#And eventually just ends up blurting it out without any context whatsoever

[amethystina]

Hello, I hope you're doing better.

I just wanted to tell you that since I read the latest chapter of Who Holds The Devil you have revived in me some ideas and scenarios I had in mind about the show.

Like what if everything worked out for Yohan's plans after episode 12 (when Gaon left Yohan and Elijah) without K or Soohyun dying? What would happen then?

Yohan will definitely leave after some point to Switzerland with Elijah because he already planned it for her treatment, even if he is not a criminal in Korea or presumed dead. But how long will it take him to leave?

And what will Gaon do? Will he start dating Soohyun or keep whatever they have between them as it is? If he dates her, will they work out or realise they were better together as friends and family but nothing more? ( I personally believe that when they start dating at the beginning, everything will seem perfect. But as time goes on, they will realise that it won't work out between them as they took a very long time to get to this point, and that it was too late.)

Will Gaon stay in contact with Elijah? (Maybe.) Or Yohan? ( I doubt it.)

Will Gaon miss them? Will he ever realise that Yohan loved him or that he had some kind of feelings for Yohan?

Basically, what would've happened if all the baggage from the last episodes never occurred. After the rejection on Gaon's part in episode 12, I believe Yohan will want to stay away from Gaon but I could be wrong.

The latest chapter reminded me of all these ideas and questions I had, but now we have a lot more baggage and issues to work through which makes me even more excited to explore what will happen next.

I trust your storytelling abilities as they have not once failed me for all this time I was following this fic.

Take care of your self, and when you feel better come back with a new amazing chapter as always.

I'm doing better, thank you 💜

Wow. Yeah, that's a lot of thoughts! And very interesting ones! And I think some of it depends on exactly how Yo Han decides to finish his plans. Like, killing people on national television would still make him a criminal, so I'm guessing that's not what he does? But he still gets his revenge somehow?

But yeah, he'd definitely still go to Switzerland since that has clearly been a part of his plan for years. And I think he'd actually go as soon as possible. Maybe he'd give Elijah time to say goodbye to Ga On, but that depends on what terms he and Ga On are, I'd say. If we assume that none of the baggage happened (including Soo Hyun dying, Ga On attempting to murder Yo Han, etc.) I think that Yo Han would keep his distance from Ga On, yes. Out of sheer pride and self-preservation, if nothing else. And Ga On has Soo Hyun so he wouldn't seek Yo Han out, since he knows that Soo Hyun doesn't like Yo Han and he wouldn't want to upset her.

So, sadly enough, I think Yo Han and Ga On would drift apart. Maybe they'd still cooperate somehow to take down the baddies, but, as horrible as it may sound, Soo Hyun's death actually brought them closer together. Even Ga On trying to kill Yo Han did in some ways since, from that point on, they're forever tied together what with Yo Han carrying the scar Ga On gave him. And without that? With Soo Hyun there to plead with Ga On not to do something dangerous? Ga On wouldn't chase after Yo Han. And Yo Han wouldn't chase after Ga On since he's already been rejected and is too prideful.

So I think that Yo Han would leave for Switzerland with Elijah and Ga On would stay in touch with her, yes, but not Yo Han. Maybe he'd try a couple of times, but Yo Han wouldn't respond. And, eventually, Ga On will stop trying because who is Yo Han to him anyway? Just his weird boss who he lived with for a while — and kind of wanted to take care of because he seemed so lonely — who was also a terrible influence on him. So, clearly, it might be for the better that they don't talk anymore.

(You keep telling yourself that, Ga On)

As for Ga On and Soo Hyun, I think they would start dating, yes, and I think they'd be pretty happy there at the beginning. If in a pretty boring and uneventful way. Like, there's not really much passion between them, is there? But they'd be content. It'd be safe and sweet.

I'm not sure if they'd notice that there's something wrong, though. I think that both of them have been waiting for this for so long that they'd be determined to make it work, even if that means ignoring the warning signs. I honestly think they'd both pretend everything was fine long after the point where it's not. And that both of them would silence the niggling doubts by saying that this is just how all relationships are — there will be dips. Nothing is perfect all the time. And it's not like they're arguing or anything.

It's just a little dull, that's all.

In short, I think they'd be stuck. Not in a way that makes them genuinely unhappy, but they certainly wouldn't be honest with themselves or each other, either. Which isn't the worst way to live, but it's also not the best one.

And I think that Ga On would miss Elijah and Yo Han, yes, though he wouldn't be honest about why he does. He'd just say it's because he cares about them and it's sad that he can't talk to them as often — or at all, in Yo Han's case. And, in a similar vein, I don't think Ga On would try to explore his feelings for Yo Han, or Yo Han's feelings for him. Because Ga On would be able to tell that danger lies in that direction and he'd rather remain in denial.

But he would think about Yo Han a lot. And probably do a doubletake every time they mention Yo Han or show his picture in the media. And he'd ask Elijah about how Yo Han is doing. He'd find himself cooking Yo Han's favourite food, even if he's not there to eat it. He'd miss the house. He'd miss the quiet nights reading.

He'd still wear the watch.

And all that longing would only make Ga On double down and be even more determined to make things work with Soo Hyun. Because the alternative is just too scary. He doesn't want there to be another explanation as to why he misses Yo Han. He wants his safe and happy life with Soo Hyun.

Everything else is shoved aside, pushed down, and ignored.

And, eventually, I think Soo Hyun would notice that something is wrong. But she doesn't know what and, even if she kind of hates herself for it, she's too afraid of the answer to ask. Because she doesn't want to lose Ga On and, deep down, she can tell that he is slipping away from her, slowly but surely. Just from the fact that his smiles are a little too hollow sometimes, and he's often staring off into space, lost in thought. So she tries her best to help him, as always, but, for some reason, it doesn't seem to work as well as it usually would.

