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mean-scarlet-deceiver · 1 year

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Sodor Work History: James Edition

Ugh, it seems to have vanished?? But I had an anon request a James equivalent to my Edward work history post. Of course now that I'm done writing I can't find the ask… #ThanksTumblr… Anyway here goes:

I'd like to! But James is tricky...

The thing with James is, we seem to have a bunch of data points throughout the books on his doings. But there's so much we don't know about the main line working and how many "unseen" engines share the work with our main characters. Like, all the branch line characters are easier to at least assemble pieces into a rough border because there are more constraints there. The main line has too many unknowns. There is a similar problem to sketching out Henry's timetables, but at least with Henry—like with all the other MCs—we know of at least one thing that he is known to do regularly. We don't have a touchstone for James.

Broadly, though, here are a few things I notice (and/or just streeeeeetch to conclude in a fever dream) about James's Sodor career:

He spent a little while there as the closest damn thing Tidmouth had to a station pilot. I feel like this gets completely overlooked. After the bootlace incident he's benched from passenger work, of course, but in addition to goods work he is doing a lot of coach-fetching at the big station. Troublesome Engines says that he continued being the "odd jobs" fellow for a while until he started to rebel. He would never have been full-time—unlike, say, Thomas. Thomas, I'm sure, would have been transferred to Tidmouth when HQ moved and continued there if not for his branch line assignment. But, unlike Thomas, James is trusted to take trains out of the station. But in between those trains he was largely stuck with the shunting. (In "Troublesome Trucks" his tricky goods train appears to go as far as Maron or Cronk? Not traversing the whole line, not yet.) Troublesome Engines says of course that Gordon and Henry had to step up, and also that Edward helped when he was available, but I think it's pretty obvious who was a) actually a Tidmouth engine and b) the newest Tidmouth engine and c) the smallest Tidmouth engine. (To add to this brief period in James's life, I note that the train that pushes him down the hill at the end of TTTE might well be—da dum da dum!—the same train that Thomas lost control of in the previous story. How's that for literary repetition, eh? Anyway, point being, James might have been expected to fill in Thomas's old role on the NWR from the very start.)

During Thomas and Bertie's chase, James is seen in an illustration with a goods train on Thomas's line! Now you can explain away one random illustration if you want, but it does make a lot of sense that in 1948 Thomas might need help running goods on his line—this would have been after the useful working lives of the Coffee Pots, but before Toby (and way before Percy) join the line. So yeah, until Toby's arrival James might have pitched in on Thomas's line fairly often. It's a nice detail. It might have gone all the way back to the '20s or whatever. Certainly James would have been grateful to Thomas for rescuing him so he was probably happy to do it... at least for a while...

Let's talk main line stopping trains. I have a bit of a headcanon here, though it's built on the slenderest of canonical reeds which is why I'm not calling this bit an analysis. We see James with a lot of these stopping trains but in my personal canon I've decided that all such trains we see him on in this era ("Dirty Objects," "Old Iron," "A Close Shave," and maybe "Henry's Sneeze") are 'the Limited,' which I take it is a semi-fast that stops only at major stations (places like Knapford, Wellsworth, Cronk—maybe Crovan's Gate though that seems to leave CG, like, absurdly well-served). No all-stops for James, thank you! Well, occasionally he gets stuck with one but usually that's beneath him.

Sadly for him, throughout most of the '50s goods are clearly not beneath him. If I am right that in passenger work he specializes on the semi-fast, he has no such luck in goods work. "Dirty Objects" has that wonderful description making it clear how much James hates slow good trains but I suspect those are his bread and butter for years to come. Certainly he's in the midst of another such assignment a year later in "Old Iron"—and in that story it is also made clear that, not only does he have to stop at each station to pick up or drop off trucks, at most of these stops he has to do his own shunting. This sounds like it probably takes most of his damn day. The day described in "Dirty Objects" of one morning passenger service followed by one of these endless slogs is probably pretty typical for James in this era.

In the early '50s at least, this routine gets broken up—occasionally—only when there is a need to cover the Express. The '50s were a good decade for it, as, in addition to Gordon's regular need for "rest" or maintenance, James also gets to score big with Gordon's unplanned trip to London and Gordon's lengthy punishment following the Ditch Incident. Jackpot, baby!

[Time-Sensitive Alert: There Is A Tram Engine Blocking Your Line]

I assume all James's appearances at the junction with the narrow-gauge gang are when he's taking an Express. Or maybe some sort of Limited? But it's... fairly consistent that Tidmouth engines are not just randomly on the eastern end of the line unless they're taking some sort of major train—I presume that any of the humdrum 'Locals' on the eastern side are taken care of by Vicarstown engines.

The '50s are when we get the most complete picture of James's working days. I reckon it changed, however, towards the end of the decade. Along with the other 'eight,' our boy's fame is on the rise throughout the decade and I think James effectively parlayed this into doing more passenger work, taking advantage of what was surely a rise in tourism to the island. At some point James is merely picking up the slack when it comes to heavy goods—and then. Then! Donald arrives. Bringing a twin with him! I tend to think at this point James was pretty much relieved from the goods work he had hated for so long completely... for, like, a month or two. Then Donald had to be repaired after his totally-accidental signalbox adventure and TFC observes ruefully that "James will have to help with the goods work... he won't like that!" Surely not, but I think the thing was, when TFC got an unexpected 2-for-1, James was immediately released from that stuff. God, no wonder that by the final story he was so keen for both twins to stay on! For that matter, I also reckon that James was usually tapped for snow-removal duty during winters before the Caledonians came. Really they were a godsend to him in his effort to rise above his station. Ye're welcome, laddie.

Seriously. For the rest of the Wilbert Awdry books, I can't find another instance of James doing goods work. *shrugs casually* Now, Awdry was also giving James far less screen time at this point so you can say definitely say there's not enough data to draw meaningful conclusions. I however prefer to think it was no coincidence but rather a logical effect of recruiting Duck, the Caledonians, and the diesels of the '60s. It makes sense. Heavy goods would have only been getting heavier. Not that it was impossible for James to keep up, but if you have some modern diesels and two Scottish goods engines who love to work together as much as possible then, you know. Why keep forcing James into that role?

I admit that Christopher Awdry fucks up this trajectory. Sigh. Sometimes he is soooo thoughtful about his timetable choices but other times I think he just defaults to some of the most obvious franchise tropes the same way a TVS writer would. It's maddening.

Anyway yeah, I concede that as soon as we see James again in '84 he's taking goods. He's also complaining about having to shunt his train, saying that this should be Donald or Douglas's kind of work, but the twins were both called away to help on Edward's branch line on that particular day so the field is open for James to have his karmic story ("Crossed Lines"). Now you could make a plausible case that what James says when he's grumbling is not to be trusted as gospel truth and that he's exaggerating the degree to which this is now true but I'm inclined to take it at face value.

At any rate, for all the rest of the series, James is seen (when he is seen) taking passenger trains, including at least one turn on the Express in '92/'93, except on a few occasions:

1. Filling in while Henry is in overhaul on the Flying Kipper

2. Working some sort of special job repairing rails along with Donald and Douglas in the final book. Notably he expresses on the last day (well, the "last" day, or so they all thought) that he's looking forward to it being done so he can hopefully go back to passenger trains, but he is remarkably chill throughout the whole story and causes zero (0) drama at all. And you thought Gordon was supposed to be the only RWS character to show growth. Mwahaha!

In short, I suppose when you add in the Christopher Awdry era (you know. if we want to) then it's no longer clear whether James is really doing goods work and odd jobs significantly less or whether he's just bitching about it less. I'm inclined to think Both, however: He's called upon for it less often than in the pre-Caledonian invasion days and therefore he doesn't chafe and bitch nearly about it as much when he is.

Much like we let TVS confirm/fill in the gist of Edward's latter-day career, I feel like we can take similar cues for James. I'm thinking here mostly of the Brenner era, especially *drumroll please* "SOMEBODY HAS TO BE THE FAAAAVOURITE!" vibes. Well, I'm not so sure James is really going around singing his smokebox off (... though it's cute ngl...) but I do think it's true that he is, in general, picking up a steady enough supply of "good" jobs that his ego is pretty well fed. Which is honestly a much better way to manage James than to try desperately to teach him humility, if you ask me.

I'm not sure how useful a proposed timeline will be but it seemed to be some people's favorite part of the last such post I did so I'll give it a try.

1925 — goods trial, first day cow-field crash

1925 — overhaul

1925 — passenger trial, bootlace incident

1925 — station pilot and local goods (western end of line only)

1925 — allowed back on passenger trains, also western end of line only

1928 (or whatever year you allow for the strike and Percy's arrival, which is somewhere between '25-'35) — shifts to a longstanding pattern of morning stopping passenger train (I proposed the Limited, to Cronk and back to Tidmouth) and then has a slow heavy goods out of Tidmouth (this requires stopping and shunting at many stations and takes the better part of the day), probably tacks on an evening passenger service too

1939-1946 — I do think wartime disrupted James's schedule. Ironically I tend to think he got a lot of passenger services, including regular charge of the Express to free Gordon on heavy coal and war materiel trains, but the work was all non-stop hell and Vicarstown certainly and probably Tidmouth also got blitzed so it's not like he got to enjoy it. Troop trains were also probably a James specialty.

1960 — James transitions out of heavy goods work and his longstanding timetable of Limited + slow goods + evening commuter service is changed, probably to something featuring more passenger trains than previously. Fitted goods are definitely an option to replace his hated slow goods assignment.

2010-11 — James picks up a months-long assignment helping with some sort of line repair. Notably it seems to be during the late winter/early spring "off season," so my guess is that he took his usual commuter services but that during the summer and holidays James is also taking frequent specials. It's during that chunk of his "busy season" timetables that he is pulled for stuff like this in the off-season—no need to find coverage for him.

You'll notice the 1920s were suuuuuuper eventful but also only a blip in James's life.

Which is the exact sort of thing that I think we so often forget. They've all lived so much more life than their little highlight stories that we're privy to.

#grrrr formatting this was also very tricky #tumblr why are you like this #ttte #the railway series #ttte james #ttte analysis #ttte headcanon #engine resumes ig #chatter #thank you nonny

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iwritenarrativesandstuff · 8 months

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Trimax Thoughts Vol. 8 Pt. 1

More stream of consciousness. Here goes! I want to catch up so badly so I can suffer through... whatever happens in Volume 10 with you guys. I'm scared. :)

[All images are from Trigun Maximum Volume 8.]

Love that Knives can't do anything without being absurdly extra about it. It's not enough to go and invade human towns, he's got to have his giant-ass spaceship hover over everybody. He needs to loom. He needs to loom so badly.

Ah, once again, Knives denying Vash autonomy over his body. Also talking about "using" Legato too, which just goes to show how Legato is basically just a tool for him (though I don't think Legato particularly minds).

"I have seen them throw our spent corpses away like garbage." <- "our", yet another instance of Knives not really drawing a distinguishing line between himself and Vash/his sisters. Treating them all as one.

[ID: A close up of Vash's face, grimacing and sweating, saying "Believe me, Knives, I have seen the dead Plants. All of them had the black hair. They weren't the bodies of Plants who had lived their natural lifespan. They were the bodies of Plants who had been abused and pushed past their limits. End ID.]

This panel, with his own black hair emphasized, plus the way Vash is finally able to verbalize some blame on Knives and includes himself in the Plants that humans are forced to rely on, is interesting and encouraging development. Vash too, has been pushed past his limits, time and time again. But this reframes it less as self-punishment or "deserve" and more like responsibility he feels obligated to take on, because literally no one else can. The saddest part of this is that nothing will change for the better at this rate, because all of Vash's energy is (quite literally) being sapped just playing damage control against his own brother's actions. I often wondered why we didn't see Vash interacting with the other Plants a little more or focusing his help on them - and while I think there's interactions we're probably not seeing behind the scenes, Knives' actions kind of force Vash to prioritize the humans in all this, because he cares about both humanity and his sisters... which really sucks for the sisters, who are still being drained and hurt. It's frustrating, overwhelming, and feels like you're stretched far too thin when you're caught in the middle like this. And it's not that he's necessarily okay with this - he isn't. I think this kind of proves he knows and understands how cruelly he's treated. But unfortunately, this kind of thing can happen to people who care too much... Vash's dehumanization (for lack of a better word) in all this is misery inducing. (Also as a bonus, check out the panel where Knives is talking about the sisters being oppressed and murdered - his hand is doing that thing again where he covers her face, even though it's a gentle gesture!).

"There will be screams and shouts and then there will be silence." <- I'm sorry this is horrific but all I can think about is the llamas with hats skit - "That is what forgiveness sounds like. Screaming and then silence." Hhjskdhbvjdfhbv

Wolfwood is trying not to kill them (!!!!!!!!!)

Ughhh Livio's guns are literally strapped to his arms. His function is to be a living weapon, indeed. Combined with the guns also looking like crosses it's just... ugh.

See, here I will concede that Knives makes a good point. Vash says "that's the way it is" and Knives says "who says this is the way it has to be?" 100%, out of context, I'm with Knives. "Things take time", sure, but immediate action should always be taken to minimize the damage in the here and now. People are still hurt in the time it takes for large-scale change to occur; you can't just wait for things to change. Unfortunately, adding the context back in, minimizing hurt has never actually been Knives' goal. He's still thinking on a near-absolute level here. And worse, every added year they waste fighting each other, they could've been working to find better solutions for their sisters - the situation probably would've improved a lot faster if they had been a united front. But Knives refuses to listen, because "helping" was never his primary goal to start with. It reminds me a lot of people who want to punch bad guys instead of support their victims. People who want to be right, instead of do right. Do you see what I mean?

"Keeping yourself from feeling the pain and never finding the true source of it." <- because Knives would rather invent an enemy than confront his own fear... it's not an easy thing to do, but you have to try if you ever want to heal... the only actions we can ever truly control are our own...

