess from his handy-work.

As he looked in the bathroom mirror minutes later, he could see the blood on his skin, the metallic smell barely phasing him as he washed it down the drain. After cleaning up, he headed out the door, finding Y/N sitting on the pavement smoking a cigarette.

“Mind if I join you?” He asked, sitting by her and lighting his own, his hands bleeding slightly from the blows to Timmons’ face.

“Why not.” She said, fiddling with a pink ribbon in her hands that once kept her hair tightly in place.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” He said, sighing as he looked out at the mid afternoon sky. The city bustling around them.

“It’s alright. I’ve wanted that to happen for 5 years. Don’t worry though, after knowing him, nothing really scares me.” She said with a small smile, relief finally hitting her as she realized she’d probably never have to face the man again.

“He’s dead though right? Like you made sure he’s never coming back?” She asked, her eyes still nervously scanning the roads out of habit as the doubt crept in.

“He’s never coming back. I’m burying him tonight.” He said.

“Make sure it’s deep.” She said, the bruises on her wrists more prominent in the daylight.

“Always do.” He said looking at her wrists with a clenched jaw. Knowing full well Timmons was behind it.

“I’ve uh, thought about your offer by the way.” She said looking down at the ribbon.

“You have aye?” He asked, flicking the ash from his cigarette. Her voice bringing him out of his thoughts a bit.

“Yeah. I’d like to try it out, if you’d still want me there. I don’t know what a ballerina could offer the company but, it beats where I was.” She said, cringing internally at all the painful memories which unfortunately often overshadowed the good ones.

“I’ve seen you work hard so far, so I figured making you my assistant would be a good position. You’ll come in at 8, and leave by 6 on most days.” He said.

“Most days? What happens on the other days?” She asked.

“On those days you keep busy so you don’t think about how or if we’ll return. You’ll help keep the shop in line along with my aunt Polly until one of us walks through the door. For your safety.” He said.

“Do all the assistants and secretaries work that late?” She asked.

“Only on those nights they do.” He said.

“Alright. May I ask one question?” She said.

“Mhmm.” He mumbled, blowing smoke from his lips. He stared at her while she thought over her words, her eyes not as miserable as before.

It made him feel better knowing that even though he couldn’t save the men in the trenches, he could at least save her. Someone who shared their same eyes, their same exhaustion, their same fear of not knowing what was next.

“Why me? You could hire anyone else. Any other woman for that matter. But you chose me...” She said, putting her cigarette out on the damp dirt road.

Thomas sighed for a moment, not wanting to tell her he couldn’t help but fall for a beautiful woman even though they’d just met. No matter her profession, he didn’t expect a ballet dancer to steal his heart so quickly and effortlessly.

“I could see you were different.” He said.

“How so?” She asked, his answer not enough as she looked into his eyes. They were like looking into the ocean, threatening to pull her under.

“When I came in after doing some business and saw you there practicing, you intrigued me. You were dancing with no music, but still trying no matter what happened.” He said.

“You saw me fall aye?” She said with a chuckle.

“Yeah, but I also saw what you did after....It’s always about what someone does after the fall, that makes a person who they are. I guess I chose you because you didn’t give up.” He said.

“And I thought it was because I was wearing a pretty pink ballet costume.” She said, smirking.

“That might also be a reason.” He said with a smirk. After a long pause, he spoke again, this time more quietly.

“For the record Y/N, I truly don’t see why the others treated you like they did....But I won’t hurt you. I promise.” He said.

“A man like you making promises? That’s a bold move.” She said, her heart racing as she held his hand gently, nervous to touch someone in a way that wasn’t done in self defense.

“I’m a bold man.” He said, squeezing her hand reassuringly.

“Oh really?” She said with a smirk.

“I can show you.” He said, leaning towards her as she did the same. She couldn’t help but feel differently towards him. He didn’t make her feel scared or on-edge like so many people before her. Instead oddly enough, the dashing blinder made her feel safe.

It was in that moment that he too realized he hadn’t felt this way in a while, since before the war. The only comfort he’d ever found previously was at the bottom of a bottle or beneath the sheets in a brothel. The feelings felt out of place, the noise from the war competing with the song in his head, the same one from her shows. The same one from years ago at home.

With a calloused hand, he caressed her cheek, looking into her as eyes as the sun shined into them. Their color illuminated by its rays as he brought her lips to his, a wave of relief washing over him as he felt her relax into the kiss instead of pulling away.

“So...when do I start?” She asked after he broke the kiss, her eyes trailing to his lips.

“Tomorrow. I can pick you up.” He said.

“Won’t you be tired from burying Mr. Timmons? I can drive myself.” She said.

“It’s not my first time burying someone love. I’ll swing by in the morning.” He said, getting up.

“Alright...see you then.” She said, a genuine grin forming on her face for what felt like the first time in years as she watched him head off towards his car.

Over the next few weeks, she became acquainted with everyone in the shop. Polly taking a special liking to her as she loved dancing as well.

“You’ll never catch me dancing ballet. Maybe a waltz but never ballet.” She said one morning.

“I can teach you, it’ll do you some good. Keep you strong.” Y/N said, thinking about how she’d get by with teaching in her cramped apartment.

“Tommy taking classes from you yet?” She asked with a smirk.

“God no. I think he only said that to get me working for him.” She said, thinking back to his first deal with her.

“What are you two talking about aye? We have work to do.” Tommy said, walking into his office where they sat in his chairs nonchalantly.

“Pol was just asking me if I’d taught you to dance yet. You did say you used to...but there would be no ballet of course.” She said, smirking at him as she blew smoke from her lips.

“Well, I have business at the races soon so I guess you’ll have to teach me. Especially since I’ll need someone to accompany me.” He said.

“I never thought you’d ask. What shall I wear?” She asked.

“Something red.” He said, giving her a peck on the cheek before heading out the door.

Their banter carried on like this months after her employment. The only thing different though was where she stayed. Everyone knew he’d had the hots for the woman as soon as he laid eyes on her in the theater. John joking that going to London was the best decision Tommy had ever made. Seeing as she helped him find himself again even if it was just in simple ways. From the nights spent keeping the sounds of the shovels at bay, to the weekends spent helping him learn a few dances. They both healed each other with each step. He never thought he would enjoy dancing or even something as simple as sleeping ever again, but she helped him and he helped her, and he felt the only way to pay her back was to help her still live out her dreams. Eventually converting one of their many rooms into a dance studio, where she’d help teach children on the side, without mean words and harsh fists beating her down.

By this time, she finally knew what she was dancing for, or more so who. And it pleased Thomas to see the life finally return to her eyes as she did so. Knowing that one of the best decisions she made was to dance for herself. Even if it didn’t garner any grand applause, she knew she had people who cared, and who saw the value in what she did, considering it was her gift to the world after all. Even if it was the gangly Shelby family as her audience, she knew it was better than any theater.

Thomas Shelby Tag List:

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If you’d like to be added or removed, just send an ask/message! :)

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

I'm blushing so hard because of the praise, please have mercy-

Jumping off the ideas you gave me, I came up with short drabbles. This is likely not going to be good.

Warning of the description of wounds and blood. As well as a major character death. Also, usage of mothman’s real name because I headcanon that reader probably knows it since they met his family before.

It was a sunny clear sky, a perfect day to relax in the sun and spend time with loved ones. Yet why did it end up like this? Why did it end up with your form, battered and broken, weakly staring at him with nothing but love and affection? There were so many wounds… Gashes on your legs, arms, torso… You were also cover in bruises too… Big ones, the size of his hand. Why didn’t you hate him? He did this to you, failing to hold back enough. He failed to bring you back until it was too late. Your breathing was labored and he noticed how much effort it took for you to keep your eyes open. Your lips painted crimson with blood parted but no sound came out. Your fingers weakly curled around the sharp claws, stained with blood. Your blood. He cradled your weakened form gently as if you were going to crumble and fade if he held too tight. You can hear his accelerated heartbeat and his constant whining, knowing that you were done for. You lost so much blood and were in so much pain, and the battlefield was hundreds of miles away from any location that can provide medical care. You coughed, covering his chest with blood but he didn’t care. You laughed weakly and apologized as loud as you could, which was a faint whisper. Your eyes were glossy with tears. “‘M sorry that… this happened. If only I didn’t go…” Your body would then shake more, causing the wounds he tried to cover in vain to reopen and ooze more blood. Your eyelids would flutter, you knew that you were on your last few breaths. “Promise you’ll live for me…? Be happy… I love you… Ajax…” With the last of your strength, you would take off the necklace you were wearing and would wrap it around his wrist. It was a friendship necklace that you worked so hard to make. He wore his ‘bracelet’ on his other wrist. His was purple and blue, having a little narwhale and moth. Yours was in your favorite color as well as having the things that fit you the most. The tears would fall down your face as your eyes close, your body going limp. His whines would grow louder and he would hold your still warm, limp body against him. His whines would then turn into an anguished shriek-cry, almost like a scream. His body would shake as he cried, not moving from where he was. He didn’t care for anything anymore right now. He would stay there, even becoming a husk if he wished to. His beloved light, you, had faded by his own hands. 

Warning for torture-like elements? Also, mothman’s real name is used again. I’m not sure what to put.