But of course it'd eventually come crumbling down. And — since I'm a dramatic bitch — I suggest it'll do so when Yo Han and Elijah eventually drop by for a visit (mostly Elijah's doing, of course, with Yo Han reluctantly agreeing). More specifically the moment when Ga On comes face to face with Yo Han again for the first time in months — maybe even a year? — and everything he's been trying to suppress rushes to the surface and hits him like a freight train.

Because he's been living comfortably with Soo Hyun, sure, and he loves her dearly, but there's not much of a spark. But the one he had with Yo Han? That's been just a softly glowing ember since they parted ways?

Turns out that seeing Yo Han again — and being faced with all that intensity and enticing hint of danger once more — is all it takes to ignite it again. To turn it into a wildfire.

All of a sudden, Ga On is reminded of what real attraction feels like.

And the fact that it's not aimed at his girlfriend is definitely going to be a bit of a problem.

... aaaaaand maybe I should stop now. Because I'm not sure if you actually wanted me to answer what I think x'D

Anyway! Yes, very interesting things to ponder! And I think there are several ways to go, depending on what angle one wants to take and what happened during those last episodes. Like, if Yo Han and Ga On reconciled after their breakup, I think some parts would obviously play out differently. But, if they didn't? I'd go with something like what I said above.

But, again, that depends entirely on what you want to accomplish. Trust me when I say that there are always ways to tweak what happens to your liking but still make it feel in character and realistic. I'm somewhat of an expert on that, I've been told xD

Thank you so much for sharing, anyway! It was a very fun thought experiment! And I do hope to be able to get back to writing sometime soon. I'm actually feeling better than I have in a long time, but I think I'm going to make a separate post about that. We'll see.

I hope you have a great day! Take care 💜

#Amethystina Replies #Anonymous #The Devil Judge #For real though #I don't need much to get going #I got this ask 23 hours ago according to Tumblr #And I'm not lying when I say that I already have a vague outline for a possible story #That starts around the point where Yo Han and Elijah return to Korea #Mainly focused on how Ga On will have to navigate the extremely gay feelings he suddenly has for Yo Han #While also coming to terms with the ones he DOESN'T have for Soo Hyun #My brain works fast and doesn't stop for anyone #Not even me #My favourite scene is one after Ga On has put on his big-boy pants and actually broken up with Soo Hyun #And has no idea how to say that to Yo Han in a natural way #(because he's secretly hoping that Yo Han will be interested in him now but he can't just SAY that) #And eventually just ends up blurting it out without any context whatsoever #And Yo Han just looks at him #And with an INCREDIBLY deadpan voice goes: 'My condolences?' #Because Yo Han is NOT going to be easy to approach #(until he is because it's Ga On and he's a big softie for Ga On)

[robininthelabyrinth]

I'm fond of time travel aus, especially yours, so what if just LWJ travelled back to the gusu lectures, either during the 13/16 years or after all the events of canon.

1

Lan Wangji walked slowly towards the room where his uncle’s lectures were held. He had no reason to drag his feet – this was a chance to change the past for the better, to stop so many terrible things from happening – and yet, he couldn’t resist going even more slowly than usual. 

He was a little worried. So much rested on his shoulders.

What would be the right place to make the first change?

“Enjoy the lecture, Wangji,” his brother said as he passed him, returning from his own morning chores.

“Mm,” Lan Wangji said noncommittally.

“Wait,” Lan Xichen said, stopping and turning to look at him. “Hold on. What happened?”

Lan Wangji hesitated.

“Something big?”

“It isn’t –”

“How bad?” Lan Xichen’s eyes went wide. “That bad? How many people died?”

Lan Wangji winced – the answer was, of course, a very great deal, but that was all in the future and hadn’t happened yet – but Lan Xichen read the answer off of him at once.

“That many deaths couldn’t have happened without me knowing,” Lan Xichen said, clearly thinking it through. “And you were fine yesterday. Was it a dream? No, you wouldn’t panic over a dream. Did something happen at night –”

“I’ve returned from the future to change the past,” Lan Wangji blurted out. He couldn’t help it. He’d never been a good liar, and it’d been such a long time since he’d seen his brother so energic over anything…

“Oh,” Lan Xichen said, and visibly relaxed. “Okay. That’s fine. As long as you’re all right, and nobody’s died yet. Let me help?”

When he put it that way – how could Lan Wangji say no?

2

“Wangji?” his uncle called as he entered the hanshi. It was a little early for lectures to be finished – it must have been one of the shorter days, perhaps.

“In here, with me,” Lan Xichen called.

Lan Qiren entered, a worried furrow in his brow. “You missed the lecture. I was concerned.”

Lan Wangji bowed his head. He’d gotten so caught up with talking with his brother that he had forgotten – it was strange, to still have responsibilities that meant going places he was told to go, doing what he was told to do. It’d been years since he had been the one attending classes, rather than teaching them.

And Lan Xichen had acted so naturally about it all that he’d just forgotten. And in forgetting, he’d worried his uncle, which he hadn’t meant to do – his uncle had always meant well, even when they disagreed. He hadn’t allowed his affection for Lan Wangji to stop him from doing what he believed to be the right thing, such as in the battle against Wei Wuxian, but in every other instant he was often Lan Wangji’s staunchest ally within the sect.

It’d been his forceful arguments that had convinced the rest of the sect to allow a formal marriage between Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian, when Lan Wangji had been certain that the most he would ever get was a quiet understanding and being left alone.  

“Wangji’s returned from the future,” Lan Xichen announced. “He’s nearly as old as you are, and married.”

“Married?” Lan Qiren asked. “To who? That Wei boy?”