Fuck Chapel man.

So, Knives' plan is not just to rescue the sisters but also to absorb them??? All of them??? Does... does he know if he can handle that? Are the sisters like. Chill with this or...? The imagery of it all is so incredibly beautiful though... I would screenshot several pages of this but it would take up too much space.

[ID: Two panels, one with the absorbed bodies of Plants in an indistinct mass, and the next showing Knives standing at the top of a large grate, filled with the merged bodies of Plants. End ID.]

Bro...? I am confusion. How. How does this help them. It's like he's storing them so they can't be used... I mean I suppose that's better but. ???

Badass Elendira moment!!!

Oh man I love the way this builds. It all feels so futile. No one seems happy or satisfied. Starting with the random people and the outsider view. The concern and then the dawning horror as they realize what's happening. The ethereal pages of Knives absorbing the Plants, only to show they're essentially being placed in a cage. He's not smiling and his face is grim. The focus on the death of a random character. Vash and Legato are locked in a stalemate. Back to outsider view as Zazie witnesses the devastation. Focus on Wolfwood, bitter and guilty. Back to the outsider pov and the panels that grow more and more hectic and cruel in their depictions. The break with the quiet panels of the desert. ...seven months later. It's so incredibly cinematic and visceral. I must say, I was not expecting such a large time skip.

AHHH GIRLS!!!

Luida my beloved. Her and Meryl are so similar in their desire to help, their insider knowledge on Vash, and their struggle between kindness and pragmatism, and it's really cool to see.

I wonder... can Plants only communicate through dreams or memories? ...Knives falling asleep again randomly too... he is eepy from all the world domination and the exhaustion of isolating himself for 150 years. :(

I'm so sorry but I really do think it's funny that Knives' plan is just "I'm going to store my siblings (yes, all of them, even my twin) in some containers and put a grate over it. Surely this will solve everything."

The Plants are brain-blasting him???

Badass Elendira moment number 2!!!

WOLFWOOD'S BACK YEAHHHHH

Vash is controlling the angel arm?!

No sorry, this whole sequence is insane! Wolfwood acting on his own free will! The two of them tag-teaming Legato just by reading each other after 7 months without contact! Wolfwood braving death! Vash braving the use of the angel arm! They trust each other enough to face what they have been so afraid of! Holy shit!

[ID: Blood covers the floor, the rest of the background is pale white. Wolfwood is slumped over the Punisher, as Vash shields him. Vash has sprouted numerous wings and feathers in a dramatic spread as he says "No, you are not lost, Wolfwood!" End ID.]

AHHHHH?????? AUGH. He heard his prayer? Literally heard it? Are you fucking for real right now? And look at the way he's not just shielding him - you can see in this and the next few pages that he's also supporting him... gently lowers him to the ground... Wolfwood reaching up as if to touch him... Vash not even knowing who Chapel and Livio are but being angry enough to threaten them with the angel arm, of all things. AUGH.

I love the severity of this situation, the build, the declaration from Vash that he is now fighting for Wolfwood, Knives rapidly losing control of the situation, you know, all that good stuff... and then there's just. This.

[ID: The first panel is of the interior of the ship, covered with multiple instances of the sound effect ガ for clanging, interspersed with "ooph!" "ow!" "oof". The next panel is of tiny Vash and Wolfwood falling through open sky, having fallen out of the ship. End ID.]

...pinball machine. Lol.

Knives was unable to follow through on killing Vash. I mean. We all knew but still. Then he helplessly reaches out with his other hand... the one without the power he absorbed... :(

[ID: A photo of young, smiling Vash and Knives on a black background. Underneath, it just says "...it's over..." End ID.]

Ow. Ow. Ow.

Omg finally Wolfwood backstory.

Fuck Chapel!

OMG they're both in blankies... sorry but tiny blanket Wolfwood is my new favourite thing ever. Look at him.

Ahhhh Meryl went to Marlon! Augh and now Vash knows she's still in his corner - because last time he mistakenly thought she was afraid of him when she pulled away... but it wasn't true at all! :')

Man I so hate that it was more of the Plants who were killed in the attack... I know Brad hated it too since he apologized but I just... ugh they're so caught in the middle of this whole conflict, and we don't even know if they wanted any of this.

Ah, and Wolfwood's leaving... :/

[ID: A blank white panel with the words "Needle-noggin...". Next panel, Vash looks over, paying attention. Next panel, Wolfwood stares ahead distantly. The final panel is half of Luida's face, a flashback where she is telling Wolfwood "Yet he keeps moving... through his own never ending hell." There are several ellipses from Wolfwood. End ID.]

^Ok, I saw this earlier and Wolfwood leaving kind of confirmed what I thought might've been the case here. He already knows the Ark is headed toward the orphanage; that was what he was trying to persuade Livio to help him with; to protect their home together. I really do think Wolfwood was on the verge of asking Vash to help him here, before he apparently changes his mind and switches to asking Vash to stop Knives instead (which is... what he's already been doing. It's rather unnecessary for him to ask Vash to do this imo). The gap is this memory of what Luida told him. Whether it's that Wolfwood feels they should both be moving forward through their own personal troubles alone, or whether he feels Vash already is dealing with too much to burden him with anything else (my money's on the latter personally, given we see him with a similar sentiment in Volume 7), I do think whatever he was going to ask initially was not what he ended up saying aloud. Maybe I'm delusional. Idk.

!!! Wolfwood spinoff! :D

WAIT is this a prequel or something? This girl assumed he was a priest and Wolfwood just starts sweating nervously "um... yeah... that's me" hdjfhbvsdjfhbv

AW he knew her as a baby... ah, he's always ended up kind of responsible for others, huh?

Ok but this is kind of funny. "Can't believe she didn't remember me..." My dude this girl was like two years old.

Why does Orekano have a cross on his outfit???

Oh fuck this dude he's creepy.

The bird carving... :')

#trigun #trimax #trigunbookclub #storyrambles

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claristhegirl · 7 months

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And there we have it! After 7 1/2 years, I've finally completed Birthright Lunatic difficulty!

Some backstory: When I originally played Revelation in early 2016, I had already completed Birthright and Conquest on Hard, and decided my first [and only] Revelation playthrough would be on Lunatic as I was already familiar enough with the game. After finishing Revelation, I started Lunatic playthroughs of both Birthright and Conquest, but as Birthright is the relatively easy game I added some extra restrictions:

No grinding.

No My Castle use. This meant I was limited only to items obtained during chapters as I couldn't buy anything from shops.

No statbooster use (…I think, I'm not entirely sure I didn't use any back in 2016 but I had a ton in my inventory, so).

No paralogues, though that's mainly because of how offputting I find the entire kids setup in Fates to be.

Conquest didn't get very far, only reaching Chapter 10 (I'll just start over completely eventually). Birthright made it to Chapter 16; I don't remember why exactly I stopped playing, though the opening of Ch16 is a bit overwhelming.

And so the playthrough lay dormant for nearly 7 1/2 years. But a bit over a week ago, thanks to a friend I was wanting to play some 3DS FE again, and so I picked up this playthrough again and got through the rest relatively easily with the help of over 7 years of additional FE experience.

Finishing this playthrough has really rubbed in how much it feels like Birthright doesn't stand on its own at all. Where are enemy skills? Why are the changes in difficulty level basically just "more enemies"? Why is the hyped up near endgame battle against Corrin's brother so incredibly simple with him "holding back"? Why is the final boss's position so close to the start making it an incredibly easy 1 turn with a bit of setup? The answer to all of these is "because Conquest is the opposite". The game wouldn't be designed like this if Conquest didn't exist. Birthright was basically advertised as the game for fans of Awakening, but a standalone Awakening followup likely wouldn't be like that. It makes the game not feel whole, I guess.

But regardless, it's still Fire Emblem, and Fates does have some really fun gameplay systems (albeit overly complicated at times, which is ironic in how they're all shared with the "simple" game Birthright). I'm glad I finally came back to this playthrough and had a good time with it.

Character and chapter info:

Corrin (238 Battles / 132 Victories) Girl

Oboro (206 Battles / 127 Victories) She was my best physically defensive unit, making her incredibly valuable. I'm surprised her battle count managed to barely surpass Ryoma's. Also, Girl.

Ryoma (202 Battles / 188 Victories) lol. Just… lol. What an absolutely utterly absurd unit. He did a fantastic job of being the emergency delete button for large groups of enemies.

Hinoka (156 Battles / 70 Victories) I'm surprised she's that high, but I suppose her ability to solo Magic enemies across several rounds of combat helped with that. She ended up fairly weak but good for support with her personal and Rally Speed.

Kaze (154 Battles / 99 Victories) Kaze's damage output always disappointed me, but his shuriken debuffs and massive Res ensured he got a bunch of use regardless.

Setsuna (108 Battles / 88 Victories) I had high hopes for Setsuna, as she was decently above average on Strength at promotion… but then proceeded to get only a single point of Str in the next 13 levels after that. She'll always hold a special place in my heart though, for this absurdly unlikely moment back from my 2016 portion of the playthrough:

1 / 250. She just happened to be standing adjacent while Kaze was weakening Camilla, and she got the 1 / 250 chance of finishing off Camilla instantly. This particular moment made this specific playthrough mean a lot to me, which is a big part of why I resumed it from Ch16 instead of starting over. (This picture was taken on April 5th 2016)

Orochi (105 Battles / 74 Victories) My only primary Magic user, her terrible speed meant I didn't use her as much as I would've liked to. I'm very glad I decided to promote her with my somewhat limited Master Seals before Chapter 19 though lol, I did not remember the gimmick of that map beforehand at all.

Takumi (100 Battles / 74 Victories) Fujin Yumi sure is good. He was slower than I'd like, given I almost always had to augment his speed whenever I needed him to do something.

Jakob (100 Battles / 55 Victories) Jakob was reclassed into a Paladin sometime before Chapter 16, before I resumed this playthrough. I don't know if I knew back then that, with my restrictions, it was the only Heart Seal I was gonna get lol. I didn't use him for combat much after resuming the playthrough, but he was a nice support unit thanks to Gentilhomme and Shelter.

Silas (80 Battles / 59 Victories) His main role was Pair Up and Shelter support for most of the later game. It was really funny the few times where I had him do a chip attack and he activated Luna, which I always forgot about.

Kagero (80 Battles / 57 Victories) Much stronger than Kaze, but her even worse defense and significantly worse Res meant she was too fragile a lot of the time. Her main legacy is unfortunately costing me two Chapter 25 attempts (one at the very end) due to very stupid mistakes on my part.

Scarlet (64 Battles / 47 Victories) My only axe unit, her Hammer was incredibly useful late game. She mostly was a very useful support unit thanks to Rally Defense.

Saizo (30 Battles / 17 Victories) I brought him in on Chapters 22 and 26/27 when the game gave me an extra deployment slot and I needed a filler unit for it.

Shura (17 Battles / 9 Victories) A prepromote gotten right after the game gives you another deployment slot, he had a nice role as an extra healer and a 3 range attacker with the Spy's Yumi only he could use.

Sakura (3 Battles / 0 Victories) Very useful support unit between her healing, personal skill and Rally Luck. Due to being unable to buy Staves with my restrictions, I couldn't grind experience by mindlessly healing; combined with my bad habit of never wanting to promote early, she didn't actually promote until Endgame (at Level 18) where it didn't matter anymore. She would have to be an Onmyoji to actually attack, though, as I had no E rank bows she could use as a Priestess.

Azura (2 Battles / 0 Victories) My Azura was absurdly strength blessed, capping Str and Spd pretty early. Super annoying that she was strictly a support unit who only saw combat from occasional Dual Strikes, lol. But as a support unit she sure was fantastic. Her personal was very useful for healing without using staves.

Turn counts and MVPs: Prologue: 2 (None) Chapter 1: 5 (None) Chapter 2: 6 (Corrin & Jakob) Chapter 3: 13 (Corrin & Jakob) Chapter 4: 26 (Corrin & Kaze) Chapter 5: 110 (Corrin & Azura) …I assume I did a ton of Azura grinding here. Chapter 6: 2 (Corrin & Kaze) Chapter 7: 12 (Corrin & Jakob) Chapter 8: 9 (Rinkah & Silas) Chapter 9: 10 (Jakob & Silas) Chapter 10: 17 (Corrin & Kaze) Chapter 11: 15 (Corrin & Kaze) Chapter 12: 7 (Jakob & Kagero) Chapter 13: 9 (Silas & Kagero) Chapter 14: 14 (Silas & Orochi) Chapter 15: 15 (Corrin & Jakob)

Chapter 16: 16 (Hinoka & Ryoma) The first chapter after I returned to this playthrough. The first two turns were a bit overwhelming, but the rest wasn't bad once I decided to let Ryoma do Ryoma things. It was weird having a time limit here before the thieves reach the treasure, only for this kind of objective to never come up again for the rest of the game; kinda set some false expectations as my first chapter back.

Chapter 17: 28 (Takumi & Kagero) Pretty easy, the villages were a bit scary as I didn't know where the enemies would come from but not actually bad when I completely surrounded them with my own units first.

Chapter 18: 3 (Jakob & Orochi) Easy 1 turn but I spent a couple more turns to get the items from Odin and Niles.

Chapter 19: 14 (Corrin & Orochi) I totally forgot about this chapter's weird stat gimmick beforehand; sure made for an easy chapter though I would've had much more trouble without a promoted Orochi.

Chapter 20: 7 (Orochi & Ryoma) Another very easy map.

Chapter 21: 42 (Azura & Silas) Just about the end of the super easy maps as it's the last map where enemies don't charge at you before you're in their range.

Chapter 22: 18 (Corrin & Jakob) Had to get used to enemies coming for me unprovoked now; from this point on I started leaning on Ryoma hard.