It was dark, cold, and painful. You cried out in agony as your very being was transformed, becoming something not human. You feel as if you were stabbed with thousands of blades, ripped apart, and then sewed back together crudely. Your haunting cries echoed cruelly through the silence, further solidifying the fact that you were alone. You sobbed, not sure of how much more of this torture you can take. Your stature would grow in size, hands turning into claws. Your face would burn as a mask would painstakingly grow on it. You would desperately try to claw it off with your growing claws, drawing blood that would slowly become less red and human. The color would then grow more reminiscent of galaxies. Your back would arch as the pain amplified, wings growing from them. Your cries were not human anymore, now they sound like your beloved roommate whenever he was in pain. You didn’t even notice anymore, your mind foggy as you collapse once the transformation was complete. You would shakenly gt yourself up and tried to find a way out, wanting to leave this place. Your eyes would land on a wall that had enough holds to climb, however climbing would be a chore with how much you were shaking. You would then start the long and pain-filled journey, falling from your grip being too weak from the way your hands were different. No, from the way your entire being was different. Your muscles ached and screamed at you to give up but you kept fighting on, wanting to see the harbor again. Wanting to see Ajax again. You imagined his soft and gentle embrace surrounding you, lulling you into security with his deep purrs. Your claws balled with determination and after what seemed like an eternity, you would break free to the surface. Body running solely on adrenaline now, you would go to your secret place where only Ajax would know where to find you. You often would go there and you hoped that he would come soon before you passed out. Because you feared if the harbor would find your unconscious body, they would believe that you were a monster and would kill you with no hesitation and not realizing the monster was you. You would wait and wait, your one eye drooping. You would lean against the rocks a boneless heap, the adrenaline finally wearing off. You tried to futilely fight off sleep but would lose the battle. Your eyes would close and you would fall into a dark slumber, mind roaming with nightmares.

i will praise you more because you deserve it!!! if anyone here ever needs a mood booster i will try to be your personal hype person :D also you take those words right back these are AMAZING and i don't take other opinions

i imagine that for the first one he'd sit hunched over your body until someone (probably Zhongli or Baizhu because they can approach him) tries to take you away, to which he shrieks in anguish and tries to follow but someone holds him back to treat his own injuries. maybe you're buried somewhere remote, and Childe starts living near your grave and watching over it. perhaps it becomes a piece of folklore, about a grave with an eternal, monstrous guard. someone with that powerful of a creature watching over their tomb has to be important right? and you are important, but not in the way they think. you're important to Childe because you loved him, not because you were a great warrior or anything. even with the people whispering and gossiping he still watches over your bones and ashes, doing his best to make sure the tombstone is clean and whole. even as his body grows weak from lack of food and good sleep he does this, as his way of being as close to you as possible. after all, Childe can't die, not naturally anyway.

OH THE SECOND ONE IS A PERRRFECT ADDITION TO THE TRANSFORMATIVE AU- MAYBE A DIFFERENT PATH WHERE YOU FALL INTO THE ABYSS ALONE. Childe would find you in that secret location, caught in the grasp of some nightmare. he wouldn't know it was you at first, jumping back with his claws out and fangs bared. but then he'd stop, because beneath the layers of Abyss on you is your faint, familiar scent. he gets cautiously closer and is overwhelmed because while it may not look like you, it feels like you, and you're hurting, you're suffering, and he desperately wants to help. he can see the blood on your claws and face where you had torn at the mask as it grown, and he can hear your terrified whimpers from your nightmare. he scoots next to you, pressing against your side and laying a sparkly wing over you as he gently nuzzles the side of your head. you're vaguely conscious and you reach for his arm, crying out as pain sparks through your body and his heart aches, aches as he tries to comfort you with soft coos and purrs. he'll have to get help for you later, but right now there's only you and him, together.

[sofwrites]

for the prompt thing; polin + 41

41: sitting close and knees touching | Also my entry for Polin Week Day 3: Modern AU

A modern twist on Penelope finding out about Colin's journals

Themes: angst, yearning, teasing | Length: 2.3k

Read on ao3 or under the cut | masterlist

Thank you for requesting! xx

He hadn’t planned on telling anyone. He really hadn’t planned on anyone seeing them. And he really really hadn’t planned on anyone ever reading them.

The only reason Colin had even started keeping a journal was to remind himself that he was a real person on his travels- that he had the power to leave something permanent on earth. That he wasn’t completely wasting his time flitting from country to country- desperately trying to find some sort of purpose in his life.

Again, he hadn’t planned on anyone seeing them.

But one day he was painstakingly hiding his journals in a deep, hidden corner of his laptop, and the next, Penelope Featherington had found one. She’d found one then read. And somehow, she thought they were good. Actually good. Not I’m-only-saying-this-to-be-nice good.

And, sure, it had all happened by accident, but after some time, Colin was so incredibly thankful that it did.

He’d been hiding out in Eloise’s flat (Anthony had texted about wanting to meet that afternoon because- well, it didn’t matter really. The fact of the matter was that Colin had no desire to do so) when the buzzer rang.

He ignored it and continued to flip through the book in his hand.

But then it rang again. And again.

And on the fourth ring, Colin finally groaned and forced himself off of the sofa.

It was barely a second after his finger had reached the speaker that a loud, rather familiar-sounding shriek rang out. “Eloise!! Eloise! Please tell me you’re there!”

With a snort, Colin cut the voice off and buzzed them in. And in roughly a minute (an impressive feat considering that Eloise lived on the fifth floor), he saw a bouncing bit of red hair through the peephole and opened the door.

“Thank God, I really need-” Penelope froze mid-step in the frame as her eyes traveled up to reach Colin’s face. For a moment, she just stared, her mouth parted open. And then she swallowed and gave a quick shake of the head.

With a slightly forced smile, she nodded and swept past him, looking around as she went towards the sitting room. “Is Eloise in?”

“She’s not,” Colin answered flatly as he casually leaned against the closed door. He kept an impressively blank expression as Penelope haphazardly rifled through Eloise’s desk, roughly blowing a few loose curls out of her face. “Looking for something?”

Penelope either missed or simply ignored the teasing tone as she frantically moved her search to the sofa cushions. “Did she leave her laptop here?”

“Don’t think so. Though I’m not entirely sure- all she told me was to try not to empty her entire fridge.”

Normally, that would have elicited Colin a laugh or an amused smile, but all Penelope did was let out a groan. A groan that bizarrely caused his stomach to flip. He glanced away from her, clearing his throat. ”Erm- but if you need a laptop, I do have mine.”

Penelope looked up at him with such sharpness that it caught him a bit off guard. “You do? Can I borrow it?”

He blinked at her for a moment, but quickly nodded and motioned to his bag near her feet. He’d barely muttered a “Course” before she’d already retrieved and set it on the table.

“Oh, password’s-” Colin balked for a second, his mouth still open. He’d never told anyone his password before, and it felt… Odd. Unnerving to give away such a private piece of information. But Penelope was looking up at him again, eyes huge and slightly feral, antsy fingers hovering over the keys. He rubbed the back of his neck before mumbling, “GregorySux. With an x.”

The tips of Penelope’s fingers froze as the corner of her mouth twitched, but she bit her lip as she looked down to type.

“He kept hacking into it,” Colin said in an attempt to justify himself.

She seemed so focused on the screen that he thought she hadn’t heard him, but, almost absentmindedly, Penelope said, “Don’t think it’s hacking if your password is literally Password.”

He gaped at her. “I can’t believe Eloise told you!”

This time, Penelope just shrugged in response, her attention completely taken away. The only sounds that filled the room were those of her lightning-quick typing.

He stood there for a moment, feeling uncharacteristically awkward as he watched her fingers work. And then he cracked his neck before nodding. “Right, I’ll give you a minute…”

And as he reached Eloise’s toilet, it occurred to Colin he’d never before been alone with Penelope- not really. He’d known the girl for over a decade, but they’d never really been friends. They were friendly and had spent a decent amount of time together, but there’d never been a real closeness, definitely not one where they could spend a casual afternoon hanging out.

But Colin had never had trouble with finding the right words to say, so it shouldn’t be different with Penelope, right?

He’d asked her about work- that was safe. And maybe how her recent trip with Eloise and Frannie had been- also another safe topic. After that, it’d be no trouble.

But when he reentered the hallway, Colin immediately noticed how quiet it had suddenly gotten- the air completely absent of any hasty typing. Silently, he peered inside the sitting room.

Penelope was still hunched over his laptop, her mouth parted slightly as she stared at the screen. The only movement of her hands was to scroll, but her eyes were running across the screen at an inhuman speed. He watched her for a moment, the corner of his mouth rising unconsciously as her lips mouthed a few words.

He felt intrigued.

Not intrigued by her- of course. But rather intrigued by what had entranced her so much that she couldn’t dare peel her eyes from the computer.

She didn’t react as he crept behind her, looking over her shoulder to see the screen. The brightness was a bit lowered, but he could see a Word document. He leaned a bit closer, eyes squinting as he read a random line.

Imagine you’re at a party, feeling weightless and invincible-

Wait- he recognized those words.

Colin’s eyes flew to the title of the page, which very clearly read, Italy, 09/03/19.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Penelope yelped at the sudden noise, turning her head so quickly that her forehead made contact with Colin’s nose.

“OW!”

And that was how it had all started. A frantic Penelope, a trip to the toilet, an accidentally minimized Word document, and a (luckily) not broken nose.

He’d been angry at first… Well, really, he’d been fairly livid about the entire thing. Not because he was necessarily mad at Penelope, who had accidentally opened the tab initially, but rather because he felt… Embarrassed. It was embarrassing having one’s little sister’s best friend accidentally come across their greatest secret.