Lan Wangji turned to stare.

His uncle looked back at him. “What? Did you think you were being subtle?”

Lan Wangji opened and closed his mouth. He knew he wasn’t, of course, but he’d assumed his lack of subtlety had started…somewhat later in life. According to Lan Xichen, he hadn’t known Wei Wuxian for more than a week at this point.

“My relationship is not what I returned to fix,” he finally said. “There are other events –”

“It is that Wei boy!” His uncle looked – delighted? What? “An excellent choice, Wangji. You’re well matched.”

Lan Wangji felt his ears turning red. His uncle had certainly never said that to him in his past life.

Of course, if he had, Lan Wangji as he had been back then might have died of pure mortification, so it was probably for the best.

“You think so?” Lan Xichen asked. “He seems a bit – excitable –”

“It’ll be good for Wangji to have a challenge,” his uncle said, his eyes curving in a smile. “Someone to excite him every day.”

“I came to tell you about war,” Lan Wangji said, a little desperate to make them stop. “With the Wen sect -”

“The inevitability of war can wait,” Lan Qiren said. “First – do you have any children?”

“…one.”

“You have a child!” Lan Xichen exclaimed. “Wangji! You didn’t say! How wonderful! You have to tell us everything!”

Lan Wangji wondered exactly how he had reached this point.

3

Nie Huaisang had developed a new habit that Lan Wangji didn’t know what to make of.

It hadn’t happened in his first life – certainly not at the Cloud Recesses, but not at any other point thereafter – and that made it strange. For a little while, Lan Wangji was afraid that Nie Huaisang had also returned from the future, since he wouldn’t put it past the Headshaker to have figured out his own way back for his own purposes, but after feeling him out a little he didn’t think so.

But that made what he was doing all the stranger.

From what Lan Wangji remembered, Nie Huaisang had been a little afraid of him during this time, and had largely avoided him, preferring to spend time with Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng. So why was he now following him around, talking about all manner of random things? He often didn’t even provide context for the subjects he brought up, and sometimes merely listed off names of people or places or even sometimes things. 

It was totally nonsensical.

At first, Lan Wangji tried to ignore him, but it had no impact whatsoever. Nie Huaisang just continued what he was doing.

In the end, Lan Wangji cracked first, turning to him all at once while they were walking alone in the garden - or, well, Lan Wangji was walking his patrols, and Nie Huaisang was tagging along. “What are you doing?”

“Getting answers,” Nie Huaisang answered promptly, as if he’d only been waiting for Lan Wangji to ask.

Lan Wangji frowned at him.

Nie Huaisang was still young at this point – young and lazy and frivolous. But Lan Wangji had seen what steel lay beneath, in the years to come, and he would not make the mistake of underestimating him as so many others did.

“What answers?” he asked. “To what questions?”

“I want to know the future, of course!” Nie Huaisang said. “And since it’s obvious that you know it, I’m picking your brain.”

Lan Wangji stared.

His brother figuring it out, he could understand. His uncle had been told directly. Wei Wuxian wouldn’t have surprised him, being both a genius and Lan Wangji’s soulmate. But – Nie Huaisang?

“How?” he asked.

“You very suddenly changed in how you reacted to things,” Nie Huaisang said with a shrug. “I tried to think of all the reasons there might be for it, given the constraints of time and place, and I’ve been testing and eliminating various options ever since. You wince when you think about someone who gets hurt eventually, you know.”

“…I do?”

Nie Huaisang nodded.

“Why are you telling me this?” Lan Wangji asked. The Nie Huaisang of the future was capable of an amazing degree of deception – he could not bring himself to believe that the younger version had been so careless by accident. Especially not with how eager he was to answer Lan Wangji’s questions.

“I want details,” Nie Huaisang said. “Obviously.”

“No.” Lan Wangji didn’t need to think twice about it. It was one thing to tell his family – he hadn’t planned to, but they knew him too well for him to avoid it – and entirely another to let the master schemer have such an advantage.

Nie Huaisang caught his arm. 

“I don’t think you entirely understand, Lan-er-gonzi,” he said. “You flinch whenever anyone says my brother’s name. I want to know why, and I want to stop it from happening.”

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to find that steel core so near to the surface, even this young, and yet somehow it was.

“And if I refuse?” he asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.

“You won’t. You have a big brother, too, and you flinch when his name gets said if you’re not paying attention.”

Nie Huaisang was really too smart.

“I won’t,” he agreed. “But supposing I did, what would have been your next step?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Nie Huaisang said. “I would have asked your brother to get it out of you.”

Lan Wangji sighed.

#mdzs #lan wangji #lan xichen #lan qiren #nie huaisang #my fic #my fics #vyther15

[thevengeanceuniverse]

Touch in the Dark Ch 4.2 (Bucky)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23556382/chapters/57374152

“Winter, the boy is here.” James waved to let Dmitri know to bring Tony—no, Stark, he needed to remind himself not to get too attached—in and he left without comment. James had been in a mood all day, unusually snappish and irritable. And he refused to believe it was because of the young man walking through the door who was just shy of 20 years old. Someone much too young to have any kind of effect on him. 

Not to mention that the boy was Steve’s. This whole thing was becoming ridiculous. What he had started out as a game to just mess with Steve and his young paramour had ended up blowing up in his face. But. At least it was just sexual, some negligible attraction probably born from messing with someone who was with Steve.

They’d shared lovers before, just no one that meant anything. Beautiful, nameless one night stands discretely arranged by Natasha’s all-seeing eye that were pleasurable but easy to walk away from in the morning.

Thinking about the people easily walked away from made something chill inside of him and James embraced that cold, let it spread. When Stark walked in, James didn’t bother with a greeting, simply rising and barking out a brisk, “Follow me.”