Chapter 23: 47 (Corrin & Ryoma) Okay what the hell this chapter?? Such an absurd difficulty spike. I deployed only 8 units, then put them all in 4 pairs in the 4 tile wide hallway to the left so they all avoided Camilla's corridor attack.

Ryoma/Corrin were on the left and took out most enemies.

Kaze/Hinoka were the middle left, Hinoka there as a healer, switching to Kaze when there were bow units around; they were left unequipped to bait a magical ranged attacker that could do no damage and would block the only 1 range tile that could reach Ryoma, letting him slowly pick off every 1 range enemy that surrounded the area.

Shura/Jakob were the middle right. Shura was very nice as a healer with better defenses than my other healers so he could take a ranged attack. Jakob was there in case I needed his support skills.

Oboro/Silas were on the right, tanking anything that came that way as best as I could. Despite much fewer enemies, she had much more trouble than Ryoma did.

Once all the moving enemies and reinforcements were gone, Corrin and Ryoma cleared up the rest of the map, while a few units stayed in the right column to keep Camilla's attention there.

Chapter 24: 26 (Hinoka & Setsuna) So many enemies. So many enemies…. So many enemies………. Not that hard, just long and tedious since I was going for a full rout.

Chapter 25: 55 (Corrin & Scarlet) This chapter was super annoying as I failed two attempts due to very stupid mistakes. The first, I was near the end of the reinforcements, I carefully set up my units to bait two of the four incoming enemies at the edge of their range… And I totally forgot to move Ryoma. So he was left in range of 4 enemies, all having Weapon Triangle Advantage against him, without a pair up or any rallying. And he barely survived!! I thought that would be the end, but Ryoma is too good and Vantage came through. …..And then the VERY NEXT TURN I made the exact same mistake of forgetting to move a unit, except this time it was Kagero who got OHKO'd by a 100% hit attack. The second, I reached the very end. I set up all my units so that each of the 6 enemies in the row at the top would attack one unit each… And I didn't bother to do all of the combat math because I assumed everything would be fine, and Kagero got exactly OHKO'd. Super frustrating mistakes on my part. The beginning was pretty funny, with waves of 6 enemies attacking from the left and right each turn for the first 6 or so turns. Most of my units worked together to take out all the units on the right; Ryoma (with a pair up partner and some rallies) took out every enemy on the left. There being enemies with Entrap was scary, until I realized they couldn't actually warp me anywhere that Ryoma couldn't handle easily.

Chapter 26: 19 (Jakob & Oboro) Went for a full rout instead of the comically easy 1 turn. You don't even get anything for it aside from a Sun Festal pretty close to the start.

Chapter 27: 34 (Silas & Oboro) A large part of the map was [Enemy group moves on the left] Okay Ryoma, go to the left. [Enemy group moves on the right] Okay Ryoma, go to the right. [Enemy group moves on the left] Okay Ryoma, go to the left. I had the game crash once mid-chapter; I entered a battle animation, but the character models failed to load and several seconds later the game gave up. That was a super annoying way to fail an attempt. .-.

Endgame: 1 (Corrin & Kaze) Spent way more time than I needed to setting things up due to not wanting to redo Chapter 27 if I failed. My setup was:

Sakura tries using a Hexing Rod because lol

Corrin moves up

Azura dances Corrin

Kaze is paired with Jakob (+1 move), moves above Corrin, transfers Jakob to Corrin, then attacks the boss with the Spy's Shuriken + a Corrin Dual Strike

Oboro and Ryoma are Rescued closer to the boss

Oboro attacks to activate Seal Defense

Corrin attacks

Ryoma attack with a Corrin Dual Strike

The result was that Sakura missed with her Hexing Rod, but Ryoma wasn't even needed as Corrin finished off the boss herself.

#fire emblem #fates #birthright #corrin #finished playthrough #this playthrough is so old it started before I knew I'm a girl

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cha-melodius · 2 years

Note

Everyone thinks I should stay away from you because you’re dangerous - napollya

(Another trope prompt and Whumptober fill for today's theme "The Way You Shake and Shiver" + "Shaking Hands"... if there's a more Illya-appropriate Whumptober prompt, I haven't seen it! This is a fic I teased before as major Illya angst, and can be summed up as "4 times Illya and Napoleon were warned that the other person was dangerous, and 1 when they decided it was worth the risk.")

A Kiss Away From Being Dangerous

Read it on AO3 (T, 7.3k)

I. Gaby to Napoleon

As a matter of fact, Napoleon is very well aware of what Illya Kuryakin is capable of. Rome wasn’t all that long ago, after all, and Berlin just before that, when Illya tore the back off a car and nearly choked Napoleon out in a public bathroom. Then there’d been Istanbul, when Napoleon had snapped during an argument and needled him a little too much, taken things a little too far, and Illya given him a black eye that had lingered for a week.

That had been a bit of a turning point, though. Yeah, it had hurt, and it had really put a crimp in his style, but it hadn’t been that big of a deal. Napoleon has certainly had far worse. He kind of deserved it, too, if he’s being honest. What had been surprising—what actually had started things shifting between them—was how bad Illya clearly felt about it, even if he tried not to let it show. Napoleon thinks that, somewhat ironically, the black eye and its aftermath was really when he lost all remaining fear of Illya Kuryakin.

The flirting started before the half-moon bruise under his eye had even fully faded away. Napoleon never made a conscious decision to do so, but the teasing innuendos and loaded quips sneak into his speech anyway, largely without his leave. He tells himself it’s just for fun, because it’s a goddamned delight to see Illya flush crimson in response, and possibly even more gratifying when he snaps back, snarling without any heat to it save perhaps a thread of underlying sexual tension. That’s no doubt just wishful thinking on Napoleon’s part, though.

Ok, so he also flirts because he can’t help it, because he wants his partner. His completely, utterly off-limits partner. Turns out Illya is not only gorgeous and absurdly good at his job but also kind and brilliant and surprisingly funny when you get to know him, and it’d be hilarious how far gone Napoleon is on him already except it’s really, really not. Because Illya is also a KGB agent, and a man, and probably involved with Gaby (though Napoleon has pointedly stopped trying to figure out what’s going on there), and mostly seems to tolerate Napoleon the way you end up kind of fond of something you find equal parts annoying and amusing. This is why the flirting is ultimately harmless, since he can’t actually mean anything by it and nothing will ever come of it.

Apparently not everyone sees it that way, though.

He’s honestly surprised the first time Gaby brings it up, after one of their little tête-à-têtes that ends with Illya huffing and leaving the room where they’d been preparing for an operation that evening. And sure, maybe Napoleon’s pointed innuendos about Illya’s long fingers and what he could do with them were pushing the line of decency, but Illya had flushed so prettily and then scowled in that way that Napoleon now knew meant he was trying not to laugh before he’d stormed away, so Napoleon had chalked it up to a success. When Napoleon turns, though, he finds Gaby glaring at him.

“What?” he asks, a little befuddled. She’s never given any indication before that she disapproves of any of this.

“I don’t understand why you insist on provoking him like that,” she says. “One day he’s going to snap again and you’ll get worse than a black eye.”

“Who, Peril?” he asks, frowning at her. “He knows I’m just joking around. He’s not actually bothered by it.”

Gaby’s eyebrows arc upward, almost disappearing beneath her bangs. “Are you sure about that?”

“I am,” Napoleon answers confidently, if a little defensively. “What makes you so sure he is?”

“Because you’re flirting, Solo.”

Napoleon can’t help but be a little offended by that, even though she probably has a point. Still, Illya always banters back at him, and hasn’t told him to cut it out. Napoleon is pretty damned good at reading people, and has only gotten better at reading his partners over the past few weeks; if Illya was actually upset, he’d know. It occurs to him, though, that maybe he’s not reading this situation quite right. “Wait, is it bothering you?” “Why would it bother me?” Gaby replies, her brow knitting in confusion.

“Because you two are…” he trails off and waves his hand vaguely. He’s fine with it, honestly, but thinking about it too hard makes something twist uncomfortably in his gut that he really doesn’t want to contemplate.

“We’re what?”

Christ, she’s going to make him say it. “Look, you don’t appreciate someone flirting with your man, it’s understandable,” Napoleon says, as quickly and flippantly as he can manage. “I promise you, I don’t mean anything by it.” It’s not completely a lie, but he’s definitely not willing to admit what it does mean to anyone. Even someone he’s become quite close to in a few short weeks.

“My man?” Gaby chokes out, and it takes him a minute to realize she’s laughing. “Whatever you think is going on, it’s not.”

“Oh,” he breathes, unsure of what to do with this information. “Really?”

“Really,” she confirms, looking unmistakably amused.

“Then why do you care?”

“I care because you’re both my partners. More than that, you’re my friends,” she sighs, exasperated. “I’d prefer if you keep your face the way it is, and I don’t want to see you push him to the breaking point again.”

“I won’t, I promise,” Napoleon says with all earnestness. “I know where the line is now.”

It is clear that Gaby remains unconvinced. “So you say,” she replies, and then, magnanimously: “I promise I won’t say I told you so when he breaks your nose.”

II. Oleg to Illya

The first time Illya was warned about Napoleon Solo was, of course, when Oleg sat him down before East Berlin and went to great lengths to impress upon him that the American was not to be underestimated. Illya has to admit that even so, he’d been far from concerned. Of course, then Solo had beat him over the Wall, which turned out to be only the first time that Solo would surprise him. It would be safe to say that things had greatly changed between them since that night, but at no point had anything about the course of their partnership come close to what he could have ever expected.

Sitting, as he is, at a secluded café in Stockholm with Oleg, Illya is pretty sure he’s about to be warned again.

He might be working with UNCLE now, but that doesn’t mean Illya isn’t still a KGB agent first and foremost, and with that comes check-ins with his handler. At the beginning they had been fairly frequent; he’d get a call every couple of weeks and have to find a time to get away to meet. Illya assumed he’d be asked to inform on his partners, especially Napoleon, but Oleg seems to be mostly interested in the missions UNCLE is running, as well as on ensuring that Illya knows his place in the world. That doesn’t mean that Napoleon isn’t a regular topic of conversation, to Illya’s increasing chagrin.

This is the first meeting they’ve had in several months, the first since UNCLE established some kind of headquarters in New York, and there is a lot to catch up on. Oleg makes some oblique comments on possibly having to recall Illya for a KGB operation, but there’s nothing definitive. The statements are not couched as a threat, but Illya takes them as such anyway: remember where your loyalties lie, or we may be forced to remind you. Illya makes sure to appear as amenable and eager as possible, and doesn’t really want to think about the relief he feels when he’s told perhaps he won’t be needed after all.

“There is one more matter I wish to discuss,” Oleg says, before Illya can relax too much. “I am concerned you may be relying too much on Solo in the field.”

Illya is not entirely sure what to say to this. If he cannot rely on his partners—even if they technically are on opposite sides of this cold war—then he has much larger problems.

“He has shown himself to be reliable,” he says evenly, truthfully. Deep down, he can’t help but feel a tiny bit amused to be making this statement, given his opinions of the American in the beginning. At least Napoleon is not here to hear him say it. He would be insufferable.

“He is not to be trusted,” Oleg replies sharply. “You know this. It is an unfortunate but unavoidable consequence of spending too much time with those at UNCLE that you begin to lose sight of it. He is a liar, and a thief, and he will betray you. It is only a matter of time.”

It seems unwise to point out that, as spies, they are all liars, and all thieves. “I understand. I will be more careful,” Illya says instead. Unfortunately, this seems to be one of those times where Illya fails to be a convincing liar.

Oleg stares at him for a long moment, the frown etching deeper into his already heavily-lined face. “I am not sure you do understand, Illya,” he mutters darkly, but then he lets the topic drop.

The fact of the matter is that the situation is far worse than Oleg suspects. Working with Napoleon and Gaby is sometimes infuriating, to be sure, but also satisfying and comfortable and strangely fun, which is not something Illya thought he would ever say about missions. He’s come to greatly value this team, far more than he knows he should. Worse, he’s attached. It had been easy to avoid making friends when everyone was too busy shunning him for his sordid family history, but Gaby and Napoleon had blown right past all his remaining barricades to insert themselves into his heart in a way he’d assumed was long since lost to him.

That wasn’t even factoring in the other unexpected turn things had taken, because even as the spark between him and Gaby had not so much ignited as kindled gently into a warm, familial glow, the tension that had been present from the very start between him and Napoleon twisted itself into something else altogether. The flirting had not been as much of a surprise as the realization that Illya likes it. Not just the teasing, snarky back and forth, but also the way he feels warm all over after a particularly good volley, or the way that something clenches in his gut at the more blatant innuendos, at the implication that Napoleon might want him. It’s a foolish, dangerous feeling, but Illya doesn’t want it to stop.

“Remember, Illya,” Oleg says as they part, as if he’s aware of the way Illya’s thoughts have drifted during the wrap up of their meeting. “Do not let your guard down. You underestimate Solo at your own peril.”

It’s a fair warning, though Illya thinks that underestimating Napoleon is not really his problem anymore.

III. Illya to Napoleon

In months of flirting, Napoleon had never actually allowed himself to believe that his feelings might not be as one-sided as he assumed them to be. To do so would have been folly; even in the moments when it seemed like Illya was actually flirting back, he wrote them off as Illya just becoming more comfortable joking around with him, not that he might actually want him.

Then, quite unexpectedly, Napoleon gets some very strong evidence to the contrary.

Retrieving intel from a high security facility is usually child’s play for them; they’ve come a long way in working together since the Vinciguerra shipping compound. This time, though, they need to be certain that no one knows that they’ve been there, so when it becomes clear that they’re about to encounter someone in a corridor that should be empty, they duck into a room to one side, then Napoleon proceeds to shove them both into a closet at the sound of the voices pausing outside the room. Illya makes a soft noise of protest once he realizes that the closet is far too small for two somewhat oversized men, barely allowing for any space between them, but he goes anyway, grumbling when Napoleon steps on his toes as he shuts the door behind them.