But even though he wanted to forget and pretend it all had never happened, Penelope had been unrelenting. After an assurance that what she read had been good, she’d practically demanded that he let her read through the rest of his work.

And now, weeks later, here they were sitting next to each other at his kitchen table, two cups of tea and a printed-out version of his journal laid out in front of them.

“What was it you were trying to say here?” Penelope asked, her eyes rolling over a highlighted section of an Australia entry.

He looked down at the page, following where her finger rested. Instantly, he felt himself flush a bit. She was pointing out a particularly convoluted metaphor he’d written, one likening the magnificent sunset to the familiarity of reading one’s favorite childhood book for the first time as an adult.

“Erm…” He cringed, unable to say anything else.

It was still so odd- the not knowing what to say. Colin Bridgerton wasn’t someone who ever had trouble figuring out his words, and yet… And yet having Penelope had that effect on him. Or, more likely, having Penelope inspect his work, dissecting every word that had ever come out of his brain, make him feel insecure in a way he never was.

It wasn’t so much that it was Penelope, of course. She was his sister’s best friend, a woman he’d known since they were barely grown. It would have been like that if anyone else had seen his work, he was sure of it.

But even still- he found himself staring at a rogue curl on her cheek, his hand twitching to reach up and tuck it away.

“Colin?” Penelope interrupted his roaming thoughts, abruptly looking up at him. Her lips pinched together once she saw his expression, pulling themselves down into a small frown. “Colin,” she repeated in a softer voice. “I wasn’t lying when I said you were a fantastic writer. It’s just that everyone needs a little editing- even the best of us.”

His head tilted slightly as he looked at her, suddenly caught on her use of the word, us. “Do you write a lot then?”

Penelope’s lips slowly formed a smile as she looked at him, a hint of hesitation on her face. She sighed, taking a moment. “Well, actually-” But then she cut herself off, suddenly resembling the same shy Penelope he hadn’t seen in years.

Colin found himself leaning in, putting both arms on the table in front of them, desperate to hear the end of whatever she’d wanted to say. He could feel his knee bumping into hers, but neither of them moved. “What?” he prompted, surprised to hear how faint his voice was. There was something about the moment that was making it rather difficult to breathe.

Penelope was looking back at him with an intensity, mouth slightly parted as she licked her lips reflexively. There was nothing inherently seductive about the movement, but- But something about the way her tongue flicked out made Colin’s stomach clench uncomfortably.

“Uhm,” she whispered, only hearing the loud beating of her heart. No one knew about her secret, other than her editor. And it would surely be a disaster if anyone ever found out …

But she had found out about Colin’s secret, albeit by accident. It felt only right that he should know hers as well…

But if she were being truly honest, she didn’t care very much about her secret at that present moment. Not when the two green eyes she had spent her entire adolescence (and much of her early adulthood) pining over were staring directly at her, looking as though they could see through her entire soul.

Every breath was an effort, every movement was the most difficult task in history. The spot where their knees were still gently pressed against each other felt like it was on fire, spreading itself across her body. She’d been in so much shock when the contact had happened that she hadn’t moved away. And then she’d been astonished when he hadn’t either.

Penelope couldn’t even remember what they’d been talking about, and it almost appeared that Colin… That Colin shared the same sentiment.

It felt like she was dreaming. Somehow, he was staring at her with just as much intensity as she was to him. She wasn’t sure if anyone had… She was quite certain that no one had ever looked at her like that.

Colin swallowed as he stared at her, taking in every freckle spread across her nose and every loose curl surrounding her face. He could see her eyes clearly for perhaps the first time in his life- a beautiful shade of warm brown with golden flecks throughout the iris. And then his eyes unwillingly moved, flickering to her lips as she licked them again, causing his gut to wrench painfully.

And then he realized that his hands on the table were so close to her own, the one still resting on his forgotten journal excerpt.

Almost without meaning to, his pinky twitched, moving just enough to meet hers. His breath hitched as he looked back up to meet her gaze.

Neither of them moved, as if moving would break something fragile. As if moving would forcibly tear them from the moment they were.

But then- he wasn’t sure how long- Penelope’s soft eyes left his, darting down to rest on their touching fingers. And then her eyes widened, and her entire body jerked backward, and suddenly Colin’s knee was incredibly cold.

Her chair made a loud scraping noise against the floor as she jumped up, startling him out of the hold he’d been under. “Pen-?”

“It’s getting a bit late,” Penelope muttered through a quick breath, quickly stashing away her belongings. “I’ll finish this at home, and we can meet another time to discuss it. Maybe coffee- next week.”

Colin frowned, getting out of his seat, and taking a few steps towards her. Quietly, he said, “Or you could stay here?”

Penelope froze for a moment before slowly retrieving her keys, gaze firmly locked onto the ground. All he could see were her eyelashes as she blinked.

He bent down slightly and reached out to lift her chin. “Or you could stay here,” he repeated with a bit more reverence in his voice. “We could get some dinner and- talk.”

Penelope swallowed as her eyes rested on his face for a fraction of a moment, but soon enough, she pulled away again. Her fingers trembled as she draped the bag over her shoulder, shaking her head as she looked towards the door. “Erm, no, sorry. I really- really need to go, Colin.”

And then she all but sprinted from the flat, leaving a speechless Colin Bridgerton behind.

[simplyclockwork]

You know that (awful) scene on Christmas Day S3ep3 where John forgives Mary and tells her he accepts her for whatever she is; well I would love to see something like that but with John telling Sherlock he accepts him; possibly post season 4 and in the context of Sherlock having been diagnosed with depression. I’d like to see Sherlock struggle with the diagnosis and John encourage him and validate his experiences. I’m over 18. Though I don’t necessarily see this as an explicit fic.

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Hello, anon! Sorry, this took a bit to get to filling. I wasn’t planning on writing today, then I looked at this prompt and my Muse ran away. I hope you’ll enjoy what I wrote. The rest of the fill is below the page break. You can also read your fill on Ao3 here.

Feel free to send me a prompt anytime! :)

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“Sherlock.”

John’s voice reached him as if through a thick fog. A haze permeated Sherlock’s Mind Palace, wrapping intangible curls of mist down the halls and around his shivering form. The rooms looked faded and lacklustre, the diminished splendour of his surroundings marked by two words. Two words, repeated over and over, hanging in the air with the fog.

Clinical. Depression.

“Sherlock.”

Emphatic this time, and spoken with moderate anxiety that made Sherlock lift his head and open his eyes. He looked up from where he lay curled on the couch and blinked at the face hovering over him. Dark blue eyes, a creased brow and a mouth that turned down at the corners with concern stared back at him.

John.

“Hey,” John murmured, catching the focus in Sherlock’s glassy gaze. “There he is.” His eyes darted over Sherlock, taking in his tangled hair and rumpled clothes, now going on their third day in a row of wear. The creases deepened. “You okay?”

Sherlock felt thin—was he thinner? Had he lost weight? He couldn’t remember eating, couldn’t remember wanting to. Hunger was a faint memory of sensation, just like everything that had ceased to exist. Emotions, always so abhorrent, were seemingly out of reach. After feeling so much, so many terrible, tearing, terrifying things, Sherlock felt empty.

Clinical depression, the doctor said. Not unsurprising, considering your history of trauma and the recent events in your life.

A bottle of pills sat on the coffee table, prescribed by the same doctor who put a name to the negative space growing inside Sherlock’s head. He had yet to take them. Sherlock stared at the bottle with a listless weight on his chest. Maybe he was having a heart attack. Wasn’t that one of the symptoms, feeling like an elephant was sitting on your chest?

Sherlock felt like he had an entire herd crushing him into the cracked leather of the sofa.

“Sherlock.”

The anxiety in John’s voice deepened. Definitely present, and when Sherlock looked back at him, he saw the corners of John’s mouth shift, his lips pressing into a hard, thin line. Sherlock blinked at him with marked disinterest. Wetting his lips, he found his voice and rasped, “Hello, John.”

Instead of easing John’s apparent concern, Sherlock’s greeting sharpened the creases in his face. “When was the last time you ate something?” His words were gentle, and his eyes were sharp as he studied Sherlock’s form, squinting as they settled on his torso.

“Not hungry.” Sherlock rolled onto his other side, facing the back of the couch. Every movement required a Herculean effort, and he was tired. Bone-deep weary and exhausted.

“How about a cup of tea?” John was relentless. Like the ocean, he was as predictable as the tide and as changeable as the world the water’s surface. Sherlock stared at the back of the sofa and thought about erosion. About the sensation of being washed away.

Instead of answering, he said in a flat, empty voice, “I’m tired, John.”

A hand hovered over him, a tangible presence before it settled on his shoulder. Sherlock considered pulling away, but there were no more than a few inches between himself and the couch back, and moving felt impossible. More effort than he had to spare. It was easier to stay still and let the warmth of John’s palm seep into his body from a single point of contact.

Slowly, Sherlock realized he was cold.

“Why don’t we get you into bed?” John said gently, his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on Sherlock’s shoulder through his dressing gown. “Can’t be comfortable on the couch, not with those long legs of yours.” The attempt at humour was weak, and they both knew it. Silence followed and settled heavily over them.

Sherlock made a low grunting noise when John’s expectant quiet stretched into something unbearable.