He idly noted how Stark’s face shuttered at the coldness of James welcome, hiding the hesitant nervousness that had been writ plain on his features. James led the way to the fighting ring housed in the lower basement, three floors down from his office. The mid basement had a shooting range and the higher one had meeting rooms for some of his more paranoid contacts.

Dmitri met them there, hands already wrapped and a fresh roll in his hands that James took.

Nodding his thanks, he pulled Stark to him and lifted his hands. “Watch. You’ll have to do this for yourself next time.” Making sure Stark’s eyes were on his movements, James took his time wrapping the other man’s hands to protect his knuckles.

That done, he gestured to the ring. “A huge part of successful knife-fighting is footwork. You have to be quick on your feet, able to dodge and weave when someone is coming at you. Even while you defend yourself, you have to learn to simultaneously pick apart the openings in their movement and their form, finding the spaces to step in with your own attacks. The best thing to teach you that is boxing, so right now, we’ll start with Dmitri. Any questions?”

Stark’s warm brown eyes were wide and terrified at the quick recitation, revealing his alarm before he seemed to gather his determination. James noted how his hands were clenched into tight fists, but the younger man went into the ring, ducking and entering without hesitation. Dmitri shared a look with James, eloquently conveying his doubt but he also obediently went.

It became abundantly clear that Stark had very little skills whatsoever. Dmitri moved much slower than usual, and while Stark did dodge some hits, his body was stiff and uncomfortable. Dmitri aimed hits in what seemed like a random fashion to Stark’s inexperienced eyes, but James saw the calculation in the different levelled hits. It gave James good context to see Stark hit by multi-levelled attacks, observe how he was more likely to be able to block a mid-range hit to his core or chest than a low-level hit to his legs. 

Sideways movement wasn’t too bad, but he didn’t know how to move backward without stumbling and seemed to have only some awareness of his surroundings. Stark’s surprise was clear on his face when he stepped back to avoid a hit and felt himself hit the ropes, causing him to glance behind him instinctively. Turning back to find a fist heading towards his face, James watched as surprise turned into pure terror and Tony reacted in a full-bodied flinch, arms rising in a desperate bid to protect his head.

Dmitri immediately backed off but Tony didn’t move, body trembling and panicked breathing audible in the silence. Fuck. He was having a panic attack.

James moved swiftly, ordering Dmitri to get some water as he moved into the ring, shrugging off his jacket and draped it across Tony’s trembling shoulders so he could be warmed by the fabric and residual heat. He very gently pulled Tony into a loose embrace that the young man could break if he needed to but would provide warmth and stability as he struggled to emerge from the nightmares in his mind.

James eased Tony down to the floor and pushed his head between his knees, rubbing his back soothingly. He pulled an arm still raised defensively and placed it over his chest, tapping a finger on it that echoed the beat of his heart. “Come on, Tony, that’s it, just breath for me. That’s a good boy, yes, just like that, deep breath in, let it out now, slowly, mhmm, very good, yea just follow me, do you hear that?” James continued to murmur soothing to the man in his arms, letting him rest his head heavily on his shoulder as he concentrated on breathing.

I should have expected this, he reprimanded himself. His mind flashed back again to the first day he met Tony, saving the young man as he was beaten brutally from his father. God, Tony was just like Steve and him, all of them united with legacies of abusive fathers, and he should have known that fighting would bring up horrible memories for him and overwhelm his mind. 

James hadn’t had it as bad in comparison, his own father only drinking near the end, right before the accident. And even then, he and Steve had had each other to hold them up and see them through the tough nights. Tony had a brother to protect and no one to protect him.

Giving up trying to remain distant from Tony, he stroked his hand through the other’s hair and down his back in long motions, offering comfort, offering safety. Slowly, gradually, Tony allowed himself to be consoled, relaxing enough to breathe easily. Lifting his face from where it was resting on James, he pulled away, eyes avoiding James as he struggled to gather his shields. Intimately aware with avoiding people who’ve seen your vulnerabilities, James touched one finger to Tony’s jaw, tilting his head to meet his eyes with Tony’s haunted ones.

“Hey—”

Tony immediately interrupted, voice contrite. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t—”

“I’ll do better next time. I promise. Just, don’t—please don’t give up on me.” James could see the self-flagellation starting to begin and he was quick to cut it off.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of.” When Tony opened his mouth to butt in, James glared. “I’m going to kiss you again if you don’t shut up. And believe me, Steve wouldn’t even mind if he knew it was to stop whatever stupid self-blame that was about to come out of your mouth. So shut it before I shut it for you.”

Tony gaped at the threat but at least for now, he was too shocked to continue whatever toxic cycle was rolling in his head. Mission accomplished.

“Good. What I was saying was that this was my fault. I should have known better than to put a traumatized kid,” he snorted at Tony’s disgruntled expression, “in the ring without easing him in it first. Don’t worry,” at this, he softened his voice, “I’m not going to give up on you. We might have to go a bit slower and watch out for your triggers but we can do this. I can still train you and you’ll still be able to protect yourself and your loved ones.”

“Yea?” James felt his heart twist at the wet, hopeful look in Tony’s eyes. Damn, this boy was dangerous, no wonder Steve couldn’t say no to him.

“Yea.” Trading smiles with Tony, he rose to his feet, extending a hand to help him up. His mind noted the softness of Tony’s palms after nearly a year of little manual labour and he sighed, mourning the loss of that softness in the near future.

Catching himself for those ridiculous thoughts, he shook it off and led Tony back upstairs where Dmitri met them in the hallway.

“I took the liberty to prepare some food in the living room for the young man to eat if he desires, Winter.” He informed him in Russian. “It might do him some good to have something warm in his stomach.” Reminded once again of why Dmitri was his second, James clapped him on the shoulder and smiled, giving his thanks before letting his friend go eat his own dinner.