He hadn’t really looked inside when he’d opened it, but now he realizes there are clothes hanging next to them, and when he paws at them in the dark his fingers make out the lettering on the shirt. A lucky break: uniforms. The chances that any of them would be Illya’s size are pretty much zero, but if Napoleon can get into one then he should be able to access all kinds of areas without much fear of being caught, and their chances of success here will go way up. He pivots in place so his back is to Illya’s front, reasoning that he’ll be able to maneuver a little better in this position, with emphasis on a little. At least Illya is a convenient surface to lean against as he bends awkwardly to tug at the laces of his shoes before he toes them off.

“What are you doing?” Illya hisses immediately, trying and failing to shove him off. Joke’s on him. There’s nowhere for Napoleon to go but right here on top of him.

“Changing,” Napoleon huffs as he yanks his shirt out of his pants and deftly unbuttons it, then shrugs out if it and his jacket in one go. “There are uniforms here. I’m going to get one on so I can blend in. Hold this,” he adds, thrusting the bundle of clothes back at Illya, who’s apparently too flabbergasted by the situation to protest being Napoleon’s coat hanger.

Illya makes a strangled sound and abruptly there are two large hands bracketing Napoleon’s bare waist, pressing him forward in a clear attempt to hold his body away from Illya’s. “Stop wiggling,” Illya demands, sounding increasingly distressed for reasons Napoleon can’t quite fathom.

“Not making this easy, Peril,” Napoleon grits out, becoming more annoyed with every passing moment.

“Neither are you.”

This is absurd. He wrenches out of Illya’s grip and shucks his pants off, then pushes backward again in an attempt to get room to pull on the uniform pants. Illya’s chest and stomach are just about as unyielding as a brick wall at his back, but there’s something else pressing firmly against his ass, and he’s halfway to making a joke along the lines of watch were you put that pistol, Peril, or you’re liable to give a guy the wrong idea, when he realizes: Oh. That’s why Illya seems so uncharacteristically flustered.

Napoleon freezes, half in the pants and unsure of what to do. “Are you—” he starts without thinking, before he realizes he has no idea what he actually wants to ask right now. Are you hard? Are you… ok? Are you interested in continuing this later on in a more comfortable location? In the end, he elects not to finish that line of questioning at all. Now is simply not the time, but there’s also no way he’s just pretending this never happened. “Don’t think we’re not talking about this later,” he promises under his breath.

Illya doesn’t respond, but Napoleon is pretty sure he can hear his teeth grinding together behind him. Some how his hands have ended up back on Napoleon’s waist, searing like brands against his bare skin, though they’re not so much holding him at bay as just… holding onto him. It’s incredibly distracting, and Napoleon wills himself to focus without a lot of success. Then he falters getting his other leg in the pants and falls back against Illya again, and they both let out low groans as Illya’s erection presses into the cleft of his ass. Closing the pants he’s putting on has rapidly become a lot more difficult, and he has half a mind to turn around so they can both just let off some steam, but fuck, the mission, and there are still voices outside the room, so Napoleon jerkily tugs on the uniform shirt and absolutely does not bother to hide his frustration.

The uniform works like a charm; Napoleon gets into the restricted area without any trouble and makes it out with the intel they needed. Illya definitely does not meet his eye when he reemerges and slips into the back of Gaby’s waiting car. There’s no question that Gaby notices the tension, but to be fair she probably just thinks they had one of their usual fights, so she doesn’t press them about it. The moment they arrive Illya pretty much flees to his hotel room, and Napoleon just shrugs like he doesn’t know what got into him.

Later, after they’ve checked in with Waverly and gotten instructions for moving forward, Napoleon makes good on his promise. He’s already decided that he’s picking the lock on Illya’s door if he doesn’t answer, but surprisingly Illya answers promptly after he knocks. He probably guessed Napoleon’s plan, but then again Napoleon has never known Illya to save him any trouble. As it is, he opens the door and immediately turns away, walking back into the hotel room without a word.

“So,” Napoleon says, strolling after him and making a detour to the liquor cabinet for a tumbler of Scotch. “About today. In the closet,” he adds, just to make sure they’re all on the same page.

Illya stops in front of a window and stares fixedly out of it, arms folded in front of his chest and his hands clenched into fists. Not exactly a promising start, but he doesn’t move away when Napoleon approaches to stand next to him, so that’s something.

“Look, we can ignore it,” Napoleon offers, even though he’s pretty sure they can’t. “Pretend it never happened and go back to business as usual. Or…” he says, trailing off as he reaches up to gently tug Illya’s arms out of their defensive position, “we could admit what we both want and do something about it.”

There’s something slightly wild in Illya’s eyes when he finally looks at him, and Napoleon can feel his pulse racing where his fingers are delicately looped around one of his wrists. He takes a cautious step forward, but still, Illya doesn’t pull away. Which is not to say that his body language is particularly welcoming. Illya is clearly trying to close himself off, but being a forbidding stone wall isn’t going to be good enough this time. Maybe it scares everyone else off, but not Napoleon. He shifts another step closer, so there are only inches between them now.

“Cowboy,” Illya growls in a low rumble. A warning. “Do not. We cannot.”

“Why? Give me one good reason, and I’ll stop.”

Illya scoffs. “This is too dangerous. I am too dangerous.”

“Nope. Not a good reason,” Napoleon retorts with a shake of his head, unable to keep his lips from tipping into a tiny smirk.

“You do not understand—”

“I understand perfectly, Peril,” Napoleon says, cutting him off. “You think I’m not very aware of what these hands can do?” Slowly but purposefully, he lifts Illya’s hand and places it at the base of his neck, his thumb resting in the vulnerable hollow between his collarbones. “I just don’t care. I want them on me anyway.”

“You are stupid man,” Illya murmurs. His fingers tighten, digging into the soft flesh, though Napoleon can’t tell if it’s meant to be a threat or if the movement is involuntary. A conditioned response, maybe. “Not a single instinct for self-preservation.”

Napoleon swallows against the pressure on his throat and meets Illya’s gaze unwaveringly. “Not when it comes to you,” he says, his voice slightly hoarse. “Tell me you don’t want me, that you don’t want this, and I’ll walk away.”

Illya’s hand shifts, and Napoleon is sure he’s going to withdraw. That was, of course, the expected outcome; even if he’d felt confident enough to make this gambit, he’s not—all evidence to the contrary—an idiot. The odds that Illya would be willing to act on it were always low. But instead of leaving his skin, Illya’s hand slides upward to the angle of his jaw, his fingertips threading into the hair at the nape of Napoleon’s neck as the pad of his thumb drags across his cheek. He pauses a moment more, staring into Napoleon’s eyes with a breathtaking intensity. A silent challenge: Stop this, before it’s too late.

Napoleon was never going to be the one to stop this.

The kiss Illya pulls him into is achingly soft, in stark contrast to his earlier warning. It starts as a cautious, closed-mouth press, Illya’s lips moving gently against his, but, as previously established, Napoleon has never been much for caution. He pulls Illya’s plush lower lip between his own, offers a light drag of teeth and a swipe of his tongue, and Illya opens up readily in return. The hand on Napoleon’s jaw nudges him to tip his head so their mouths slot perfectly together, and Napoleon lets go of the last vestiges of his restraint. He chases the exquisite softness of Illya’s mouth as he licks past his teeth and slides his tongue against Illya’s, revels in the scratch of his stubble where their chins rub together, and slots his hand into the dip Illya’s narrow waist like he’s been aching to do for so, so long.

It’s certainly gratifying that Illya seems just as enthusiastic, that he lets out a low moan in response and drags Napoleon even closer, pressing their bodies together with a large hand that slips along his back and down to palm his ass, that Napoleon can feel him getting hard as their hips grind together.

“Eager, are we?” Napoleon breathes, grinning like a fool, when they finally break apart for air.

Illya ducks down to press a series of wet kisses along Napoleon’s jaw and over to his ear, until his lips brush against the shell of it. “You have been teasing me for months,” he growls before pulling back to look at Napoleon again, a spark in his eye that is equal parts mischievous and dangerous. “It is time to reap what you have sown, Cowboy.”

Napoleon surges up to kiss him again as a tremor of anticipation shoots down his spine, because that is a threat that he’s certainly not the least bit upset about.

IV. Gaby to Illya

If Illya thought it would be easier to deal with his feelings about Napoleon once they started sleeping together, he is sorely mistake. Sure, now he has an outlet for that itch that builds up beneath his skin, now he doesn’t have to force himself to look away before Napoleon catches him staring, now he can end arguments by shutting Napoleon up with his mouth, but allowing that door to open has also let in a whole host of other problems. Problems he could have probably predicted, had he stopped to think instead of surrendering to the irresistible gravity of his partner.

It’s just sex. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything, not with who they are and the world the way it is. If it’s just sex, it’s fine—

Well, it’s not fine. It’s pretty much the exact opposite of fine. Even just sex is more than a bridge too far, a betrayal he’ll never be forgiven for, and that doesn’t even factor in that it hasn’t been just sex for months now. Not for Illya, and he suspects not for Napoleon either, though he doesn’t let himself think about that too hard. It’s also Napoleon cooking his favorite foods and his steady support on Illya’s darker days, it’s quiet nights at one of their apartments between missions and soft mornings still curled around each other in bed. Those things all add up to something Illya doesn’t dare to try to name and can’t allow himself to acknowledge.

It can’t be anything more, so it isn’t.

Obviously, no one else knows, except for the one person they can’t keep anything from. They haven’t tried to hide it from her, but they’re not obvious about it either, and no one is exactly eager to bring it up in conversation. Illya supposes it’s possible that Napoleon has discussed it with Gaby, but he doesn’t think it likely. He certainly hasn’t. He’s not accustomed to talking about these things anyway, and it’s safer for everyone if as little is said about it as possible. They are still just as effective a team, so what Illya and Napoleon do in their free time is irrelevant.

Sometimes it’s a little bit relevant, though. Sometimes, like tonight, Illya and Gaby are attending a ball as a couple, and Napoleon is there to charm the other guests in an impeccably tailored tux that shows off all his best features, all roguish smiles and dazzling eyes, and Illya hates it. He hasn’t been particularly fond of watching Napoleon flirt with other people since long before he realized why that was, but now it sets off something ugly and possessive in his gut, something he has no right to. He spends the entire night scowling save for one moment when Napoleon catches his eye across the room and sends him a playful wink, and for some reason, this is when Gaby cracks.

“You know, the lovesick, kicked puppy expression is not really helping sell that you’re happy to be here with your wife,” she huffs, glaring up at him from where they’re standing at a table with good sight lines at one side of the room.

Illya manages to not flinch at her words and instead schools his face into something hopefully far more bland. “I hate these parties, my cover hates these parties, it works out,” he says with a shrug.

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

“What do you mean, Chop Shop?” he retorts, then realizes too late that he shouldn’t have asked at all.

“Why are you doing this to yourself, Illya?”

“Because I have to be here for the mission?”

“No, I mean—” she starts, then cuts herself off with another huff of exasperation, drains her drink, and grimaces briefly before she looks back up at him. “Look, I haven’t said anything about you and Solo, because that’s your business. But as your friend, as someone who loves you, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to stand by and watch you get deeper and deeper into a situation that’s going to get you hurt, Illya.”

For a moment, Illya just stares at her, because this outburst is pretty much the last thing he expected tonight. “I do not know what situation you are referring to,” he says eventually, “but there is no worry about me getting hurt.”

“You think I don’t see how you look at him? You’re not good at masks like he is, darling,” Gaby tells him, her voice softening as she places a gentle hand on his forearm. “When you let your heart out of that cage you keep it in, you wear it right on your sleeve.”

Illya scoffs and looks away across the room to avoid her eyes, which is probably not helping his case. “So?”

“So I can see you falling for him, even if you’re too busy telling yourself that you’re not,” she says, eviscerating him in one fell swoop.

“You are imagining things,” he protests. “And anyway, I still do not see why you would say he is the one who will hurt me.”

Gaby sighs and looks across the room, and Illya doesn’t have to follow her gaze to know she’s seeking out Napoleon. “He won’t mean to,” she allows, “but if you let things keep going like this, it’s going to happen anyway.”

“You do not seem to have very high opinion of him for someone who is supposed to be his friend.”

“I am his friend, which means I know how he is,” she insists. “He doesn’t do relationships, Illya. That’s not a judgement, it’s just a fact. I’ve heard him say it.”

“When?” Illya demands before realizing that he doesn’t really want to know. Either it was long enough ago to give him a dangerous spark of hope that Napoleon might have changed his mind, or it was recent, and Gaby is probably right. It is better that way, anyway, if Napoleon at least might come out of this unharmed when it ends.

“I don’t know, maybe Istanbul? Or the one after. We stayed up late drinking and I got to hear all about the Napoleon Solo philosophy on relationships. Truly edifying,” she adds dryly. “The point is, you may be happy enough now but one day you’re going to want more, and he’s not going to be able to give it to you, because that’s not who he is.”

“You are wrong. I will not want more because there is no more to have. Not for us. So there is no problem,” Illya says, and then, because he really doesn’t want to be having this conversation anymore, he turns on his heel and starts to talk off, though he doesn’t get far before Gaby catches him by the arm again.

“Lying to yourself is not going to help, Illya!” she hisses, and even though he could easily pull away he stops again. “Just think about it, ok? I don’t want to see you get your heart broken.”

Illya isn’t really sure exactly what she wants from him. She must know that putting an end to their arrangement, going back to the way things used to be, would be nigh impossible. He’s not going to stop wanting Napoleon—he’s not going to be able to stop feeling these things—just because he should. If that were possible, none of this would have started in the first place. Besides, he’s still not convinced that Napoleon is the dangerous one in this scenario.

“You are forgetting one thing, Chop Shop,” he says eventually as he carefully pries her hand off of his arm.

“And what is that?”