“Talk to me, Sherlock.” John’s request was nearly as heavy as the silence, making Sherlock curl into a tighter ball. Hugging his knees to his chest, he pushed his face into the cushions. John’s hand hesitated, stroked up his arm, fingers sliding to his nape. Feeling a light, gentle tug, Sherlock realized John was painstakingly working out a tangled mat of hair against the base of Sherlock’s skull.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let him, incapable of pinning down his feelings on the matter. There was only the emptiness, yawning wide and deep down. John’s fingers in his hair took the edge off, just a little, and Sherlock didn’t protest when John’s untangling shifted into a slow massage of fingertips over his skull. A soft sound escaped his lips before he could bite down on it, and John’s fingers faltered. He picked up the rhythm again, the pad of a thumb drifting over Sherlock’s temple.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” John finally said. By the sound of his breathing, he was kneeling beside the sofa. His other hand landed on Sherlock’s side, just above his hip, a firm, sturdy anchor keeping Sherlock in his body when all he wanted was to drown in his head. The hand on his waist gripped gently, and John added, “But I’m here if you do.”

Sherlock stared at the back of the sofa until his vision began to blur, then he closed his eyes and breathed a long, slow sigh. The fingers in his hair faltered again before continuing to work out the tangles and massage his scalp.

“On the table.” The words dragged out of Sherlock’s numb mouth like molasses. After a beat of silence, the hand caught in his curls disappeared, but the hold on his waist remained. Sherlock heard the sound of pills rattling in a bottle and John’s soft breathing as he no doubt read the label.

It was a few minutes before plastic clinked against the coffee table, and John’s hand reappeared in his hair. This time, his fingers combed through the untangled sections before coming to rest on Sherlock’s nape with a firm but gentle grip.

“Anti-depressants?” John asked the question without inflection or emphasis, just a soft inquiry that made it easier for Sherlock to nod silently against the cushion. John’s thumb pressed into his side with reassuring pressure. “Did you just fill them today?” A jerky head shake and silence in Sherlock’s mouth. The thumb smoothed over his waist. “Not taken any yet, then?” Another head shake and John sighed out a little breath before murmuring, “It’s okay, Sherlock.”

The words hit him like a freight train, and Sherlock tensed, curling tighter inward with his arms around his chest and his knees pulled up to his stomach. John reacted at once, pressing forward until he was against Sherlock’s curved back. His face dropped into the dip between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, first his forehead, then his nose and finally his lips, brushing the skin in a tender touch that made Sherlock’s body vibrate with agonized surprise. The hand on his waist curled forward to draw Sherlock closer, one palm cradling the back of his skull with stunning, unexpected care.

Flashing back to the one time Sherlock held John in his arms as John fell to pieces in much the same way Sherlock felt he might, Sherlock breathed out a strained, choking gasp and pressed his knuckles against his eyes.

When John spoke, his voice was a warm whisper of air over Sherlock’s neck, his arm tightening around Sherlock’s waist. “I’ve got you,” he said, the words made tangible by the way his lips shaped them against Sherlock’s skin. “I’ve got you, Sherlock.”

“The doctor is wrong,” Sherlock finally managed, forcing the statement out through his teeth.

John’s hand stroked over his stomach, a slow, soothing movement. “Maybe,” he said, petting Sherlock’s hair with gentle repetition. “But if not—”

“He is,” Sherlock growled, curling tighter. John responded by pressing forward, keeping the contact between them.

“Okay.” His lips drifted over the bony ridge of Sherlock’s vertebra, where his neck bent forward. The touch was an electric shock, and Sherlock shivered. After days of feeling nothing, John’s warm grasp was nearly overwhelming, but not enough to make him want to pull away. “Okay,” John repeated, breathing out a sigh. “Maybe he is. We can get a second opinion.” Sherlock’s eyes popped open at the word we, but John continued before he could speak, adding, “Whatever it ends up being, if anything, it’s okay. You’ve… you’ve been through a lot, Sherlock, and I want you to know that it… well, it’s okay not to be okay.”

Sherlock made a quiet noise, neither agreement nor argument, as his eyes closed again.

Shaking his head, John pressed his cheek to Sherlock’s neck and whispered, “When we met, I was so far from okay, I didn’t even know what that word meant anymore. And then you came along and, well.” He paused, his swallow audible and physical, where their bodies pressed together. “I know things have been a real mess over the last couple of years, and worse with what all just came to pass, and I just need you to know that there’s absolutely no shame in it, Sherlock.” John’s grip tightened, voice deepening with fervency as he pulled Sherlock closer. “Whatever you’re feeling, it’s nothing to feel ashamed of. Whatever you need, we’ll make it happen. As cliche as it sounds, and you might scoff at it, you’re not alone. I…” John faltered before his lips brushed lightly over the skin beneath Sherlock’s ear, making him shiver. “I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock’s face felt wet and salty, and he grimaced at the sensation before opening his eyes. His vision wavered, lashes clinging together. Blinking the moisture away, he tilted his head to the side and felt John’s nose press into his cheek. “John,” he said in a voice that was tight and raspy.

The reply was an immediate, “Yes, Sherlock?” as John’s nose drifted along his jaw, up to his temple and into his hair. Sherlock winced at the fleeting thought of how greasy his unwashed curls must be but managed to push the concern aside in favour of breathing John in.

“I’m not okay.” The admission slipped from his lips as a jagged exhale, and his body tensed with trepidation.

But John nodded and pressed a feather-light kiss to Sherlock’s brow, brushing tangled locks away from Sherlock’s eyes. “That’s alright,” he murmured, steadfast and unshakeable in the face of Sherlock’s confession. “I’ve got you.”

[victoriareyloficlists]

12 April 2021 Additions to Reylo Fluff

These fics have been added to the Fluff lists located in the following lists:

Fluff Part 1 Titles A-G

Fluff Part 2 Titles H-M

Fluff Part 3 Titles N-S

Fluff Part 4 Titlez T-Z

Zombie Run by OptimisticBeth (AO3 2018  Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: During a charity run, Rey is relentlessly pursued by a zombie.) The Road Taken by gogoburritos (AO3 2020  Rated M Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey pulls a prank on her housemate Ben. She doesn't expect it to turn out so well.) Loose Change by spicytofuuuu (AO3 2020  Rated E Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: "I ate your pizza. It was a desperate move. I'm sorry. Not proud of myself. Here is $4." An Oh-My-God-They-Were-Roommates, They-Have-One-Single-Shared-Brain-Cell fic.) just say you love me by darthswift13 (AO3 2021  Rated M Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: In which Rey gets drunk on Saturday nights and confesses her true feelings for her roommate Ben, only to forget on Sunday mornings. Will Rey ever be able to confess her feelings when sober?) r/Relationships by elle_reads (AO3 2020  Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben's new roommate moves in just before a shelter-in-place order is issued. It's just the two of them—and Reddit, of course.) The Sublet by javajunkie (AO3 2020  Rated M Complete, 5 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey and Rose sublet their spare room to Ben Solo.) Knock Me Down by commandercrouton (AO3 2019  Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben gets a concussion thanks to Rey.) Love in the Language of Sweaters by SaintHeretical (AO3 2019  Rated E Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Corporate executive Ben Solo mocks holiday sweaters until he sees the delivery girl wear them.) You Need a Tutor by castles_and_crowns (AO3 2018  Rated T Complete, 28 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey is an engineering student who finds herself struggling with calculus. Desperate, she goes to the math tutoring center on campus for help. Meanwhile, Ben Solo is a grad student who's required to work a certain amount of hours in the math tutoring center. When Ben reluctantly offers to help Rey with her work, a relationship forms between them that neither are expecting.) Five Times That Ben Saved Rey's Valentine's Day & How She Forever Saved His by AnneAnna (AO3 2021  Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben makes a confession in his wedding speech: He knew he was going to marry Rey when he and Rey were 4 years old and she gave him a Valentine she made and colored herself. And 21 years later, he still has that Valentine.) Newspaper Hearts by Celia_and (AO3 2021  Rated G Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: “She made her Valentine’s cards. She tore hearts out of newspaper and glued them onto used envelopes and painstakingly wrote each child’s name. She probably spent days making them. And you know what she wrote on mine?” He doesn’t need to read it to know what it says, so he looks down at her instead, and the hand on her heart and the tears in her eyes. “Ben: You are OK. Rey.”) When the party ends by Blueyedgurl (AO3 2021  Rated E Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey gets wasted at a frat party. Ben finds her, puts her in his room, where she's safe. Rey wakes in the morning after Ben comes out of the shower and nakedness ensues.) Fleeced by Blueyedgurl (AO3 2020  Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: AU where Rey is a mechanic and Ben is her grumpy client. Ben is car shopping and asks her to pretend to be his girlfriend so the dealer won't screw him over.) My Sandwich by Blueyedgurl (AO3 2020  Rated G Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Someone took Ben's turkey sandwich at work, he is infuriated and eager for revenge, until he finds out it was Rey then those feelings no longer exist.) Sleepyhead by Blueyedgurl (AO3 2020  Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben, a mere himbo, tucks a stray hair behind Rey's ear in class. He knows he deserves the hot coffee in her hand to be thrown in his face and yet he gets a date. ) When You Know It by Blueyedgurl (AO3 2020  Rated E Complete, 2 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben finds out his roommate Rey has never had someone to celebrate valentine's with, so he sends her 25 roses, one for every year she's been alone, in attempt to make her feel better.) Port in the storm by Blueyedgurl (AO3 2020  Rated E Complete, 2 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey pretends to be afraid of thunderstorms so she has an excuse to sleep next to Ben. Ben figures it out when he races home early after seeing thunder, fearing Rey will be crying alone curled up in a ball, only to find her totally chill and eating ice cream.) Neighborly by Blueyedgurl (AO3 2020  Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey and her son move into a new apartment and meets her new neighbor Ben and his cute dog.) Tinder and Cinder by Blueyedgurl (AO3 2020  Rated E Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey joins tinder after a long long dry spell due to her flatmate Kylo's derision, they argue about why and in a fit of jealousy Kylo screams out 'use me instead.') Traditions gotta start somewhere by Blueyedgurl (AO3 2020  Rated G Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Christmas Tree vignettes of Rey and Ben over the course of their relationship.) All of my wishes came true with you by Blueyedgurl (AO3 2021  Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Fantasy AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey works on a wishfarm for Plutt. One day after she's out of wishes, she catches the star of a man who wishes for an end to his loneliness. She pockets it and after a particularly rough day she grants it with herself.) Knot It by MotherofScavengers (AO3 2021  Rated E Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: When Omega Rey’s heat starts early, the Alpha friend who agreed to assist her is nowhere to be found. When she unexpectedly meets Ben, the delicious smelling Alpha offers his help...and his knot.) It's You by SpaceWaffleHouse (AO3 2021  Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben and Rey have been costars for years when the time comes for them to film their first kissing scene. Neither of them ever expected their soul marks to appear in the process.) Through the Years by castles_and_crowns (AO3 2018  Rated T Complete, 10 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben Solo and Rey Jakkson meet on the playground as children under unusual circumstances and quickly become best friends. This fic follows them through the years, showing glimpses of their friendship as it slowly progresses into something more.) I Hate You by orphan_account (AO3 2018  Rated M Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben has been in love with Rey for two years and so when she storms into his office he finally decides he can't keep it in any longer.) In Small Packages by DyadamDriver (AO3 2018  Rated G Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: It was then that Ben realised three things. 1. He had never had a cat in his life. 2. He had no idea what these little things ate. 3. He had a crippling crush on his neighbour.) ignorance of etiquette by blessedreylo (AO3 2020  Rated E Complete, 2 Chapters, Regency AU, Quick Synopsis: Lady Rey Kenobi lives a life of pristine comfort and luxury on her family's estate in Chesire with her parents Lord Obi-Wan Kenobi and Lady Satine Kenobi. When they receive word that an old family friend, Lord Benjamin Solo, is coming to visit, Lady Rey is reminded of how he tormented her as a child. She decides that she will prove herself not the same girl she once was in more ways than one.) heaven in hiding by blessedreylo (AO3 2021  Rated E Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: They say it's impossible for a guy and girl to be "just friends", but Rey and Ben had managed to discredit that throughout their decade long friendship. What they both have is special, that people would often arrive at the conclusion the two were made for each other. He's her safe haven, her rock. She gives him a sense of clarity and direction. Ben and Rey know each other more than anyone ever possibly could. Therefore on Valentine's Day, their friends decided to secretly set them up together on a blind dinner date.) a quiet storm by blessedreylo (AO3 2020  Rated E Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey gets off to Kylo Ren, a popular audio erotica account online. She hasn’t been on a date in so long until her friend Rose sets her up on a blind date with her boyfriend's coworker, Ben. They seem to be hitting it off and finding that they have a lot in common, but she can’t help but think that he sounds so...familiar.) key to the kingdom by blessedreylo (AO3 2020  Rated E Complete, 12 Chapters, Princess Diaries AU, Quick Synopsis: Most girls get a drunk weekend in Vegas for their 21st birthday, but Princess Rey Kenobi gets the chance to rule the country of Alderaan. But the only way she can become Queen is if she marries a man in 30 days, or the throne goes to the selfish (and annoyingly attractive) usurper Lord Benjamin Solo. Will Rey be able to ascend to the throne or will it all just become a royal pain in the ass?) fueled by fire by blessedreylo (AO3 2020  Rated E Complete, 2 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben annoys the hell out of Rey when he tries to write passive aggressive notes about where she leaves her stuff. Rey pisses Ben off by being loud and picking a fight whenever she wants. Being neighbors for the last five months has been interesting to say the least. Their little rivalry comes to a crescendo when their hate for each other turns into another kind of passion.) 1 April Fool by Maloreiy (AO3 2021  Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: "Honk! Act like you know me! My name is Ben!" Rey sees the sign on the car when she pulls up to the grocery store, and decides to play along. The giant, surly man, apparently named Ben, is not amused.) when I look to you by blessedreylo (AO3 2020  Rated M Complete, 7 Chapters, Harry Potter AU, Quick Synopsis: Best friends since Year Three, Gryffindor's Ben Solo and Rey Niima navigate their final year at Hogwarts. When exposed feelings and unrequited romance get in the way of their friendship, they wonder whether they'll survive the school year.) Dreaming of Hope by adamsackleriskyloren83 (AO3 2019  Rated M Complete, 2 Chapters, Canon AU, Quick Synopsis: Kylo Ren goes to bed one night only to awaken as Rebel Pilot Ben Solo. Discovering that not only is Rey his wife, but he is also the father of a toddler(s) son/daughter.) Talk Nerdy To Me by andabatae (AO3 2019  Rated E Complete, 7 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Grad student Rey is addicted to watching nature documentaries narrated by the mysterious Kylo Ren. In fact, listening to him recite animal facts is her favorite masturbation inspiration. One day, the poetry class she TAs for has a guest lecturer: Ben Solo, a large, cranky man with gorgeous hair, adorable glasses... and a very compelling voice.) Everything You Are by kereia (AO3 2019  Rated E Complete, One-Shot, Canon AU, Quick Synopsis: But the thing she loved most of all, the thing that she was downright addicted to, was the way Ben reacted whenever she touched him.) Eggplant Emoji by trasharama (AO3 2020  Rated E Complete, 5 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: A desperate Rey seeks refuge in Poe and Ben's spare bedroom. Ben didn't know she was a girl when he agreed to the roommate trial period--and now she won't stop sexting him? Climb aboard the Smutty McSmuttSmutt train!)

[inked-spirit]

Y,know how I said I had another au, and had a small oneshot for it:)

Well here's the oneshot, and bonus very out of context because I haven't talked about it yet. Hyrule meets Legend scene! Au is still being put together and is not really thought out much, but it does include the other under-appreciated links, such as Picori (whose also in this small written piece), Spirit, and Tempo. (Will add more if I find out there's others)

Pre-warning I don't know how to do the undercut thing with posts, so it's very long.

Enjoy:)

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

Okay, at this point Hyrule knew he was lost. Very lost.

The further he treked through the thick foilage to find his way back to the fountain. The weaker it's magic became, he was getting further away from it with each passing second.

He knew his sense of direction was terrible but this was just ridiculous.

He tried to call out to any fellow fairy or family that could hear him, to no avail.

It was almost dark, as the sun descended beneath the trees. A few stars making themselves present early. His faint glow making itself known in the growing dark. A pale green.

Pushing through a few more bushes, he comes to a small clearing. Taken up mostly by a decently large pond. It looked pretty deep too.

He felt no fairy magic emanating from the waters and with a disappointed huff sat down beside the ponds rocks.

There was a different kind of magic in the pond though, at the bottom. It felt safe, and somehow he knew it wouldn't hurt him.

Staring up at the stars once more, he sent a prayer to whatever goddess was listening that he'd find his home soon, his mother must be worried sick he hasn't come home before night fall.

He was tired, straying so far from his mother's magic had taken a toll on him. Placing a minor protection spell on the small clearing, he dropped his travel bag on the floor and pulled out a blanket. Nestling himself into a comfortable position using his bag as a pillow of sorts.

"Goodnight mom." He whispered, as he let his eye lids finally close to get some rest.

---

When he woke up it was to a shadow looming over him. He groaned as his eyes slowly opened to meet with a pair of violet ones.

A pale face that looked at him quizitivelly from above. This figure tilted there head at him with a curious glint in there eyes. Short pink hair swept to once side dropping slightly. His long pink bangs swaying beneath his face to the gentle wind.

His eyes widened as he woke up fully, staring at the one above him, whose eyes also widened.

The boy (as he guessed) lept into the pond with a graceful splash and pained gasp. Hyrule rushed to get up. Packing his blanket away and comfortably getting his bag on. He sensed pain was on the boy. He was hurt.

He jumped to the waters edge and peered down to look for the other, finding nothing. Until they peeked there eyes out of the water, brows forrowwed.

"I-im sorry for startling you. I didn't mean to scare you like that." He apologised sitting down in his spot.

The other looked away for a moment before peeking his Head out further so he could see his mouth.

"It's okay. I've just never seen one of your kind before." He replied. His voice was smooth and kind.

Never seen a fairy?

"I've only ever read about fairys in books back home, but fairys were written to be smaller. Your like a very small great fairy, why is that?" The boy asked with a tilt of his head.

"Oh, that's because I'm a great fairy in training." He answered slowly. His eyes trailing to the faint red in the water. The wound.

The boy seemed satisfied with his answer, a small hesitant trust being formed.

"I couldn't help but notice your hurt. Would you mind if I healed you?" He asked, wringing his wrists.