A couple of bowls of a rice stew waited for them in the living room, positioned on the coffee table with a couple of glasses and a pitcher of water. It was simple fare, fragrant and filling without being too heavy.

Dmitri knew that James sometimes liked to take his meals here, able to relax against the cushions of the couch easier than at his empty dinner table. James walked over to the arched windows, pulling down the heavy drapes on top of the gauzy ones to block any direct views from passersby or would-be assassins both. Then he made his way to the marble fireplace, kneeling in front to stack wood and tossing in a match to create a fire to warm the cold room. That done, he settled into the armchair, letting Tony take the couch and pouring them both some water. 

The shaken man smiled in thanks before digging in ravenously. They ate in silence for a bit, both too concentrated on their stomachs to talk. Eventually Tony sat back, leaning his head against the backrest to gaze at the ceiling and cradling another glass of water between his knees, raising it to his lips every now and then. 

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Tony turned his head on the cushions, looking at James curiously.

“For letting you get triggered like that. Steve trusted me to look out for you and I did a shit job of it. I’m sorry.”

Tony just looked at James, soft honeyed eyes examining him before he sat up. “I’ll forgive you if you answer one question.” He waited for James’ agreement before speaking. “The kiss…” he paused, considering what he wanted to ask before blurting out, “Is that normal?”

James’ eyebrows came together in confusion at Tony’s question. “Is what normal?”

“The feelings.” Tony seemed to have pushed the words out through force of will and red flooded his cheeks. “It’s just, Steve is my first and I didn’t think I would feel anything, for anyone other than him because I love him.” His words held a combination of worry and fear and James realizes that enjoying their kiss had frightened Tony. He was worried that it meant he was a bad partner, no awareness that sometimes skill could cause pleasure just as much as feelings.

James ignored the voice in his head that reminded him that it wasn’t skill that made him lose himself, or forget that the kiss was a ploy to mess with Steve.

That voice could fuck off.

“Listen, sweetheart,” he said rising and pulling Tony to his feet and into his arms. Tony’s eyes widened comically at the endearment and James’ closeness, but he was curious and waited to see what James would do. James’ mind spun with the knowledge of Tony’s innocence, even after months of being with Steve. “I’m going to teach you something, okay?” He kept his voice soft and questioning, and Tony gave a hesitant nod.

James stroked a hand up Tony’s back the way he had before, when he was soothing him. The movement relaxed him the same way this time that it had then, so James took it a step further, squeezing the nape of Tony’s neck with his hand. He dug the pads of his fingers into the muscles there, applying firm pressure and massaging into Tony’s skull. Tony went pliant, eyes fluttering in pleasure and mouth opening in a moan. James was amazed at how sensitive he was, how eager he was to drop at a pleasurable touch.

Unable to resist, James brought up his right hand and dragged his nails lightly up the side of Tony’s neck, inwardly delighting in his responding shiver. He dropped the hand massaging Tony’s nape and curved the arm around his waist, using the other hovering by his neck to cup his head and pull him closer until there were mere inches between their lips.

“Tony, look at me,” he murmured, soft words landing lightly on Tony’s lips as he tilted his head under James’ direction. He followed so sweetly that James had a moment’s envy for Steve. Honeyed eyes met his as Tony hmmed a questioning noise.

“This feels good, doesn’t it? Being held by me?” There was a dazed blink before the words seemed to filter in and the fog started to clear up in Tony’s eyes. Hurriedly, panicked hands rose to press against James’ chest, preparing to push away. James buried his hand back in Tony’s curls and resumed massaging Tony’s nape, quieting him and trying not to feel the thrill that went through him at Tony’s acquiescence. Knowing he had to be careful not to push Tony over the edge, he eased back just enough to squash the rising guilt and panic he could see in Tony’s eyes.

“It’s okay,” James soothed, watching as Tony’s eyes flickered from one eye to the next. “It feels good, doesn’t it?” He kept stroking lightly, waiting for Tony’s tentative nod. “But here,” he untangled his hand from Tony’s soft hair to press against his heart, “it doesn’t feel the same, does it?” Tony’s forehead crinkled in confusion and James laughed.

“Close your eyes.” He obeyed. “Now, think about Steve, and think about Steve touching you, his hands replacing my own.” The crease eased a bit but James saw that he still didn’t fully understand, thinking rather than feeling the memory of Steve’s touch. He brought his mouth close to Tony’s ear as he continued speaking, each breath a tantalizing brush that made Tony sensitive to every point where their bodies connected.

“Think about him, the way he holds you against him, his hands caressing your body, his lips on yours…Touching you, surrounding you,” his voice went even lower, “inside you.” Tony gasped and his eyes opened wide.

“You get it now, don’t you? I can please your body but Steve, it all means more just because it’s him. Because you love him.” And with that, he stepped back, walking with studied casualness to his armchair and dropping down, crossing his ankle over his knee.

“Okay mal’chik, it’s getting late so get out of here before Steve comes hunting you down.”

Tony seemed frozen in place, body still trembling. As James watched, he blinked a few times like a dreamer waking from sleep before sucking in a deep breath and pulling himself together.

“What does that mean?” Tony cleared his throat, words coming out less choked sounding. “That word you call me.”

James laughed. “Gay boy.”

Tony’s eyebrows rose. “Wait, but you called me that before I got together with Steve. How did you know I liked men before I did?”

“You were obvious.” James rolled his eyes. “I’m pretty sure there was drool when you so much as looked at Steve.”

Tony blushed again but he didn’t shy away. “I was eager for a taste.” Pink tongue flickered out to lick his lips illustratively and James had a vision of Tony swallowing Steve down just as eagerly as he enjoyed a massage, almost groaning out loud at the stab of lust he felt.