“I am the one who breaks things.” I am the one who is already broken, he doesn’t add.

“Illya—” Gaby tries, but he cuts her off.

“I am done discussing this,” he says with finality, and this time she lets him walk away.

It starts with a mission gone sideways, an ambush in a not-so-abandoned research facility, and a poisoned tranquilizer dart that wasn’t meant for him. To be honest, Napoleon isn’t really sure how it goes after that, because he spends most of the next 24 hours barely conscious. He’s of course aware of the beginning, before the toxin had started kicking in, when Illya had fucking lost it at him for having the temerity to push him out of the way, and Napoleon had yelled back, and they’d both said things they were sure to regret the next day.

Well. Illya might regret them the next day. It becomes rapidly clear that Napoleon isn’t likely to see the next day if they don’t find the antidote.

Napoleon remembers the message they received that put a countdown timer on his life, the onset of the weakness, and the way his heart had started beating an alarmingly erratic rhythm, but after that, things get a little blurry. He knows he spends most of that time in a safehouse bed, sweating and shaking as his jaw seems determined to grind his teeth to dust. He knows that, on the rare moments that the fog in his mind clears and he regains a sliver of lucidity, Gaby is there, trying to get him to drink water and telling him to hold on, that they’re going to fix this. (Napoleon doesn’t really believe her, but it’s not like he has it in him to express that, and Gaby would just get mad at him if he did.)

He knows that he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Illya since his partner stormed away after mostly carrying him into the safehouse. Napoleon appreciates that Illya is mad at him, but he’d kind of like to see him, just once, before the end. The Illya-shaped apparition that shows up at his bedside, covered in blood, probably doesn’t count. At that point Napoleon is so out of it that he is certain that he must be hallucinating.

When he wakes up an unknown amount of time later, Gaby is still there. He’s more fatigued than he’s ever been in his life and everything aches, but his heartbeat is steady and he’s alive.

“You found the antidote?” he asks unnecessarily, because if they hadn’t he’d be dead by now.

“Illya did,” Gaby confirms as she shoves a glass of water toward him.

“Where is he?”

She hesitates; not for very long, but long enough. “He’s just wrapping some stuff up now,” she offers, not very convincingly, then immediately changes the subject. “How do you feel?”

“Like death warmed over,” he admits.

“Drink the water. I’d offer you some aspirin but we don’t know how it might interact with anything still lingering in your system, so you’re just going to have to tough it out.”

“I’ll live,” Napoleon huffs.

“Yeah,” she sighs, not bothering to hide the profoundness of her relief, “you will.”

The lingering effects of the poison have left his strength completely sapped, so he spends most of the day in bed while Gaby brings him the barely edible concoctions that she’s managed to throw together. Once, thinking he heard voices, he managed to be upright long enough to venture down the hall and into the living room before Gaby caught him and shoo’ed him back into bed. He tells himself that he just needed to move, that he wasn’t looking for anyone, but that, of course, is a lie. Over a surprisingly good dinner (“Take away,” Gaby admits with a smirk), he tries to ask again.

“Is he avoiding me?”

“Of course not,” Gaby answers immediately. “He’s just busy.”

Napoleon cocks an eyebrow at her. “So he left you to play nursemaid?”

“I don’t mind,” she says with a shrug. “The most important thing to me is that you’re all right.”

“But not to him.”

“Now you’re just twisting my words—”

“Save it, Gaby,” he snaps, then immediately feels bad. It’s not her fault Illya apparently can’t stand to be around him. He lets out a heavy sigh. “Sorry. Just exhausted.”

Gaby unfolds from where she’d been sitting cross-legged on the bed next to him and moves his dinner tray to the side table before she leans in to press a kiss to the side of his forehead. “Get some sleep. Things will be better in the morning, I promise.”

The one benefit of being this bone-tired is that he falls asleep before he can spend too much time dwelling on what Illya’s absence really means. That doesn’t mean he stays asleep, though; he wakes in the middle of the night with a strong feeling that he should check the safehouse perimeter. It’s nothing, he knows, there’s no reason to suspect they’re compromised here, but he’s not going to be able to fall back asleep unless he sees for himself that everything is all right. He drags himself out of bed and pulls on the robe that Gaby had scrounged up for him, snugging the belt around his waist before he shuffles out into the quiet house.

As he expected, there’s no sign of anything out of the ordinary. He’s just about to give up when he glances out of the window in the kitchen that looks out onto the unruly back garden and sees a familiar figure hunched over in a chair. Most of him is hidden in shadow, but the way his hair nearly glows silver in the pale moonlight is so arresting that Napoleon doesn’t know how long he stands there staring before he finally steps outside. Illya doesn’t look up, but he must hear the soft click of the latch, and in any case he doesn’t stir when Napoleon finally speaks.

“Nightmares?” Napoleon asks, pausing just on the other side of the door. Illya waking in the middle of the night in a cold sweat is far from an uncommon occurrence, but over the past few months he seemed to have been sleeping better. Napoleon liked to imagine that part of it was that he was no longer sleeping alone most nights, but he’s also reluctant to read too much into it. He knows how he feels, but expecting too much from his partner would unquestionably spell disaster, so he doesn’t.

“You shouldn’t be out here, Cowboy,” Illya mutters.

“Neither should you,” Napoleon says as he cautiously creeps closer, until the outlines of Illya’s face and hands slowly resolve out of the darkness. Then he sees what he was dreading. Illya’s hands, covered in bruises and cuts, are clenched around his thighs just above his knees, but his grip can’t fully mask the tremors running through them. Napoleon hasn’t seen him this bad in a long time, and it’s more than a little concerning. “Christ, you’re shaking,” he breathes, moving forward and reaching out for him without even thinking about it.

He tries not to think about how much it hurts, a physical ache in his chest, when Illya shies away from him. Illya almost stumbles out of the chair, putting ground between them, and Napoleon forces himself to stop even though it goes against every one of his impulses.

“Leave me alone,” Illya warns, still backing away. His hands clench into fists by his side in a failed attempt at controlling the shaking.

“Not happening,” Napoleon returns, because there’s no way he’s letting this go. Yes, Illya is in distress, but him shutting people out is not the answer, not to mention that Napoleon is kinda pissed at him for disappearing without a word when Napoleon needed him. “What’s going on, Peril? Why are you avoiding me?”

Illya huffs and turns, already striding away as he mutters under his breath, “I cannot do this.”

“Don’t you dare walk away from me, or so help me god, I will tackle you to the ground,” Napoleon calls after him, and shockingly, Illya stops, though he doesn’t turn around.

“You are still too weak.”

“Fucking try me,” Napoleon hisses, though it does take him far too long to close the distance between them. His heart is racing in a slightly alarming way when he stops directly in front of Illya, glaring daggers up at him. “You’re stuck with me, asshole.”

Illya holds up a trembling hand before closing it into a fist again. “You know what this means. You need to stay away.”

“And I told you that I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be,” Illya snarls. He takes a step forward that’s probably supposed to be threatening, but Napoleon holds his ground. For a moment he thinks this might end in a fist fight after all, and though it wouldn’t be the first time, he’s really not in any condition for such things right now. Illya glowers at him, and Napoleon stares back unflinchingly, and then, after several long minutes, something shatters in Illya’s expression and he looks away. When he speaks again, all the heat has gone out of his voice. He just sounds… broken. “You should be terrified of the things I would do—that I have done—to save you.”

Napoleon reaches out for him again, and this time Illya lets him take his shaking hands and curl their fingers together. “You think I wouldn’t do exactly the same? I would burn the goddamned world down for you, Illya, because I love you,” Napoleon confesses. Fuck it, he might as well go all in. “So no, I’m not afraid.”

He might start to regret that confession, just a little, when Illya just stares at him in shock, eyes impossibly wide, for far too long. Maybe he can play it off as being not exactly what it sounded like, somehow. Maybe—

“You— what did you say?” Illya breathes.

There’s no question which part he’s talking about, so obviously Napoleon’s traitorous mouth says it again. “What? The part where I said that I love you?”

“You cannot mean that.”

“Excuse me? Are you implying that I’m somehow mistaken about how I feel?”

For a long moment, Illya is silent, his face drawn into a pinched, pained expression as he stares down at their linked hands. “Love is beautiful thing, but so delicate,” he says eventually, his voice unsteady. “Men like me… we are only built for only destruction. So you can’t, because I do not know how to hold something like that and not break it.” He pauses another beat, then adds in a whisper, “I— I am a monster, Napoleon.”

It’s a tossup whether Napoleon feels more heartbroken by Illya’s words or furious that anyone could have ever made him think that way about himself, but most of all he feels deeply ashamed that he was one of those people too, at the beginning. When he regarded the man in front of him as nothing more than a ruthless, volatile machine. Christ, he doesn’t think he’s ever been so utterly wrong about anything in his life.

“You’re not. You’re not, Illya, you hear me?” Napoleon insists. He lets go of Illya’s hands, steady now, to cup one of his own around his cheek, tipping Illya’s face up so that blue eyes meet his again, and presses the other just to the left of his sternum. “You are beautiful, every part of you, but especially this big heart, the one that the world and those bastards at the KGB could never beat out of you, no matter how hard they tried. You deserve to be loved, and I want to fucking destroy every person who ever made you think otherwise. And the way I love you? It’s not fragile. You can’t break it, I promise.”

Illya stares at him, and Napoleon doesn’t know if he’s going to keep arguing or not. His expression is utterly inscrutable, his blue eyes unreadable. “I was angry,” he finally says, “because you would throw your life away to save mine. Because of what that meant, and how it scared me almost as much as the possibility I would lose you.” He puts a hand over where Napoleon’s rests on his chest and leans forward until their foreheads touch, a small, almost melancholy smile just barely curving his lips. “You were never supposed to love me back.”

All at once Napoleon’s chest is absurdly tight, because even if it isn’t exactly those words, there’s no mistaking Illya’s intention. “Well,” he manages, a little breathlessly, letting a grin of his own tug on the corners of his mouth, “you know I’ve never been good at doing what I was supposed to.”

Then Illya kisses him, slow and deep, like he’s carefully mapping every surface of Napoleon’s mouth. Like he thought he might not ever get this again. And Napoleon kisses him back, meeting his every movement, until his go slightly numb and his legs start to tremble under him. The latter does not escape Illya’s notice.

“Cowboy,” Illya says as he tries to take a step back, but it turns out Napoleon kinda needs to support to stay upright. He stumbles forward, and Illya catches him up in his arms again, concern etched on his face. “What is wrong?”

Napoleon huffs a soft laugh. “I’d like to say you just make me weak in the knees, but I’m pretty sure it’s just the lingering effects of the toxin,” he quips, offering Illya a lopsided grin. “Come back to bed with me? I sleep better with you there. I think… you make me feel safe.”

“Yes,” Illya agrees with a small smile, “it is the same for me.”

#whumptober2022 #no.7 #the way you shake and shiver #shaking hands #the man from u.n.c.l.e.#fic #napollya #napoleon x illya #tmfu #the man from uncle #napoleon solo #illya kuryakin #napollya fic #tmfu fic #my fic

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pumpkachubby · 2 years

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Buried feelings

It’s been a while since last time I posted a new episode but here we are back at it! This time we have a chapter focused in Crescente and Guester, where what was supposed to be a lesson in magic quickly turned to the unexpected.

(from now on all new chapters will be acompanied by a map showing who will be featured and where, since many people will be traveling all around Galar)

Make sure to check the Story Archive for past chapters!

I can’t say that my relationship with Guester is bad, but until now we never really had a chance to connect, we are more like acquaintances than actual friends, if it wasn’t for Koh and Petrov we probably would have never meet each other and yet, here we are, alone in a meeting room of the Obsidian Guild.

And I’m pissed off at him.

Koh asked me to help him with his current interest in magic, according to my mother he has great potential in plant-based magic (although almost every plant-type hybrid like us has it, it’s hard to master, even harder than training to use the pokemon moves of our individual species) and since I really need a distraction from my own problems I said yes without giving it much thought… and oh boy I am regretting it.

“Can you please stop that?” - I shouted, making him drop the thread he was trying to pass through his absurdly large needle, but he immediately went back to it.

“What’s wrong? I told you I lost my witch hat to that damn corviknight, so I’m trying to make a new one!”

“Where should I start…” - I said, taking off my glasses and rubbing my eyelids in frustration- “Do you see me wearing a witch hat? Don’t you think there must be a reason behind it?”

“...Fashion sense? No offense but until now you have always been wearing that boring barista outfit, if it wasn’t for your scarf you wouldn’t stand out at all…” - He replied without looking at me. It's been like this since Koh brought him earlier today. I tried to give him some basic guide on the magic he claims to be interested but all he has cared for is that stupid hat that he really, REALLY shouldn’t wear.

I took a deep breath to control my urges to strangle him with my scarf, murder is illegal after all, even if he just dragged my fashion sense in the floor. I stepped closer and tried to make…. a more direct approach.

“You know the difference between pokemon powers and magic, right?” - I asked, touching the fabric he was trying to sew ,in an act that would make Koh crawl in pain, without even properly cutting it in the proper shape of a hat.

“Aren't they basically the same?” - He replied, trying to get it away from me, but it was too late, I was already holding it tight. -“I mean, both are powers that come from within us, right?”

“Correct, but they are very different. Pokemon powers and abilities are very limited to our types, and human cannot learn to use them, but magic isn’t, you see…” - I said as I set on fire the fabric on my hand, although you would say it looked more like it was disintegrating in sparks, quickly reaching his hands, making him step back in shock - “... there are no limits on what you can learn to do with magic.”

Guester stood there in awe, now that I think about it it was probably the first time he had seen me use magic. Sure everyone had come to the coffee shop while lost ghosts gather at night but he in particular never saw me do anything practical like this. After a few seconds he finally spoke again.

“That was… SO COOL!!!” - He said jumping in excitement - “I wanna do that too!”