This took the boy by suprise and with small slow nod, he swam closer and reached his arm out of the water. There was a few scars here and there, and what looked like a golden fin across the back of his arm. The boy looked away at first, but once the fairy started to let his magic flow he watched in awe. As the green magic knitted the bloody cut on his arm back together.

When Hyrule pulled his arms away, cutting the magic off, the boy admiring his newly healed arm.

"Did you hurt it on the rocks when I startled you?"

A knod, before the other perked up.

"I'll be back in a second." At that the boy dove under and after about a minute or two he came back up with some cut fish in hands.

"For you." He dropped them on the ground beside Hyrule, awaiting a response.

For a moment he just looked between the other and the fish, before giving an akward smile.

"Oh thank you." He chuckled nervously.

The boy just continued to wait patiently.

"What do I do with them?"

"You eat them, its food."

Glancing down at the fish, he curiously picked one up and went to take a bite.

"Wait y-you cook it first. You were gonna eat it raw?" The boy exclaimed with concern.

Oh.

With a snap of his fingers a small flame appeared in his palm. Growing by the second and so he started to roast it.

Once done (although he burned it in a few places). He finally took a bit. It was juicy but dry, no doubt his own doing. And tasted plain but salty. The burnt bits tasted bitter. But all in all it satisfied him. After his first bite, he set it down and cooked another, holding it out to the boy in the pond.

"I realized I never asked for your name, I'm Hyrule." He spoke, as the boy gingerly took the offered fish.

"I'm Legend." He took a bite and grimaced at first to the taste but settled.

He packed the rest of the fish away in his bag after asking if the boy wanted anymore.

Crossing his legs and resting his head in his palms.

"Hey, ive been meaning to ask. Why do you stay in the pond?"

The boys face frorrowed, his eyes traced the rocks instead of the fairy, and lifted what the fairy assumed was his version of legs. A large white blotched amareanth fishtail, lined with golden fins, some tattered near the end but not much.

"Oh you can't go that far." He spoke sadly.

"Yeah, no legs means no land travel. Fish tail means water travel only." He said simply.

"Do you live in this pond, have any family around here?" He asked a pit forming in his gut.

Legend shook his head,

"I was dropped here on accident by poachers after the few days travel they had me. I've been stuck in this pond for almost a whole week now if in correct. I lived in Hylia lake, with my uncle."

Lake Hylia!

That was at least a few days travel from his fountain, how far did the poachers go to abduct him?

He wanted to help he really did, but what could he do?

...

Then like a blessing from above, an idea popped in his head. Details would be thought of next. But he had an idea, and he was going to help this weird hylian.

Hyrule brightened immediately.

"Hey, what if I took you home? Act as your guide across the lands." Hyrule suggested.

Legend looked at him as if he grew two heads.

"How are you going to do that?"

He didn't know but maybe he could carry Legend to his fountain when he found it and ask his mother for advice. She always knew what to do.

"I could take you to my fairy fountain and find out what to do from there." He suggested, with a shrug and nervous smile.

The pink haired kid, tilted his head in thought before giving a nod.

"That could work. Better than being stuck in here till the day i die."

Thankfully a thought on what he could do came to mind. An friend could possibly help.

"Perfect! It's settled then!" At that Hyrule brought his point finger and thumb to his mouth and gave a shrill whistle.

He waited a full minute or two before a small willow bird swooped in and perched in his hair.

A small mouse like creature getting off its back and peeking over his forehead from his hair. The creature no bigger than a hylians thumb.

"Hyrule! Long time no see!" The small thing squeaked cheerfully.

They clung to a curl of hair and dropped onto Hyrules waiting palm. The fairy chuckling at the small person?

"It has, hasn't it?" He laughed. Before the small mouse caught eye with Legend.

"A hylian in the pond? And it seems they can see me?" They chittered.

"I dont think hes a hylian. Either he isn't or he is and hes a weird one." Hyrule whispered.

"I'm a mer, deffintly not hylian. And what is that thing in your palm." Legend asked from the water resting his arms on the sand dirt edge.

Oh so that's what he was, he was going to ask mother about that later.

"This is Picori, of the Minish. He's been my best friend, since I could even walk. He may be able to help us with our problem." Hyrule smilled.

"That explains the pond, hylians tend to hate getting wet in clothing." Picori huffed.

Hyrule hummed before, leaning closer to the Minish in his palm. Whispering something Legend couldn't hear or understand with the change in Hyrules language.

Hyrule backed up, and Picori seemed to hum before saying something to the other.

"Alright, Legend I'm going to need to carry you for this next part, would you be okay with that?" Hyrule looked over to the mer in question expectantly.

"Where are you taking me, exactly?" He asked, pulling himself out of the water.

And now, could Hyrule so the rest of him properly. He had what looked like a black tunic like shirt, long sleeves folded above the elbows, and a collar he now folded up, hidding the gills on his neck.

A black and silver belt wrapped around his waist and bottom half of the tunic.

The metal emited no familiar heat, safe.

"Cori has a solution to our problem." He chirped, putting Picori on his shoulder, and reaching to pick Legend up.

Abite difficult and painstakingly Hyrule managed to carry him bridal style, in the directions Picori instructed.

Being meet with a tree stump, that radiated the same magic Picori did.

"Place him on the stump and me on his shoulder." Picori instructed.

Hyrule nodded gently and put Legend on the stump. Next reaching a hand for Picori to climb on and let him onto legends shoulder.

"Tell him not to freak out with this next part, they always do the first go around." Picoris muttered, Hyrule relaying the message.

"Okay now I'm worried, what's the small guy on my shoulder planning." Legend asked nervously.

Hyrule lifting hands to gently take the bird from his head, placing her down on a nearby rock with a pet.

"You'll see in a second." The fairy smiled with a tilt of his head, hair falling with the motion. Before he shrank in the blink of an eye. To a normal fairys size, Legend could only blink dumbly as Hyrule fluttered in place, waiting he noticed.

Picori chittering something from his shoulder, before he felt a strong magic pull him. He landed with an oof on giant mushrooms inside a what looked like the inside of the stump he was sitting on.

Wait-

A small thumping alerted the presence of the Minish, who was now almost the same size as himself (Almost, he was still tiny compared to the others), as he scampered over and helped the merman down from the fungi, and over to a waiting Hyrule by the exit of the stump. The minish and fairy sharing a quick tight hug, before the merman was picked up and held again.

The minish handed Legend a small pale brown thing that looked edible, smelled bitter, but nice. And was told to eat it by Hyrule.

It was an uncomfortable mess with his hearing, a soft static and deafness before it settled and he could understand the mouse guys greeting.

Getting a good look at the world as it was now that he was smaller. It looked huge, and so much more different, things he'd never notice before in full view now. All though he'd never really seen what the surface had to offer anyway. Intill the poachers of course. But still.

"I better grow again before I'm returned home." Legend smirked.

Getting a short laugh from Hyrule.

"You will when when we get to my fountain."

Picori blew a quick whistle with his pinky fingers at a higher note than Hyrules from before. The willow bird peered up, and flapped over. Awaiting it's riders to board.

"You do know where my fountain is, right Picori?" The fairy asked with a nervous chuckle.

The minish nodded getting on the birds back.

No one needed to know he was lost, and add to his reputation. So it went unsaid.

Once they were all situated and Legend was held securely. The bird shot up into the sky at Picoris gentle command.

End

Good day/night whoever read this, hope your doing good^^

[robininthelabyrinth]

Silver Mist - part 2/3 - ao3  or tumblr pt 1

warning: adult content, read the ao3 tags

From then on, Nie Huaisang made a habit of going to his brother’s room every evening to unbraid his hair, which his brother permitted with more outward grumbling than actual resistance. It helped that Nie Mingjue had very obviously missed Nie Huaisang just as much – well, maybe not as much – as Nie Huaisang had missed him in return; he was happy, now that the war was over, to find reasons to spend more time together.

“Would da-ge like me to come by in the morning, too?” Nie Huaisang asked one evening. “I could do your hair then, too – better and prettier than you ever do!”

“Do you think you even can wake up that early?” Nie Mingjue asked, grunting as Nie Huaisang worked his hand up and down his cock. His da-ge’s hands were bound behind his back to keep him from interfering – Nie Huaisang had introduced that just a few days back, another small modification, and his brother had acceded to it beautifully, all those Nie sect lessons about self-control and fearsome tempers working wonders to dupe his mind into seeing it as a reasonable precaution rather than purely an instrument for Nie Huaisang’s pleasure. “I get up every morning to train, don’t forget.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Nie Huaisang said, mentally resigning himself to a few irritating days or even weeks of getting up early to cross the hallway to his brother’s room. In time, of course, he would suggest that it would be easier for him to simply stay overnight, and the morning braids could be turned into morning delight – patience, Huaisang, he scolded himself, have patience.

It was difficult, though. His brother was so good to him.

He waited until Nie Mingjue was just on the edge of coming, then hummed that very particular stanza – his brother cried out, pleasure flooding through him, and sank into the quiet all at once, the post-orgasm languor seamlessly merging with the artificial relaxation of Nie Huaisang’s spell. It was important in these early days to reinforce the trance state as much as possible, to make it seem welcoming and relaxing, to associate it with good feelings. After all, if he were going to start playing more dangerous games, he would need to be able to pull his da-ge back into that state quickly and cleanly, to avoid any disruption to his brother’s mental state.

Any lasting disruption, anyway.