Fuck. Someone should not have the right to be so innocent and lusty at the same time, it was messing with James’ head. He probably needed to get himself a new lover. Someone who didn’t have blond hair and Irish skin or—god forbid—soft curls and a lithe body.

With a last grin, Tony left with Jeremy the driver as an escort and James relaxed in his chair, catching the scent of Tony on his clothes when he moved, that distinct blend of oranges and cream. Conflicted, he reflected how in one evening, Tony became Stark became Tony and James had the sneaking suspicion there was no going back.

#bucky is a mobster #tony is still innocent and prone to seduction #enemies to lovers #cheating? #mob story #boxing #training #fighting #winteriron #winterironshield #established stony #past stucky #fanfic #fanfiction #vengeanceworks

[ferylcheryl]

Cathedral

Chapter 1

CW Infant Death

Private Heather’s exposed brain glistens oxblood and rose in the dim light.

“It’s a pudding, basically,” explains Stanley.

“I would have said ‘cathedral’,” McDonald retorts mildly. “I suppose it depends on the man.” He glances at Stanley, that ineradicable teasing glint in his eye.

And how much he has endured, Stanley thinks to himself. After all, there had been a time that he, too, might have likened man’s brain to a cathedral. Actually, he would have reserved that particular metaphor for the body, for it was more apt: the ribcage curved over heart and lung like the kerfed ribs of St. Paul’s vaulting up over the nave. A lavish miracle of engineering, man and cathedral alike; the one’s form echoing the other. The brain, he might’ve likened more to a clock. No less intricate, far less ostentatious of a metaphor. Or a lightning storm. A nebula of tree roots. Not a pudding, at any rate—but now, that’s what he sees, and that’s how he calls it.

Anyway, he grudgingly likes McDonald. He comports himself with a cheery equanimity more befitting a cook or a seaman than a doctor, and Stanley’s own effort to model a mien more befitting go largely disregarded by both him and Goodsir (who is such a soft, scuttling thing he hardly warrants notice). But McDonald: there’s something of steel in the man, a kind of grit; perhaps the ability to face up to the horror of the brain exposed and scry in it a holiness—and to speak of it with gladness. There was a time they might have been fast friends.

He casts a sidewise glance at Goodsir, who is busy with flame and sealing wax. He’d asked to stay and watch McDonald cauterize the edges, asserted his will in that cringing way of his: how timid he is, yet he seems always in the way, somehow. His mere presence grates. Now, the eyes having been sealed—at Stanley’s request, Goodsir notes—and the cauters heated, Goodsir takes a moment to inspect the brain closely. It is the first living brain he’s seen, the skull shorn away with unnervingly surgical precision, and it is enough in itself. What he means is, man’s engine needs no metaphor to claim divinity: it is out of this labyrinth of pink hillocks and blood vessels as finely-forked and intricate as lightning that the whole of human history is sprung. Yet removed from the context of its vast scope of accomplishment, one might think of it as so much meat. Both men are correct, but neither grasps the full complexity of it.

Nor does Goodsir, in terms he could explain. But for a moment its full complexity is unfurled before him—like Bernini’s St. Theresa, this vision of the brain’s thousand manifestations, transfigurations, iterations pours down around him like shafts of gold: a cathedral, a pudding, a geode hatched open. A chorale of light, of impulse, of blueprints and ecstasies. The holy symmetry of the lobes, their earthen ugliness; by the will of the great animator a thousand cathedrals erected and puddings confected—metaphor is inconsequential in the blinding light of this revelation. Metaphor is language: this transcends.

But it only lasts a moment. He is used to it by now, these—what else can he call them but visions? It is like his mind’s eye is momentarily deluged with a sight not his own, and his intellect (which he recognizes with conditioned humility is not insubstantial) is left to sort it out. When he was a child he tried to share it with others, he discovered that he not only lacked the language but that others did not experience the same. *A capital imagination*, his mother had beamed to a friend once. *Unnatural,* the woman had retorted darkly. He was eight then and never spoke of it again. Not even when it took the form of instructive presentiment. At ten, idly plucking blackberries on a country ramble, he fancied he could taste—for all of him was given to these visions, brain and ear, touch and tongue—within each black-shining drupelet smaller ones, an infinitude of — what might he call them? The matter of all things parsed into smaller, invisible things. And the next week he learned of cells, discovering their name only after tasting them.

He raises his eyes and glances from Dr. Stanley to Dr. McDonald to Stanley again. And again he sees the darkness around Stanley’s head, a scrambled etch-work of black lines, like a child’s drawing of cloud. He drops his gaze. This he is accustomed to as well: a crown donned by the miserable. A few other men aboard wear it—Captain Crozier, for one; Lt. Irving for another. One learns to disregard it.

The room warms incrementally as Stanley leaves it. McDonald crosses behind him in the small space, grazing his hand along the small of Goodsir’s back as he does so. This he does often, and it is such a natural gesture for a man of such bonhomie that Goodsir has only recently begun sensing something more in so many seemingly incidental touches: a brush of fingertips as they exchange an instrument, the older man’s gaze lingering—kindly, but lingering nevertheless—a few seconds longer than necessary.

Perhaps he is imagining it. He hopes he is. Not just because he dreads disappointing McDonald with his eventual rebuff, but because he senses—again, it is nothing he can explain, nor does he see it the way he sees the naked brain before him, the low wooden beams of the sick bay, the anatomical drawings pinned to the wall—a weak, fluttering light, like the beat of moth wings, emanating from Stanley’s heart when McDonald is near. In close proximity, it flickers nearly steadily; it gutters and fades as McDonald moves away. Goodsir knows what it is, though he’s never experienced it firsthand: longing, affection. When shared between two lovers, it buoys him—an aimless sunniness, like one felt as a boy the morning of one’s birthday. But suppressed, as with Stanley’s feeling for McDonald (not even, Goodsir guesses, acknowledged by the sour-tempered veteran to himself) it is an agitation; one’s hands shake and all things, even breath, taste of ash and iron.