“You will if you are willing to listen and learn…” - I replied, walking back to my original seat. - “Honestly why aren’t you paying more attention? You show genuine interest and yet all you have done is ignore my lesson…”

“Well… because you are boring.” - He said with no hesitation, looking straight into my eyes.

“E- Excuse me???”

“Yeah, and I already know all of that plant stuff, mom taught me. Do you realize you are trying to teach about plants to a person who, quite literally, was born in a greenhouse? I learned all that before I even knew how to read…”

“I didn’t know that! Also, what do you mean I’m boring?? I’m trying my best to make it interesting!”

“Well… I wasn’t talking about the lesson when I said that…”

My scarf quickly grabbed him by the legs, holding him tight upside down mid-air. Did he not realize that I can literally destroy him in as many ways I want if I felt like it? I can’t understand him at all! But I needed to calm down, he is a precious friend of my boyfriends, and way too many people know we are both here after all.

“What the hell do you mean by that, uh?” - I said, looking at his sad upside-down face, probably just noticing how he just insulted me.

“I’m sorry I can’t help it! I always thought you were boring! You are always stuck at home, even after your mother came back and did the renovations, with the excuse of having to take care of the shop, yet you don’t really have to do much there besides a couple of very specific nights per month. You have all this power and yet you don’t want to use it! And you know what I will say it: I don’t get what Koh and Petrov see in you! They should have just been a couple and I would have been able to mo-” - He said, suddenly covering his own mouth with his hands, quickly getting flustered and it wasn’t because of his current position.

I had to sit down.

I should be angry, but deep down I agreed.

“... what?” - I asked - “Listen, I’m- I am aware I’m not the most interesting person around, but I just like the way things are, I don’t… do well with changes… and I’m the first person to notice that if I wasn’t around they probably would have ended up together sooner, I’m very aware of that and believe me I don’t know why they are with me either… I…”

“Sorry…” - He apologized, trying to rub my head but only managing to mess with my hair - “It’s just… how to say this… Petrov was my…” - His face was red as a tomato so I pulled him down, he quickly grabbed another chair and sat in front of me. - “Is there… is there any magic you have to conceal this room?”

“Done” - I said as I lifted a finger, creating the most powerful barrier I knew. There was a conversation we needed to have right here and right now. - “What’s up with Petrov?”

“I hate myself for this, I really do” - He said, clenching his fists - “But when you three got together I… was so jealous…”

“Why? Aren’t you happy with Harold?”

“I am! I trully am! I want to live my life along his side!... But, how to say this…”

“Calm down, just be direct.”

“Ok… - He replied after a few seconds in doubt, taking a deep breath - “Petrov was my first crush, I realized I liked boys because of him, you could say it was love at first sight. Back then when he was a small and slim insecure pumpkaboo, I fell hard for him, but he never corresponded with my feelings, and I’m quite sure he never even realized it…” - He declared abruptly, at the border of tears, I quickly jumped to hug him because I knew that feeling too well. - “I don’t know why! I tried really hard but he never realized it! Hell, even Rompt noticed it and he is probably the most useless when it comes to relationships and emotions, but Petrov, he just… never looked back at me in any other way than a friend, so at a certain point I decided to move on, I even had something with Rompt for a year, and while the sex was fantastic we decided it was best if we would remain as friends when Petrov came back to town and-”

“Wait wait a moment, you just dropped a lot of information I wasn't aware of… You and Rompt?”

“Yeah, he wasn’t my first boyfriend but we dated for almost a year after he and Koh broke up.”

“WAIT WHAT!??”

“Ups” - He said, stopping halfway getting up from his chair to leave the room, probably remembering he asked me to put on a barrier.

“Have everyone in this friend group had secret feelings for each other this whole time and I didn’t know anything at all?”

“Oh me and Rompt had more than feelings, Horacio should be grateful because he was so messy when we started, but I had way more experience in bed so I taught him well.” - He said so proudly you wouldn’t believe he was about to cry minutes ago - “You really need to work on your perception, don’t you know any spells to boost it or something?”

“Ok, I think you have dragged me enough already, let's keep the focus on you. So, you were jealous because Koh and I got into a relationship with him yet he was never able to see you as a potential boyfriend?”

“Exactly! And I know how messed up that is! And yet why do I feel this way?”

“Well I think it's normal, seeing someone achieve something you wanted for years and give up will always hurt a little. All you can do now is focus on your present and future. It's not like you have romantic feelings for him left, right?”

“Oh yeah, haha. Sorry for dropping such a bomb out of nowhere, it’s been a weird couple of days, I’d be lying if I said I’m not a bit resentful to Harold, I love him but he can be a bit too stubborn, including his stupid bird that steals hats… Why did it do that? It’s not even shiny!”

“That’s normal, it is a corviknight after all. Historically they have always been in good relationships with magic users so they don’t take such offenses lightly.”

“Offense?”

“Yeah! The reason why I don’t wear a witch hat is because it’s an important sign of status in our society, if you receive one it means that you are a fully matured sorcerer, it’s not just a costume, it’s quite literally a manifestation of our power and wisdom in us hybrids.”

“Like an evolution?”

“Yes, normally we don’t mind when children wear them as a costume, but when an apprentice does… you should be glad you are not part of a formal academy, you would have been expelled at best.”

“That sounds… dangerous… Sorry, I’m really sorry I really didn’t know, I mean the only witch I know is your mother and she wears it quite often.”

“Don’t worry, she is a mismagius and they have a natural gift for magic. It’s fine, if I have learned something about you today is that you get carried away way too easily and hard at the same time, you really need some self-control, I don’t know what would have happened if you had told Harold about this…”

“Oh he is fine, he knows. Do you remember the day we forced you to talk about your feelings for each other? I told him all about it that same night…”

“Then why are you trying to be so secretive about it?”

“Because it would be a problem if someone overheard it in this place, don’t you think? Better be safe…” - I had to agree with him on that, while I’m sure most of the staff are trustworthy, we are still new to this environment. - “Oh, but I won’t apologize for calling you boring by the way. I may need some self-control but you need to learn how to let loose more, you can’t live without change! Life isn’t that simple, right? There are many things we can’t control, like your current weight situation.”

“Wow you really went for my throat, didn't you?”

“I can do it better. You are a spoiled brat, you have everything and yet you decide to stay in mediocrity, even when your mother quite literally pushed you out of your house to have more experiences in the outside world you haven’t gone out of the guild building for anything else than trying to find food to get back on shape, don’t you? Do yourself a favor and get out of your comfort zone for once!”

“But-”

“No buts! We are going to make you get that witch hat!”

“Wait, what?”

“You said that only mature witches get one, right? Then I think having an apprentice will help you with that!” - He declared proudly - “And who knows, maybe you will find a way to get your body back in shape.”

“That’s what I like to hear!” - Said Petrov from outside the room, opening both doors and having to kneel down a little to get inside the room.

“Woah Petrov you really have become huge!” - Reacted Guester by seeing his old friend for the first time in a couple of days- “Wait, didn’t you had a barrier?” - He asked, looking at me.

“Yeah… and it was strong enough to resist a hyper beam… did I become rusty?”

“Oh babe don’t worry about it, it wouldn’t be the first thing I break without realizing in the last couple of days after all…” - Said Petrov scratching his head - “And well, your mother did say you need to work more on your magic… Now that I think about it, weren't you supposed to study plant magic? what are you doing inside a dark room?”

“He is right! We need to be in contact with nature!” - Replied Guester, quickly grabbing me by the hips and hanging my slim body to his left shoulder - “I will have to borrow one of your boyfriends for a couple of days Petrov, I promise I will take good care of him!”

“I know you will, and if you get into trouble don’t hesitate to call me, ok?”

“Of course!” - Replied my captor, happily running away from the building and into the wild area, he didn’t let go of me until it was very late and he realized we forgot to bring any camping equipment, thankfully I knew how to improvise with magic.

I wonder how far this adventure will take me, but at least now that I’m closer to Guester I can be more positive about it, and who knows? Maybe he is right and I will find a way to cure me.

#guester the gourgeist #Crescente the gourgeist #oc story #petrov the pumpkaboo

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queerinthestacks · 1 year

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Email [email protected] to oppose library censorship by 12/15

The Missouri Secretary of State, Jay Ashcroft, son of George Bush’s John Ashcroft, has proposed a rule to promote book bans and denying funding to libraries. Missouri is organized such that the State Librarian is within the Secretary of State’s purview, so state funding of libraries is ultimately within the SOS’s control. Ashcroft has proposed a new rule, 15 CSR 30-200.15, that does a number of things include forbidding libraries from acquiring any books that “appeal to the prurient interest of any minor” and empowers parents to use the library to deny access to resources minors. It’s pretty clear that this is all just another far-right attempt to ban books about minoritized people, whether they’re black and/or queer. Please, if you can, submit your feedback in opposition to the proposed rule to [email protected] by December 15th when the comment period closes. Here are some links, and I’ve included my email message (I don’t think its that great, but in case it might be helpful...) links:

Feedback wanted for proposed rule to challenge library books in Missouri as ‘age inappropriate’

Missouri Secretary of State Ashcroft proposes rules for library books

OPINION: Missouri wants to control libraries’ contents: What’s your opinion?

New Proposed Rule Impacting Missouri Libraries

The rule itself

My example:

Hello: I am writing to express opposition to the proposed rule 15 CSR 30-200.15. My first concern is the poorly defined scope. What does it mean for a material to "appeal to the prurient interest of any minor". Does Romeo and Juliet appeal to the prurient interest of a child? What about the Song of Solomon in the Bible? Is romance in Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White verboten? What about books on biology? 1.B is so vague it would either be unenforceable or be absurdly broad. The context of this proposed rule is important to consider. It is coming during a time when there are increasing attempts to limit people's access to information and silence people. This is largely the work of radical groups such as the Proud Boys which have targeted libraries, schools, and even hospitals. There has been a dramatic increase in book challenges not because books have suddenly become worse, but because of a Christian Nationalist, far-right movement that seeks to outlaw anyone who isn't like them and any fact or belief in opposition to their ideology. The book challenges are exclusively targeting books featuring characters that are either not white or are not straight. Regardless of the rules intention, the reality is that its outcome will be empowering people seeking to discriminate against minorities and protected classes of people. Why enable discrimination? Finally, this proposed rule is, quite simply, a violation of Americans' fundamental right of privacy. Ultimately this rule proposes increasing state surveillance of Americans. For all these reasons I am opposed to the adoption of 15 CSR 30-200.15. Thank you for your attention

#books #book ban #book banning #censorship #libraries #public libraries #missouri #15 CSR 30-200.15 #Jay Ashcroft #LGBTQ #anti-censorship #anti-lgbtq #call to action #book challenge #librarianlife #librarian

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reviewolf · 2 years

Link

#EmailMarketing #ProfitMail #ProfitMailReview

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noteguk · 3 years

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sweet | jjk | m

— summary; in which Jungkook just wants to be good for you.

— contents and warnings; smut, pwp, established relationship, sub!jungkook x dom!reader, begging, crying :), good boy kink, handjob, blowjob, orgasm control & denial, cum eating

— words; 1.3k

— author’s note; this is just a quick drabble for a mental image that has been plaguing me for some time so I’m gonna share it with all of you. Enjoy.

After much thought, you had long come to the inevitable conclusion that you might have the best boyfriend in the world.

Jungkook was the sweetest man you had ever met, the nicest and most polite little thing that had ever crossed your way. Even if he was far from perfect — after all, everyone had their flaws — his good side was almost blinding, making you quickly forget about his bad habits and annoying ticks.

He was so good, so obedient, that he didn’t rebel against your commands, even when you brought him down from the most unsatisfying edging of his life. You watched as his large hands grabbed fistfuls of the sheets, his hips bucking up in a failed attempt to find any sort of friction. His cock was beautifully hard, engorged and red, bouncing against his abdomen as he whined and fumbled around, frustrated out of his mind.

“P-please,” Jungkook stammered, his voice breathy and high-pitched. You were kneeling between his legs, watching the droplets of sweat that had started to accumulate on his chest, sparkling on his sweet golden skin like small diamonds. “Please, I can’t take it anymore, please—“

A hiccup interrupted his plea when your hand wrapped around his length, squeezing it tightly. Jungkook cried out at the feeling, hips bucking up against your palm pitifully. He was such a breathtaking mess: cheeks blushed and lips parted, the soft flesh swollen from the harsh kisses you had given him and also from the friction of his teeth against it. You wished you could keep that image forever ingrained in your memory.

“Please, pleeeease,” he tried again, moaning when your thumb started playing with his slit, spreading his precum all over himself. Jungkook had been edged so many times that he was absolutely soaked by his own wetness, his chest rising and falling quickly; ears ringing with a sense of numb anticipation. “Please, __, let me cum, I need to cum, please.”

You pouted, stopping your movements all together. His heavy cock fell back down, making Jungkook wince with the sudden hit against his skin. “What did I say, baby?” You asked, tilting your head to the side. “You cum when I decide that you can. Don’t you wanna be good for me?”

“Yes, yes, I do,” Jungkook whined, fighting back the tears that started to grow on the corners of his shining eyes. God, he was the sweetest boy in the world. “I wanna be good for you, I just can’t- I can’t take it anymore.”

“Why are you talking back, baby?” You asked, trailing the palm of your hand over his defined abs. Jungkook’s gym addiction was a blessing, and you knew he could turn you over and fuck you mercilessly if he decided to do so. But he was being obedient, holding himself back just like you had told him to. “I thought you were my good boy, and you can’t even do what I ask?”

Jungkook sobbed at that, head thrown back against the pillow and cock throbbing pathetically on his pelvis. You wondered if he could cum like that, just with the eagerness that was flooding his veins. “I’m- I’m your good boy, yes,” he moaned out, desperate. “I’m so good for you, please. Please, let me cum.”