“You’ve been doing so good, da-ge,” he said encouragingly, petting his brother’s hair. His brother’s eyes were so beautiful like this, blank and accepting. “I think we’re just about ready to take the next step, don’t you? Get on your knees. Huaisang will show you what you need to do.”

He ended up needing to resort to the command sooner than he’d expected.

It was his own fault, really. He’d been so busy thinking about all the wonderful things he could do in the future when his da-ge was properly his that he’d forgotten that his da-ge had some very annoying habits, especially early in the morning.

“Since you’re already awake, you can join me for morning training,” Nie Mingjue said, his hair already fully braided – he must have gotten up especially early – with a broad grin; he twirled Nie Huaisang’s saber pointedly at Nie Huaisang, who scowled in return, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He preferred to sleep late whenever possible, had forced himself to make the sacrifice of getting up early, and now this?

It wasn’t that he minded his da-ge’s pestering, not really. He knew it was one of the way his da-ge showed him that he loved him, all that scolding really just a mask for his concern for Nie Huaisang’s well-being, and unlike that incipient interpersonal disaster brewing over in the Jiang sect he, at least, knew how accept a bit of sour with his sweet. But on the very first day?

Nie Huaisang was a Nie, too, you know. He also had a temper.

He hummed.

Nie Mingjue’s movement stuttered, and he paused, his eyes slowly starting to blank out, but Nie Huaisang didn’t finish the stanza, not in full. “On your knees,” he ordered.

“Huaisang?” his da-ge asked, looking confused, but his body obeyed, dropping down onto the floor, just as Nie Huaisang had taught him, his hands locking onto his wrists behind his back. “Huaisang, what…? What are you doing?”

“Getting undressed, da-ge,” Nie Huaisang said. “You’re not going to be able to suck my cock through my clothing, are you?”

“Your – what?!”

Nie Huaisang’s canines were sometimes a little sharper than most people, and he bared them at his disobedient da-ge now with a fox’s smile. “It’s not very nice of you to ambush me like that,” he said, pushing aside his clothing and leaving himself bare and hard in front of his da-ge. “Scolding me about my saber training first thing in the morning? You should put your mouth to better use.”

“Huaisang! You can’t – we can’t –”

“I want to see you choke yourself on my cock,” Nie Huaisang said conversationally, and Nie Mingjue leaned forward and took him into his mouth, his eyes wide and round. He was bad at it, quite frankly: other than the brief teaching lesson the day before, it was fairly obvious that he’d never sucked cock before. He went too fast, hitting his gag reflex and sending tears to his eyes, but Nie Huaisang never claimed to be anything other than petty and vindictive when crossed. “Do you like that, da-ge? You like sucking your didi’s cock?”

Nie Mingjue made a noise of protest.

“No? Are you sure? Look at how eager you are. Look at how you use your tongue on me, how you try to take more than you can handle, like you’d die if you didn’t pleasure me.” Nie Mingjue was visibly struggling now, unable to stop his mouth from moving or release his hands from behind his back no matter how much he tried. “I bet you’re hard. Do you like being hard for me?”

Of course Nie Mingjue was hard. Nie Huaisang had put it in the instructions the day before – had painstakingly taken the time to associate the feeling of Nie Mingjue touching himself just the way he liked it with the feeling of Nie Huaisang’s cock on his tongue, so that one sensation would instantly recall the other.

“You can touch yourself,” he added, and Nie Mingjue’s hands finally released from behind his back at last – but they went to do Nie Huaisang’s bidding, not to push him away the way Nie Mingjue had clearly intended. “Don’t come until I say you can.”

He put his hands on his brother’s head, the gesture far from a massage this time, and started fucking his brother’s face. “Maybe this’ll teach you to be nicer to me,” he scolded – but gently, most of his irritation already abated in the wake of his excitement and pleasure. It didn’t take long for him to reach his peak, spilling into his brother’s mouth with a grunt and watching with pleasure as his brother obediently swallowed all that he could and licked up what he couldn’t. “Good boy, da-ge. Well done.”

“Huaisang,” his brother rasped, looking up at him with pleading eyes, one hand still working himself hard and fast, the other tucked down to cup his balls. “Huaisang, what did I do…? What have I done to you…?”

“Oh, da-ge,” Nie Huaisang said, his heart growing warm. Even now, after this, his brother blamed himself before he blamed Nie Huaisang – if that wasn’t love, what was? “Don’t worry. I’ll make it all better.”

He hummed the rest of the stanza, watching the remaining threads of awareness fade away.

“You can come,” he said, and smiled when it only took a few more strokes for his brother to finish. “Forget everything that happened this morning. It was just a bad dream you had, the details of which are unimportant and already gone – except maybe for a slight unpleasant association with surprising me with morning saber training. When you wake up, it’ll be just as it was before I first walked in.”

He walked out of the door and broke the connection, firmed up his resolve, and went back in to get dragged outside for morning saber training, which was the worst.

Still, all things considered, Nie Huaisang felt that he’d gotten out ahead.

Sniggering at his own pun, he lifted up his saber and dragged himself through all the old routines, watching with an indulgent smile as his brother enthusiastically jumped around, barking out suggestions for improvement and correcting his form.

Yes, he thought happily to himself. This is good.

And it’s going to get even better.

-

“Da-ge,” Nie Huaisang said, and his brother looked at him in question. “Are you a virgin?”

“What type of stupid question is that?” Nie Mingjue asked with a glare, and Nie Huaisang held up his hands in a protestation of innocence.

They were at the private baths today, the little grotto with its own hot spring that was reserved for the exclusive use of the Nie clan. Just as the Lan sect had its much-prized Cold Spring, the Nie sect had an entire network of hot springs, with various locations scattered throughout the Unclean Realm. The temperatures of the springs varied from warm to near-boiling, and the water in each one was rich with minerals that cultivators required to strengthen themselves; unlike the Lan sect, the Nie sect believed in rewards as well as discipline, and each spring was stocked full with all sorts of soaps and creams to help ease sore muscles, toughen bone and sinew, or even enhance mental fortitude. They were excellent places to cultivate as well as bathe, and were accordingly extremely popular with the disciples, whether Nie sect disciples or guest disciples who had earned an invitation.

Naturally, the one reserved for the Nie clan was the finest of the lot, and Nie Huaisang loved it dearly. As a member of the Nie clan, he was allowed in as often as he liked and he took full advantage of the privilege, ignoring his brother’s occasional complaints that the baths were meant to supplement cultivation, not replace it. He knew his brother didn’t mean it, that he was happy with anything that would help Nie Huaisang improve – indeed, that he’d been very happy with the extent of Nie Huaisang’s recent improvement, which Nie Huaisang had ascribed to a sudden bout of enlightenment in connection to one of his meditation techniques.

There had been no such enlightenment, of course, but he wasn’t about to tell Nie Mingjue that the improvement in his cultivation came from all of cock-sucking he’d been doing – and receiving – lately, his da-ge’s vigorous yang energy strengthening him much more than he’d anticipated.

(It was because he held his brother’s heart in his hand, he realized, and belatedly understood why his mother’s voice had taught him all those tricks to get people to fall in love. The stories said that the nine-tailed fox spirits enticed men to be their lovers until they lost their souls, and only then devoured them – Nie Huaisang could see why, if the yield was so much greater.)

And that was all just from hands and mouths so far! He was sure that the results would be even more impressive once they started dual cultivation in earnest.

Which was the plan today, in fact, except right before they’d been about to begin he’d thought of the question he had asked, interrupting the flow of things.

Even now, Nie Mingjue was crouched in front of him on the ledge near the pool, his large legs splayed apart and Nie Huaisang’s cock nudging at his well-stretched entrance – he’d had him fingering himself for the last ten minutes straight, convincing Nie Mingjue that it was a natural and normal thing to be doing in the bath with his brother, who was clearly far too busy chattering about nonsense to notice; he had wanted the first time he entered his brother to be with his cock, and anyway he loved a good show.

“I’m just curious, da-ge,” Nie Huaisang said, pouting exaggeratedly until his brother rolled his eyes in amusement. “Won’t you tell me? I thought you told me that it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“It isn’t,” Nie Mingjue said crossly – he was often cross, these days, even though Nie Huaisang was doing such a good job of helping him work out his anger through the regular and routine application of pleasure. “It’s a stupid idea, that’s what it is. Experience is experience, inexperience, inexperience; there’s nothing more to it than that. And yet people assign value to it, even condemnation in the case of women –”

“Yes, yes,” Nie Huaisang said, interrupting before his brother could get carried away on yet another rant about the foibles of the cultivation world and how it treated the female victims that had survived the Wen sect with lives but not chastity intact. It was one of the many subjects his brother was taking issue with against Jin Guangshan, who wanted to be Chief Cultivator – as far as Nie Huaisang was concerned, the odious man could do as he liked with the title, but he understood why his brother was so upset about some of his policy decisions. Certainly a slut like Jin Guangshan had no business telling any woman that they couldn’t marry because they’d been involuntarily despoiled. “I know, you’ve told me already. But that doesn’t answer the question, da-ge. Are you a virgin?”

His fingers slid causally in the form of a hand seal, encouraging complaisance – he couldn’t always be humming his brother into a trance, after all! Sometimes one needed to be a bit more subtle.

“If I tell you, can I sit down already?” his brother asked, long-suffering. “I’ve had enough of your games.”