———

Stanley sits up in the dark, willing his breath to quiet. He can almost still feel her scant weight in his palms. A skeletal pink thing she was, grotesquely proportioned. All skull and looming eye, like an unfeathered chick. In the dream he bears her before him like an offering, walking down a sun-blown lane of cypresses, birds darting back and forth overhead. She’d come too early, and with her characteristic stoniness Mary had declared it useless to name her. But in his heart he called her Mercy. In the dream he knows without seeing—in that way that dreams manufacture context with no care whatsoever for waking reality—her face, luminous eyes and a prim mouth belying an adamant will. Not here but somewhere else she grows to be willowy and tart-tongued; she marries and bears children of her own. Not in this life but in another will she make him proud and glad. In this life, he wakes tasting ash and iron, his palms open as in supplication to a weight too phantom to quantify.

Goodsir, too, wakes. He does not sit bolt upright in bed but rather lies bleary-eyed, assembling the disparate elements of the dream. Not being his dream, per se, he is detached enough to hold it before his mind’s eye like an anatomical model, turn it this way and that. He does not know whose dream it is. He does know, however, that the dream lives of most of his fellows are dreadfully tedious, and so he’s grateful for this startling departure. Generally, men’s dreams are panting, damp, carnal messes: curves of flesh, gliding hands, blurts of soaked heat. He wakes embarrassed, his own body inert but exhausted. Or he’s seen the million fears any man can have transcribed into just a handful of symbols: the dream of the teeth falling out. The dream where you can neither scream nor run nor speak nor hear; you may as well be a girl’s doll. The childhood home distorted: these, at least, interest him vaguely, for it is a bit like travel. His own dreams? He doesn’t dream them. He sometimes wonders if someone else, someone like himself, does.

But in this dream he is standing at the end of an avenue of cypresses. At his feet, a neat dirt path, impeccably clean edged. A warm day but the breeze bears a chill and the smell of blood, and at the far horizon clouds curdle into smoke. Someone far away, arms held out before them, bearing something small in their cupped hands. The figure shimmers and twitches and he can make out nothing about it: male, female, what. He only knows that the clouds have turned to smoke, conflagration not far behind. It keeps coming and coming, never drawing closer—then it is there before him—first a shuddering dark slit in the horizon and then standing as close to him as only lovers stand. His face is a mass of scarlet and char, but he knows him, he knows him like he’d know his own face in a mirror, but now, upon waking cannot recall who it was.

Peculiar, that he should remember the rest so clearly, but not that crucial detail. Equally peculiar, he realizes, is that he is uncertain of the time; doesn’t know how long he’s slept. Now he’s wired awake in that way his body has of feeling tense and angry if he lies about, so up he gets, dresses in the weak light, and steps out into the dark. Most but the watch are sleeping: late, then, rather than early. He climbs stealthily onto the deck, startling Mr. Hickey, who by his crumpled posture and crabbish, ruddy expression—what Goodsir can see of it between his cap and his scarf, mostly those glittering inscrutable eyes and that outsized nose—was probably woken.

“Warn a man,” he grumbles.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hickey, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says tartly, hunching his shoulders as he passes him.

“What are you doing up, eh? I’d give my left stone to be abed—“

“I thought you were,” Goodsir says, a bit unkindly perhaps—for he’s never done anything wrong that Goodsir’s aware of, but how he slouches about, the hungry way he is always listening, like a dog watching for a morsel from his master’s table. His proportions all out of sync: that round mouth big nose, all that muscle on a dwarfish little frame. Goodsir chastises himself: <i>he’s an inch on you</>, he reminds himself. <I>And the ladies probably fancy him a yard more for it.</I> Not that Goodsir cares for ladies. He’s simply rather put out that they don’t seem to care for him.

“You’re a funny kind of man,” Hickey tells him.

“I beg your pardon?”

Hickey grins. “You know things.”

“Oh? And what kinds of things do I know?” He turns too quickly and looks Hickey too hard into the eye, sure the witchy vagaries of his brain are writ plain as ABC across his brow. (<I>not that he can read,</I> says Goodsir’s bitter half.)

But then Hickey cocks his head. “As the ship’s doctor, I mean. You must learn a great deal.”

“I’m not the ship’s doctor. Dr. Stanley is. I merely... assist,” he finishes lamely. The ladies must love that knowing grin of his.

At that moment, there’s a creak as Lt. Irving climbs onto deck. His eyes are hard. “Is Mr. Hickey ill, Mr. Goodsir?”

Hickey beams at him. “I’m right as rain, lieutenant. The doctor was having trouble sleeping, I expect, and thought a turn in the brisk air might do him good. Isn’t that so?”

Goodsir nods vaguely and makes to go back down. How funny it is to constantly receive these vague little pricks and pops of energy—like static electricity or near lightning. Like, he intuits now what he could not quite make clear before: first, that the collective fancies of all of London’s fairest would do Hickey not a whit of good, and second, that Irving knows it. By the time he settles back into his own bed, Goodsir’s fretful near unto tears. It’s much too much for one man, to bear scraps and fragments of all other men. He reads until the words blur and drift on the page, falls asleep, and blessedly does not dream.

#terror fan fic #harry goodsir #dr. stanley #dr. macdonald

[chloemill]

On my dog

Happy Friday everyone! My dog died today and I am sad.