You melted at his frenzied words, almost feeling the hunger which lived inside him, surging his hips upwards. Jungkook was the best boy, and you could not say anything against that. He had refrained from touching himself like you asked him to; he had not complained for the first few times you had denied him of his release; done everything you asked and now you were tilting him over his limits. You didn’t want to push him too far, even if he hadn’t used the safe word, because he was the most precious little thing you had ever seen, and the last thing you wanted was to have him upset with you.

“You are, baby… you’re so good for me,” you eased in, watching as Jungkook struggled for air. Your hand trailed back down to touch his member, and the simple contact made Jungkook mewl out your name, thighs parting so you could move a bit closer. “And good boys like you deserve presents, no?”

“Y-yes,” it was getting hard to speak when you started to pump his cock slowly, feeling it twitch between your fingers. Jungkook was absurdly close to his release, eyes glazed over and covered by a thin veil of tears. The pretty sounds he was making were traveling straight to your core, growing into a pool of wetness between your thighs. He was so, so sweet. You couldn’t even grasp how lucky you were. “Feels so good… A-are you going to let me cum?” He tried again.

“Yes, baby,” you told him, and the sentence was enough to make the boy cry out in relief, hands digging into the mattress. The tears had already marked down his flushed cheeks, his nose now painted in the softest shade of pink. Jungkook always looked so beautiful when he cried, it was almost unfair. “Where does my good boy want to cum?”

“A-anywhere?” He struggled to say.

“Anywhere,” you agreed, squeezing his tip in a way that had him sobbing out a curse. “My good boy can cum wherever he wants. You deserve it.”

And Jungkook almost came at your words alone, his mind a jumbled mess of incoherent thoughts and frantic needs. He couldn’t even believe that you would actually let him cum after so long, and the newfound wave of pleasure was so overwhelming that he thought he might faint if you didn’t end his suffering soon enough.

“Y-Your mouth, please, please,” he moaned, chest heaving with his prolonged euphoria. Jungkook could feel his release building up in his spine, tugging on his balls and making his cock throb in your grasp. He couldn’t tell if he was in heaven or in hell. “It’s too much… N-now, p-please—“

No need to ask you twice. You leaned over and wrapped your lips around his crown, licking around his sensitive tip until Jungkook was whining and sobbing for more, his thighs shaking on either side of your body. You did as he requested, done with all the torturing, and shoved all of him inside your mouth in one swift motion. Jungkook was calling your name repeatedly, interrupting them with curses and praises, his hazed eyes glued to the movement of your head, mouth sinking up and down on his cock until he was almost hitting the back of your throat.

“Oh-oh my g-god! Don’t stop, don’t stop!” He moaned, his voice was a pitiful cry for more. Jungkook felt like his entire body was burning up, heart hammering against his ribs as his mind became completely blank. “Please, please, I’m so close, I’m gonna cum, ple— fuck!”

Jungkook spilled inside your mouth with a loud , high-pitched moan of relief, intoxicated by the feeling of your throat tightening around him, sucking him through his high. You heard him whimpering as you swallowed around him, licking his cock clean and drinking every drop of cum he had given you so eagerly. Like the sweet boy that he was, he fought against his sensitivity and waited until you were done, shivering and cursing under your touches.

At last, you raised yourself from between his legs and moved closer to him, watching as that heavenly fucked-out look of his only deepened with your approach. Sometimes you thought that you didn’t even deserve someone like that, he was too cute.

“Thank you.” Jungkook breathed out, wrapping one arm around your waist. “Was I good?”

You smiled and placed a soft kiss against his lips. “The best, baby.”

#jungkook #bts #jungkook smut #bts smut #pwp #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #bts x you #bts x reader #sub jungkook #sub!jungkook #smut #smut drabble #jungkook pwp #bts pwp #reader insert

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Note

i've been keeping a list of possible prompts for you and there's one i have no memory of adding that just says "courtesan nmj????" so i guess that's the prompt you're getting lmao

What Does the Fox Say - ao3

“Second Madame Nie!” a disciple shouted, rushing into her little garden. She didn’t recognize him, but he was solidly built and well-muscled like most of the others – truly, the Unclean Realm was a rapturous feast for one with eyes to see it. Yum, yum. “Second Madame Nie, I have bad news!”

Boo. She hated bad news: bad news meant she’d have to do something, usually, and right now she was seated very comfortably in a pleasant piece of sun in the garden path that’d been made up just for her and to her preferences, with her feet up on a chair and a full plate of fruit from the kitchen on the table in front of her just begging to be devoured, morsel by delicious morsel.

Her schedule was packed!

“I regret to tell you, but your husband has been killed!”

“Oh,” she said, frowning slightly. “Has he? How obnoxious of him.”

How unreliable. Men.

She sighed.

“Second Madame – Second Madame – you don’t understand!” The disciple was all red-eyed and weepy, which was a look she liked, especially in big, stout men like this. The salt added a bit of spice to the whole thing. “You must flee at once! He was killed by Sect Leader Wen in an act of outright aggression – Sect Leader Wen has declared war – the Wen sect is invading!”

She nodded and picked up another lychee to start peeling it. She’d get around to fleeing in her own time. As long as this Wen sect or whatnot was being led by a man, she wasn’t terribly concerned.

“They intend to wipe out the inheritance of Qinghe Nie! They will rip out the child in your belly!”

She hummed noncommittally. Really, how attached was she to having a child of her own? Really?

“They will slaughter civilians – execute Nie-gongzi –”

Her hands stilled.

“What,” she said, and the disciple took a step back automatically, proving that he, at least, had something more of a survival instinct than her late husband did. “Hurt my little meat bun? My darling rice roll? My savory zongzi?”

She stood up, diminutive height and over-large belly and frilly clothing doing absolutely nothing to diminish the vaguely menacing aura that darkened the sky around her. She bared her teeth.

“Who does this upstart Wen dog think he is?!”

The disciple blinked owlishly, but nodded, seeming relieved that she’d finally accepted his concern, though she could see on his face that he was thinking that her reasoning was – characteristically – a little strange. But then again, and she could see this thought process on his far too honest face, it was well known that the second Madame Nie been quite strange ever since Sect Leader Nie had found her in some lonesome place with no family or background and brought her back to be his new wife nevertheless.

Such a charming man. Pity about his loss, really.

“You have to flee at once, we can’t possibly fight so many people,” the disciple said once more, and this time she nodded in agreement. “We can escort you to a hidden exit –”

“No!” a little voice called. “We can’t go.”

She turned to look, and there was the little pork-and-shrimp dumpling himself, chubby-cheeked and earnest-eyed, looking as delicious as always.

“What do you mean, fish cake?” she asked. “Of course we have to go. Didn’t you hear what this strapping young man said? This Wen person wants to kill you!”

“If Father is dead, then I’m the sect leader,” her stepson said. He was serious and solemn in a way that made her want to pinch his cheeks and bury her face into his belly to blow raspberries, and also possibly to eat him right up, flesh and marrow and gristle and all. “That means it’s my responsibility to preserve the Nie sect.”

“Nie-gongzi, no!” the disciple cried, throwing himself to his knees in a dramatic display of loyalty. “You would only die – far better for you to run, and live!”

“Then isn’t the same true for everyone else?” the tasty little dish asked, crossing his arms over his chest and pouting. Possibly he was trying to put on a fierce expression, maybe, she couldn’t quite tell sometimes. He was so cute. “Why should I live, and them not? I refuse to buy my life with their deaths!”

“But – Nie-gongzi –”

Her charming little honey cake shook his head and held up a hand to stop the disciple, turning to look at her instead.

“Second Mother,” he said, and he had that wholesome trusting expression again that was such a perfect little one-shot-kill to the heart, ugh. “You always said you’re the best at hiding. The best in the world, no one better among all the gods or demons!”

She was, too. She couldn’t help but preen a little, proud.

“– can’t you do something?”

“Oh, darling cabbage bun,” she said, not without fondness. “I can hide myself from even the net of Heaven itself if I so choose, from gods and demons alike, and I can most certainly hide a small group from any mortal eyes that dare to look, if you don’t mind being a little tiny bit dishonorable about the business. But an entire sect? That’s a bit much, even for someone as talented and skilled as me.”

Her stepson looked up at her, all straight-steel sincerity and upright righteousness wrapped into a perfectly edible little snack-sized package. “If we split them up, the sect could be small groups,” he said eagerly. “Couldn’t you do something then?”

He was so cute, and he trusted her. He trusted her, believed in her, felt that she could perform miracles with a wave of her sleeve if only she so wished.

It was awful.

She couldn’t bear it.

“Oh all right, you nummy little slice of roast pork belly,” she said, yielding. “But I’m telling you now, it won’t be the least bit honorable! There’s only so many excuses you can come up with for having a lot of strong men with wide shoulders and women with thick thighs hanging around, and not a single one of them has the slightest bit to do with what you people consider to be appropriate.”

“That’s all right. Preserving human life comes first, always.”

The disciple looked between them, clearly completely confused. Clearly all his effort had been spent on developing the muscles in his arms (quite nice) rather than his brain (quite slow).

“What?” he said. “What’s happening?”

“We’re saving the sect,” Nie Mingjue announced happily, clapping his hands together. Too precious, too precious entirely; she’d have to make sure no one else even thought about going near her darling little snackling. “Tell everyone to prepare to evacuate.”

“That will take too long,” she said, and smiled, with teeth. “Let me call some friends to help.”

When the Wen sect arrived at the Unclean Realm, they found the gate open.

That was unexpected enough, but when they entered, they found that the entire place had emptied out – not just of people, but of everything else, too. There wasn’t a single intact chair or table in the entire place, not a scrap of cloth nor a bit of food, like it’d been swept clean by locusts or wild monkeys come to pilfer whatever they could.

Even the paving stones where arrays had been laid out by the Nie sect’s ancestors had been pried up and carted away.

Sect Leader Wen ordered a search, but there wasn’t any trace of it – of the people, of the stuff, anything.

No one ever found out what happened.

Jin Guangyao despised social events, he’d found.

It was one thing when it was something he’d planned himself, where the work was interesting enough to distract him, but when he was an honored guest for someone else…miserable. Utterly miserable.

The only thing more miserable was when the host was his erstwhile father, from whom he’d forcefully extracted recognition. With Wen Ruohan as his backer, indulging his favorite torturer as if a beloved pet, there wasn’t much Jin Guangshan could do to refuse, and neither could he force Jin Guangyao to do anything on his behalf, either. And so Jin Guangyao, sitting as always by Wen Ruohan’s side, right beneath his sons, was now an honored guest at his father’s house, getting offered his pick of prostitutes as if the man had no notion of the irony.

Maybe he didn’t. Jin Guangyao couldn’t quite tell if his father had just forgotten his origins, thinking his bastard son too unimportant to remember the details of, or whether it was meant as a deliberate insult – who could tell?

“Oh, right,” the simpering idiot in front of him, a nephew or cousin of some sort to the sect leader, said. “Our dear Jin Guangyao is known not to like the gentle flower queens, even when they come from the finest houses in Lanling. Isn’t that right, cousin?”

Jin Guangyao’s fists clenched. A deliberate insult, then.

Despite that, his face remained neutral. Instead, he chuckled and said, “The appeal is limited. After all, I have seen the best of them.”

Beside him, Wen Ruohan nodded and smirked. He appreciated Jin Guangyao’s devotion to his mother, though Jin Guangyao suspected it was because he thought it funny that Jin Guangyao would bother to honor such a lowly woman – but what he thought didn’t matter, not really. All that mattered was that he let Jin Guangyao pay his respects to her to his heart’s content.

“Well, you’re in luck!” the idiot Jin Zixun said, looking absurdly smug. “We have something of a different flavor than the usual tonight – we’ve invited entertainment from the local branch of Splendid Spring.”

Jin Guangyao barely managed to avoid rolling his eyes.

The Splendid Spring Palace was a series of brothels that had popped up fully formed just about everywhere some years back, with madams and girls and musicians and bodyguards of all sorts. It was so patently a political move that Jin Guangyao had barely bothered to pay attention to it once he’d become actually powerful, and Wen Ruohan hadn’t paid attention to it at all. After all, in the unlikely event that the business really was backed by a cultivation sect that didn’t care about its face any longer, anyone who needed to use such a façade to gather power was clearly beneath notice.

Jin Guangyao had paid only very little attention, but to different and unusual aspects of the place: by all accounts, they were surprisingly decent employers as far as places like that went. They didn’t steal girls or accept unwilling goods – they had some connection with the merchant caravans, or at least one of the companies that helped coordinate routes and provide protection to such things, and they were as meticulous about checking things over as they were about seeking refunds if they were dissatisfied – and they did accept married girls fleeing unhappy marriages, which not everyone did. They did buy up all the girls in the local markets wherever they were, but they swept them away and brought them back transformed, even the ones that wouldn’t sell because they were too ugly; Jin Guangyao assumed that meant they had people who were talented in make-up and clothing, since the usual rumors of the girls being blessed with a yao’s enchantment were obviously ridiculous and nothing more than the usual marketing gimmicks that brothels since time immemorial had tried.

Even once they had the girls in hand, the places were pretty decent: they had physicians on staff to help with the usual side effects of the business, made sure their girls were clean and healthy, and were said to even limit the number of customers a girl would be obliged to take on in a given evening…honestly, knowing as he did the brothel business, Jin Guangyao sometimes wondered how they’d managed to bespell enough people to even make money in the early days. At any rate, whatever they’d done, it’d worked, because by now they had a solid enough reputation to trade on.

In short: a decent enough place, far better than the usual run of the mill. Once he’d had the ability to do so, he’d even pulled a few strings and arranged for the better of his mother’s old compatriots to end up there, since he couldn’t convince them to leave their old professions behind entirely.

Anyway, if they also seemed to have a sideline in information brokering and assassinations, well, let them. In the cultivation world, where the only thing that mattered was strength, real strength.

A little thing like that wouldn’t make any real difference.