“You can never have enough of my games,” Nie Huaisang said, smiling his fox’s smile. “But yes, da-ge, it’s a deal – just remember to go slow. Now, tell me.”

“Fine. Whatever,” his da-ge said, and grunted a little as he started lowering himself down on Nie Huisang’s cock. “Yes, I’m a virgin. As it happens.”

“Really?” Nie Huaisang said, swallowing and wetting his lips, resisting the stimulation. “But da-ge is so handsome. You really haven’t taken a woman to bed before?”

“Too much trouble,” Nie Mingjue said. “All the fuss and bother of finding a suitable female cultivator who wouldn’t feel pressured by my position, or ambitious for a place as my wife, and then there’s the risk of pregnancy… it didn’t seem worth it.”

“What about men, then?” Nie Huaisang asked. He watched as his cock slowly disappeared, bit by bit, into his brother’s body. “No risk of pregnancy there, and most of them wouldn’t think of marriage.”

“No,” Nie Mingjue said, panting a little. “Huaisang, do we really have to sit here? It’s a little uncomfortable –”

“We’re just sitting in the baths, da-ge,” Nie Huaisang reminded him, reinforcing the message with a hand seal and a bit of spiritual energy. “It’s not like we’re doing anything strange. Just sitting and relaxing, that’s all. Nothing else. Any discomfort you have will pass once you’ve adjusted.”

“Right,” his da-ge said, and pushed himself the rest of the way down with a grunt. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

Nie Huaisang’s lips twitched. “It’s just the heat, I’m sure,” he said ironically, and put his hands on his da-ge’s hips. The sensation of penetration wasn’t new to him, of course, but there was a thrill of pleasure to be had in being balls-deep inside his own brother while he told him how much of a virgin he thought he still was. “You train so much; I bet you have all sorts of muscle cramps that are just now finally relaxing. If you feel any more discomfort, it’s probably just that.”

It was important, he felt, to guide his brother into these things slowly – the enchantment he’d cast was strong, especially with how often he’d repeated it and how open and trusting his brother was towards him, but in the end it was still only an enchantment; his brother could still break free and recover himself if there was something he found too strange, too sudden, too much. Far better to gradually accustom Nie Mingjue to the sensation of having a cock inside of him – or getting his own cock inside of someone else, for that matter – before Nie Huaisang started taking him to his bed on the regular.

“So, why not men?” he asked, picking up the earlier thread of conversation. “It seems to avoid most of the issues you raised, and I know you like men, too.”

“Not the issue about finding a proper partner,” Nie Mingjue said with a sigh. “I’m Sect Leader Nie before I’m anything else – the men in the Nie sect are loyal to me, required to obey me, and after I took the mantle of general in the Sunshot Campaign, many of the other sects feel the same. Who’s to say that someone wouldn’t feel obligated to say yes, even if they didn’t actually want to…? I couldn’t do that.”

You’re a better man than me, Nie Huaisang thought. I want my ‘yes’ no matter how I have to get it.

“Did you ever like any of them?” he asked, and his brother scowled at him. “You did! Was it san-ge? You liked him so much when he was with us.”

“It was,” his brother reluctantly admitted. “Don’t get any ideas, though; that was in the past! Anyway, in his case, it would have been even worse, wouldn’t it? There were already so many rumors about his background. Imagine what people would say if they thought we were lovers!”

“People already thought you were lovers,” Nie Huaisang said dryly.

“All the more reason not to encourage them, then.”

“Mm, I suppose da-ge has a point,” Nie Huaisang said. “You’ll have no choice but to stay with me forever.”

Nie Mingjue huffed and ruffled his hair, making a face when the movement changed the angle a little. “Whatever you say, didi,” he said, indulgent as he was only towards Nie Huaisang. “Now, do you want to meditate a little?”

Nie Huaisang considered it. “Yes,” he finally said. “That’s a good idea. I’ll meditate, and you’ll warm my cock.”

“What was that?” Nie Mingjue said, lips twisting into a scowl. “I didn’t quite hear that last part.”

“I’m agreeing to meditate,” Nie Huaisang said innocently. Instructing his da-ge to immediately forget anything that drew his attention to their current situation had clearly been the right choice; it made this all the more fun. “Just like you suggested.”

“You’re being remarkably cooperative these days,” Nie Mingjue said. “It makes me think you’re up to something.”

“Me? No way, da-ge. I’m far too lazy to scheme.”

“Not if it’s something you really want, you aren’t.”

Nie Huaisang, seen, smiled. “I suppose so. How do you feel right now, da-ge? Physically.”

Nie Mingjue considered the question with the seriousness of a man with a great deal of concern for his health, and many people asking him about it. “Good,” he finally said.

“Full?” Nie Huaisang asked, moving his hips a little to fuck up a bit into Nie Mingjue, who let out a small, involuntary moan.

“Yeah,” Nie Mingjue said, biting his lip a little. “Yeah, full. Kind of – stretched? Not in a bad way. Like when you’re cultivating and you draw in too much qi all at once, but a bit more… physical.”

“If you want to get yourself off, I wouldn’t mind,” Nie Huaisang said comfortingly. “I’m going to meditate, after all. It’ll be as if I’m not paying any attention to you at all.”

“Maybe I will,” Nie Mingjue said, his cheeks flushing red – even after all that work to convince him that this was something he could do without shame, something he should do, he still got all embarrassed when they talked about it. He was so cute! “You meditate. I want to see a noticeable improvement in your strength by the end of the week, you hear me?”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Nie Huaisang said honestly, and settled in to watch his da-ge touch himself, jerking himself off in that casual and efficient manner he had when he thought he was all alone. He could feel the effect of it already, spiritual energy flowing through his meridians and condensing in his core – dual cultivation was going to be amazing, he just knew it.

“You like the feeling, the one you can’t quite put your finger on right now,” he murmured, letting his words flow right into his brother’s head while he was distracted by pleasure. “It feels good to you, makes you feel secure, happy. Gets you feeling hot. One day, I’m going to make you need it, crave it, beg me for it – I’ll come into your office where you do all the work and you’ll be shifting around anxiously, unsure of what it is that you need, and that’s when I’ll give it to you. I won’t even make you beg me. I’ll fuck you over your own desk, come inside you, plug you up and leave you like that.”

Nie Mingjue might not pay any attention to his words, but he sure noticed it when Nie Huaisang bucked his hips up, fucking up into him; he gasped, leaned forward, and braced himself on Nie Huaisang’s shoulders.

“I’ll have you in the main hall on the throne,” Nie Huaisang said dreamily. “I’ll ride you until you’re weak at the knees and then have you suck me off, and then we’ll invite in our guests, no one the wiser that you’ve got my come in your mouth and yours in my ass. I’ll grow strong, da-ge, until you don’t need to worry about me so much – until I can hold you down. Until I can make you need me.”

“Huaisang,” Nie Mingjue muttered, his eyes hazy as he worked himself. “Shut up. You’re supposed to be meditating.”

Nie Huaisang pressed his lips together and smiled, watching his brother finish in his hand, instinctively fucking himself down on Nie Huaisang’s cock to get more of what felt so good.

“Actually, da-ge, I think I found something that I think will help my cultivation even more,” he said conversationally once his brother had somewhat recovered, and as expected his brother turned bright eyes to him. “Here, put your hand on my belly – aren’t I stronger already?”

“You are,” Nie Mingjue said, surprised. “Even compared to this morning! Not much, but definitely something – you must be very compatible with this new cultivation technique you’ve found.”

“I heard it was one that my mother used to use,” Nie Huaisang said, and it wasn’t even a lie. His mother had always liked Nie Mingjue, from the stories he’d heard; he was perhaps the only one of all the people in the Unclean Realm that she actually liked, and Nie Mingjue paid back her affection by loyally ignoring all of the speculation and whispers about her – he didn’t question it. “I’m having some trouble picking up the technique fully, though; you know how I am. Could I ask you to help me with it?”

“Certainly,” his brother said, reaching out to ruffle his hair affectionately. “You don’t know how happy I am to see you making progress.”

“It needs a lot of practice, though,” Nie Huaisang said, widening his eyes and pouting. “Lots and lots of practice – will da-ge help keep me on track?”

“Like I do your saber training?” Nie Mingjue said dryly.

“Well, I’m more compatible with this one,” Nie Huaisang said, ducking his head to hide his grin. “If da-ge agrees to help, I promise I’ll do my best to practice as often as da-ge recommends.”

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” Nie Mingjue remarked with – admittedly justified cynicism. “All right. What’s the cultivation technique? I’ll help however I can.”

“Let me show you,” Nie Huaisang said, and rolled them both over. “Put your hands on the beam there above your head – yes, perfect – spread your legs a bit more, tilt your hips up…”

He pulled out and thrust in hard, punching out a fucked-out little exhale from his da-ge that he rather liked the sound of, so he did it again, and again, and again, until he was really getting into it.

“Look at that, da-ge,” he said sweetly. “I’m working up a real sweat. Isn’t that good?”

His brother didn’t respond, of course. Fucking him like this, after he’d just come, was overstimulating him to the extreme, reducing him down to little mewls and whimpers and breathy punched-out sighs as he spread his legs wider and tried so very sweetly to encourage him to keep up the good work.

Somehow, Nie Huaisang thought he’d be able to defy his brother’s expectations and actually stick to whatever training regime his brother put together for him this time.

Somehow.

Clearly, all he’d ever needed was the right incentive.