Kind of distressing that the death of a beloved pet is the only thing that can motivate me to make words come out of my fingers but you know, what’re you gonna do. I really and truly wake up every morning with the intent to write, but then my brain does that thing where I have so many ideas I’ve been thinking about for so long that it kind of laps itself and all of a sudden has literally not a single idea whatsoever… so I just don’t write anything at all. Ain’t life grand! But anyway. My dog died today. His name was Max. Just started tearing up typing the word “was” instead of “is” so now we’re REALLY cooking with gas baby!

He didn’t actually die of his own volition, we put him down, but I believe I am correct in saying that still counts as dying. I don’t think he ever would’ve done it on his own, actually. It was his time but had to help him out, like Harry Potter giving Dobby the fucking sock or whatever it was. Alright, yes of course I know it was a sock but I added “or whatever it was” to maintain the air of humorous nonchalance to which we have all become accustomed. Back to the point, he was very, very old. Almost twenty, or twenty on the nose, or fuckin 37, we didn’t know exactly. We adopted him when I was in the fifth grade and my sister was in first, and we were whatever ages you are in the fifth and first grade (why is it literally impossible for me to remember what age I was in any given grade/year without googling it? Time, like math, is fake.) He was a few years old already at that point. We had to drive an hour or so away to meet him and pick him up from the rescue, and on the way back we went through a tunnel. My sister and I always did that dumb “hold your breath and make a wish” thing in tunnels. I think you also had to blurt out a color and an animal upon exiting the tunnel in order for the wish to come true? Why are kids so weird? Anyway, we were holding our breath and making a wish driving through the tunnel and my sister said “I don’t have anything to wish for anymore” because she was so happy we got a dog. I remember this so clearly because it was fucking adorable but also because I was a little asshole and thinking to myself “SPEAK FOR YOURSELF” because I had plenty of wishes - important goals to achieve like being Elphaba in Wicked and growing boobs. (I’m one for two on this so far and I expect it will remain that way.)

I’m not really sure what the point of this post is and it’s possible I am completely incoherent BUT! I will press on anyway. I had myself a nice cry on the A train home last night when my mom told me about Max. One of the absolute best parts of living in New York City is the ability to cry truly anywhere, and not a soul around gives a shit. That sounds like a bad thing, but it’s rather freeing. Once the day after a breakup I went into a CVS wearing sunglasses indoors with tears streaming down my face and the cashier was like “hey, how’s it going!” and I was like “[sobbing profusely] great! and yourself?” and we just carried on the transaction completely normally. The complete absence of fucks given is a comfort. I have cried a LOT about this dog dying and it’s funny, because I love dogs now, but as a kid I didn’t give… that much of a shit about Max, and vice versa. Which sounds awful, but I don’t mean it that way. We were bros, and I loved him, we just weren’t super duper attached at the hip or anything. The older I got, especially after I moved out, the more attached I became. I guess it probably has something to do with desperately clutching onto my lost childhood or whatever. When you’re a kid you just kind of assume things and people are going to last forever, and then you very quickly realize they’re not, and start scrambling to make up for lost time but it’s kind of too late huh?

Honestly, it felt pretty good to cry about something this cut-and-dry Sad™. Everyone understands why you’re sad if your fucking dog dies; even if they’ve never had a pet before, it’s pretty universally understood, and people cut you some slack. It’s nice to be able to focus on This One Reason Why I’m Sad instead of being sad and not really having a reason, because then no one really gives a fuck and you have to function anyway. I mean, people like your mom and your best friend give a fuck but in this context “No One” represents, like… capitalism… and shit. Given the option, I’ll take embarrassing-ugly-crying sad over can’t-really-feel-anything-at-all sad any day of the week. When you’re ugly-crying-sad you know it’s going to go away eventually, it’s gotta stop. When you’re numb sad you could probably go on forever that way, and some people don’t even get that far. I would like to talk about my dead dog with my therapist, but I can’t afford one, and for some reason the only ones my insurance covers are in substance abuse centers and I’m not there yet.

FUCK this is a pick-me-up of a post!!!!!!!! Spring has sprung!

I know most people don’t get to hang out with their childhood pet until they’re 26, almost 27 years of age so I really am lucky. That just reminded me of another solid NYC crying in public moment - I started crying on my birthday last year on the 1 train because I officially became closer to 30 than I am to 20 and for some reason that made me want to fling myself into the Hudson and start a new life amongst the merfolk. It’s probably less about the age and more about the fact that I’ve accomplished [checks notes] nothing but this post isn’t about me, it’s about my dog. Who, per my last email, is not alive anymore.

In the last few years of his life Max was definitely showing his age, but really didn’t have any health problems, apart from being deaf as hell. And honestly, who hears these days amirite? He couldn’t really jump on the couch anymore, or run up the stairs like he used to, but he still waddled around and cuddled and would even play tug of war with you until the last year or so. Even though he was doing okay, every time I visited home the last couple of years, I would take a picture of the two of us the day I left again for New York. Every visit I was paranoid it would be the last time I ever saw him, and I wanted to remember it. The last time I was home was last Christmas (© Wham!) and I forgot to take the picture. I remembered when we were in the car, but we were already like three-quarters of the way to the airport and also I had PTSD from a different time we were driving to the airport and I forgot my makeup bag and OBVIOUSLY I couldn’t go back to NYC without all my makeup and we had to turn the car around and I Never Heard The Gosh Darn End Of It so I didn’t say anything. Anyway, I forgot to take the picture and that ended up being the last time I ever saw him. I feel guilty and I guess that’s silly. I already have an exorbitant amount of selfies with him, and more to the point, he was a dog so he wasn’t losing any sleep over it. And now he’s gone, so even if he was, he isn’t anymore.