Or so Jin Guangyao had thought.

He found himself re-thinking that, though, when the entertainment in question came out. There were the usual set of attractive (albeit in a wider variety of shapes and sizes than usually seen) dancers, dressed up in silks that seemed actually high quality, and plenty of strapping young men carrying sabers – dancers as well, once assumed, to provide some spice to the entertainment, and implicitly on the offer for men who cut their sleeves or women with more flexibility, like widows or ones with especially permissive husbands. Wen Ruohan’s wives were in that latter category, and they were already whispering to each other excitedly, looking at them.

They’d even brought in the local madame, who was…

Well, she was actually breathtaking, even by Jin Guangyao’s extremely jaded standards. She had hair that fell almost all the way to her ankles, shimmering in the light, and dark eyes shining with liveliness, a smooth and ageless face that simultaneously suggested youth and health but also winked at knowable experience, the features characteristic of what his mother’s employers had called the ‘fox-face’. As if to emphasize that, the lady was wrapped in fox-fur and draped in embroidered brocade, with little stylized foxes running up and down the hems of her clothing and along the gazy silk draped on her shoulders.

It ought to have looked absurd, looked gaudy and overwrought and overdone, but it didn’t.

She was a thousand dreams of wealth and beauty and power and sex appeal all wrapped up in one, and even Jin Guangyao – who was in his personal preferences quite firmly a cutsleeve – couldn’t help but intrigued by her, wondering what it might be like to touch the hem of such a glorious creature.

And next to her…

The lady was accompanied by two men that seemed completely different from each other. One was a slender and winsome young man, fluttering his eyelashes from behind a fan with a charming smile, emanating the appeal of softness and weakness, ready to be indulged. While the other…

Jin Guangyao swallowed.

He was the exact opposite of the first man. Clearly strong, muscular and powerful, and tall to the point of towering, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist, a chest that you could lean your head against and an ass that begged to have someone’s hands on it – and there were his hands, big and broad, perfect for holding someone down or up if they so wished and of a size that was very promising as to what was only hinted at under his clothes. His face was hidden behind a veil as if he were a woman, marking him, like his comrade, as one of the available courtesans of the Splendid Spring, but his body was visible under clothing clearly cut to put it to the best advantage.

And oh, what advantages it had…!

“It seems we found something to the tastes of dear cousin Guangyao after all,” the idiot said mockingly, sniggering and snorting like the pig he was, and for once Jin Guangyao didn’t even care.

“Who’s the woman in front?” Wen Ruohan asked, ignoring their interplay. He seemed utterly fascinated, almost spellbound, and Jin Guangyao couldn’t blame him one bit. If this woman had been at the same brothel as his mother, there wouldn’t have even been room for jealousy or shame; his mother would have gone straight up to her to ask for some tips. “She seems…familiar, somehow.”

“That’s the madame of the Splendid Spring,” Jin Zixun said proudly, as if he’d done anything at all in relation to this – nonsense, of course. Everyone know which brothels were backed by the Jin sect, and Splendid Spring wasn’t one of them. He was acting as if he deserve a pat on the back just for the introduction! “That means she’s not for sale.”

His smile faded a little, twisting in a small bit of bitterness. “Or so she told my uncle, anyway…although I’m sure if it were Sect Leader Wen asking, the answer would undoubtedly be different.”

Probably because Jin Guangshan couldn’t slaughter prostitutes with impunity if they said no to him, whereas no one could stop Wen Ruohan from doing any damn thing he pleased.

Wen Ruohan grunted, pleased by the answer – he was a possessive man, in the rare events that he did exert himself in the realm of women, and there had been more than one instance where he’d stolen away some girl his sons had been eyeing first just for the joy of having had her first – and raised a hand, catching the lady’s eye and gesturing for her to come over, which she did.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She laughed. “You can call me Hu Jiuwei. With the ‘Hu’ being the character for fox.”

Jin Guangyao tried not to choke. There were false names and then there were false names – the lady’s theme was already clearly related to foxes, given her fox-face and fox-fur lining and the foxes embroidered onto her robes. Was the over-the-top name really necessary?

“It’s a fake name,” she added, unnecessarily.

“I see,” Wen Ruohan said, sounding a little choked himself. Possibly it was the woman calling herself ‘Foxy Ninetails’ and then kindly reassuring them all that the name was false as if she thought them too dumb to figure it out that was tripping him up a little. Jin Guangyao couldn’t tell if she was doing it deliberately in order to make her frankly inhuman beauty a little less frightening, or maybe she was blessed with so much beauty that she hadn’t bothered to cultivate her brain at all. “Are you our entertainment for the evening?”

She smiled, and any complaints Jin Guangyao (or indeed Wen Ruohan) might have had about her intelligence faded away at once.

It was that type of smile.

You could wreck nations with that type of smile. Jin Guangyao couldn’t help but wonder: how had a woman this extraordinary ended up in a brothel, of all places? How had no one snatched her up to keep her all for himself before now?

“My sons and I –” she gestured at the two behind her, “– would be more than happy to provide you with all the entertainment you could possibly want.”

Her smile widened.

“We’ve been hoping for an opportunity like this for a long time.”

#mdzs #nie mingjue #second madame nie #jin guangyao #wen ruohan #my fic #my fics #what does the fox say

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nationalharryleague · 3 years

Text

One Day

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

Genre: Drunk!Harry Fluff!

Word count: 2K

A/N: Hi all! This is some drunk boyfriend harry fluff that I just love sm. It’s based off of “One Day” by Catie Turner (I highly recommend listening to it!!) More of my writing can be found in my masterlist and I would love to hear what you think in my ask! Thank you so much for reading!

***

Harry was the life of the party when he wanted to be. He knew how to let loose, with a tequila on the rocks in one hand and a beer in the other, ready to party until he (literally) dropped. He always ended up on some sort of elevated surface like a teenage girl, usually a kitchen island or an absurdly expensive coffee table, singing along to whatever music was playing, magically knowing every word to whatever came over the speakers. Sometimes he would get lost in the winding corridors of the massive mansions his friends lived in, taking a wrong turn in his enhibrated state and ending up somewhere he definitely wasn’t supposed to be. There was also one time he jumped off a (thankfully low) roof into the swimming pool below.

But usually, he was calm, cool, and collected; gently sipping on a single drink he would nurse for most of the night. The two of you liked to sit and watch during these parties, his hand settling securely on your waist, keeping you close to him and away from the chaos that unfolded before you. You would curl up on a couch somewhere and just watch it all play out like it was an observational study, often giving commentary and ranking people and their drunk dancing out of 10.

“I feel like we're the mean girls in the corner of the cafeteria who just sit and silently judge everyone around them,” you would giggle, nuzzling yourself further into his side.

“That’s because we are the mean girls in the corner judging everyone around them, sweetheart” he would reply, in a slightly buzzed drawl.

But tonight was not one of those nights. And Harry had ended up standing on top of the dining room table scream-singing ABBA at the top of his lungs.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his dramatic and messy performance. His limbs flailed freely as he wiggled his hips along to the beat of Dancing Queen, singing into a small statue of a naked woman he had picked up off an end table that you assumed to be very, very expensive, like it was a microphone. He wore a pair of high rise denim flares that swayed along with his movements to the music and his white “Women are Smarter'' shirt was now stuck to his body with sweat, just see through enough for his butterfly to make an appearance.

He only came down after a green malaise began to settle over his features, skin slightly clammy and a bit pale. You extended a hand, helping his loopy body down off the table and letting him settle into your side for support once he was on solid ground again. “Let’s head to the bathroom, H,” you said gently, trying to settle the panic that was beginning to crawl into his eyes. “I’ll take care of you.”

Once he got to the beautifully large and extravagant bathroom, he crawled into a small, or as small as the large man could make himself, ball and rested his hot clammy cheeks against the cool marble of the floor. “May have overdone it,” he grumbled from his spot on the floor, holding on for dear life as you were sure the room was spinning for him.

“Ya think?” you teased, immediately feeling a pang of guilt when you were met with a pathetically needy face from him in return. “Oh baby, it’s okay.” You carefully dug through the cabinets, knowing there had to be washcloths somewhere in the lavish room, and once you found one you dampened it with cold water. Settling down on the tile next to him, you pulled him and his sweaty curls on to your lap, wiping the layer of sweat delicately from his skin and then resting the cold cloth on his forehead.

You two stayed in this position for a while, carefully rubbing his back in an effort to sooth the large man and trying to ignore the loud music that was still shaking the house around you. He looked small like this, no longer your giant protector, but like a younger version of himself who just needed someone to take care of him. You were happy to be that person, as he always was for you.

This was the first time you had ever seen him like this. He always managed to know his limits, but tonight he just went off the deep end. He had been working like a dog, constantly in and out of the studio, frustrated that none of the songs he was writing were up to his astronomically high standards for himself. It wasn’t too shocking that he was trying to escape that stress.

Gradually, as he laid on the floor and you held him close, the color came back into his cheeks and he stopped holding onto your legs like the room was about to take flight. When you sat him up against the wall, he was still a bit wobbly, but no longer looked like he was about to unload his stomach contents all over the room.

“How are you feeling now, H?” you asked softly, scanning his face for discomfort or distress as you dabbed the washcloth over his skin.

“’m okay,” he hiccuped back, “jus’ needed a cuddle.” He got exceptionally British when he got this drunk, his accent coming out in a barely distinguishable garble of tall vowels and dropped consonants, his tongue heavy in his mouth.

His eyes fluttered open and closed without rhythm as he looked at you, his light green eyes glazed over with a glassy shine, and his mouth hung open slightly, like he didn’t have the coordination to close it. His pink cheeks were flushed and his skin had a sweaty sheen. His head had rolled off too one side and rested on his shoulder, like his neck had given up on holding his head up, and his arms fell heavy at his sides.

You should have been at least slightly annoyed with him for acting like a college kid, drinking until he made himself sick. His behavior and subsequent need for you to take care of him should have gotten under your skin and caused a bit of anger to bubble up into your chest. But it didn’t. You were just taking care of your man.

“Do you still feel nauseous?”

“‘m a-ok, babay” he said, making himself giggle with his rhyme. His lips lazily curled up into a smile and he dragged a lazy arm up to give the “OK” symbol with his uncoordinated fingers, before the heavy limb dropped back down to the tile beneath him.

“Okay, funny man,” you began sarcastically, planning on instructing to drink the glass of water you had retrieved on your way up to the bathroom, when he cut you off.

“I am pretty funny, aren’t I?” you rolled your eyes but couldn’t hold back the loud belly laugh that fell past your lips. He took the glass from you and began to sip, a proud smirk never leaving his lips as he looked at you.

“You were a comedian in a past life.”

“I agree.”

You two were quiet for a bit, Harry drinking something other than tequila for the first time the entire night, and you just admiring him in silence. You let your hand crawl into his, interlocking your fingers together before bringing it up to your lips and pressing small kisses to each of his knuckles. It wasn’t long before his glass of water was finished and he crawled back into your arms, his back pressing to your chest with your arms wrapped securely around his shoulders. Your fingers ran through his still damp curls, initially just to push them up and away from his forehead and eyes, but continued when you heard the little happy mewls coming from him.

“Ya take such good care of me,” he said sloppily with a gentle tone, breaking through the bubble of silence you two had created together.

“I always will.” You pressed a gentle kiss to his salty forehead and settled back onto the hard wall behind you.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

You hadn’t been together for long, with saying the “L” word still being pretty new, and still slightly foreign, to both of you. But you meant it when you said it, you loved him, and your body always filled with a blushing warmth when he said he loved you too.

You had met through work when you interviewed him for the magazine you worked at. From the moment you saw those dimples in real life, you were weak in the knees and enamored with him. You hadn’t been trying to flirt, it just happened. And before he left the office, you had a date planned for that Friday. That was 6 months ago now and they had been some of the happiest of your life.

“Will you marry me?”

The question left his lips in his absurdly difficult to understand drawl and it took you a moment to process what he said, but when you did your heart stopped.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to marry him, because you did, but not now.

It was too soon. There was still too much for you to do together, too much still to learn about him, and too much for him to learn about you. You hadn’t even had a serious fight yet; you didn’t know how he dealt with conflict or how you would react to it. You didn’t live together; you didn’t know how your living habits would match up or if they would drive each other insane. You didn’t know how you would deal with him touring being away for so long.

There was just too much you didn't know.

“I will someday.” You spoke gently, trying hard not to hurt his currently fragile feelings. You were now holding his face tenderly, like if you held him steady and close, you could lessen the blow.

“So, no?” he looked up at you with his big puppy dog eyes, feeling guilt punch you in the gut.

“For now. Everything is just going so well right now, we don’t have to mess with it.”

“Jus’ wanna be with you forever,” he said softly and your heart began to melt. He was such a soft person, who felt everything so deeply and with so much emotion. He was a sap, and you loved him for it. You pulled him closer to your chest, pressing soft kisses to his temple.

“And you will be,” you breathed. “Forever will still be there down the line.”

“Why not now?” His lips held an adorable pout and you couldn’t stop yourself from pressing a kiss to them. He tasted awful, like tequila and sweat, but the kiss was loving and sweet as you tried to pour all your love for him into it.

“Because we still have to grow,” you watched the end of his mouth tick up, sure to make some sort of smartass comment about you both being grown already. “We have to grow together,” you finished.

“I guess so,” he mused softly.

“I promise that I will say ‘yes’ when we are ready someday.”

“Someday,” he repeated softly, feeling the words on his own lips. “I’m going to keep asking, ya know?” he smirked up at you, his smile and joking tone signalling that you hadn’t broken his heart, just bruised his ego a bit.

“That’s perfectly okay,” you sighed, a contagious smile finding its way to your own lips. “I’m going to keep saying ‘no’ until we’re ready, ya know?” you teased, using his own words against him.

“One day, I’ll make an honest woman outta ya when you let me.”

“One day.”

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