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#... so ive been messing around instead of doing anything elsewhere
thebrideoftiffany · 4 months
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this is going to be long and incomprehensible because ive been trying to put it together since i saw it
nola henry au
the party(instead of lucas max is there) are into ghost hunting more than like dnd stuff
idk how this would work in general but they go to new orleans to go visit haunted places steve is ofc there bc babysitter duties or whatever
the sinclairs are located in nola- locally famous bc of history with voodoo (some believe some dont but you just dont go messing with them any type pf way)
the party goes to visit this one places where something crazy went down but before they go in lucas stops them but they still want to go (maybe they go back and someone gets possessed)
i have it in my head that henry and steve meet at like a bar/club and like the whole time steve is hypnotized by henry like not paying attention to anything around him. its not a long interaction but an impactful one. steve doesnt even get his name before henry is directing him elsewhere. and ofc what kind of stenry au would this be if steve is absolutely obsessed with henry afterwards. but like to make it a bit crazier maybe he starts seeing henry even when he isnt there (he is actually going crazy and its literally all in his head)
so boom one of the party members get possessed (probably will) they find out they gotta go to some lady. the some lady is mrs sinclair of course, shes got a shop yk the works.
OF COURSE OF COURSE OF COURSE the sinclair kids work there henry-psychic lucas- medium erica- mother’s predecessor
BUT ALSO SAM!!!!! henry and sam met somehow and henry realized that him and sam are mot only the same but connected so now henry is working with him to figure out how to get him to use his gift without falling out every time and making them less severe
el is also there but i imagine her being more like a medium like lucas so shes with mrs sinclair. NOW HOPPER IS A NON BELIEVER but he knows that its like good or whatever for el to work with mrs sinclair so he just goes with it but with an upturned nose)
mrs sinclair is real iffy about who and what she works with so at first shes like aaaaah idk i really dont want whatever you got going on in my store so you gotta go
they get kicked out go back to where theyre staying like “damn we cannot take him home in this condition” so they figure something out
steve’s like you guys stay here im gonna go talk to the oldest
of course they dont stay instead they go back to the store hoping to implore lucas if he knows anything. of course lucas and el can see ghost and shit so they go looking into it
meanwhile steve is borderline stalking henry and while he’s following henry he realizes he has no idea where he is and where hes going and that following someone he does not know is not a very good idea. henry lures him into some alleyway and is like “hey man what the fuck” and steve is like “i know you youre the guy from our first night here i know you!” and henry is like “i dont think you do” MIND YOU steve has been hallucinating henry so he thinks he sounds crazy when he explains.
i actually did not have a clue on how to explain steves obsession UNTIL i started writing everything here. My idea is like what if the bar they met at was really gimmicky and had a drink called love potion or some shit BUT IT WORKED and steve did fall in love at first sight. ive ran out of steam but like DO YOU SEE THE IDEA I HAVE GOING HERE. it was so hard to get this out i literally could not get this into my notes have no idea how i got it here
anon you weren't fucking lying about the images in your head holy shit. this is really fun!! i see the vision!!!! an alternative idea, if you'd like, for steve's hallucinations/obsessions, henry's reaction could be like "oh. yeah. i have that effect on people sometimes." and steve is like "WHAT DO YOU MEAN" "i'm appealing!" "W H A T"
of course of course henry would end up helping them, possibly at the behest of lucas, but lets be real, he isn't going to let some kid get tormented by spirits no matter what his mom says. maybe lowkey henry is actually the strongest in the family, born with the most natural connection to the other side (maybe one of the reasons his image can haunt someone like steve). he doesn't like to talk about it, it weighs a little heavier on him, but it's because of that he feels like he can deal with whatever it is that's plaguing these dumbasses. tap into the side of him that scares him a little sometimes, a little less scarier since he met sam--after all, having someone like you can make anything easier. and maybe he can help this kid. and also maybe in the meantime steve will realize that those hallucinations had nothing on having the man right in front of him
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whump-town · 3 years
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Been Having A Hard Time Adjusting
Summary: Alternative to the peaceful homecoming of Emily Prentiss - Aaron Hotchner never truly comes home with her.
Warnings: medical trauma, amputation, scarring, blindness, mental health, hallucinations, sexual assault, self harm, and just sad stuff
Part One, Part Two
They find the sweet spot where nothing exists past the tip of his nose. Where his mind slips and he dissociates, gets caught in the old wall just a few feet away. In the spackled off-white paint. His eyes unfocused and unmoving. A nestled warmth where he finds himself outside his mind and body and bathed in entire numbness. Compliant to their overwhelmingly constant touches and questions. Without the heavy thrum of sedatives in his veins, he’ll kill himself. Tears stitches back open with his searching fingers to find where to dig and rip into the skin to feel the warmth of his blood.
“Is there someone we can call?” he’s given up. His fight depleted to leave him bareboned and dying. “You didn’t list anyone in your files but if you give us a name…” He hadn’t listed anyone for a reason. He’d wanted his death to be as nonexistent, as unpleasant as his life. So that the others might be given the chance to move on. So that his son will not think of him. He’ll slip through the cracks and they’ll just forget. It could go unnoticed. Now, he’ll be left to go slowly. They can place feeding tubes and restrain his mobile limbs but that will not breathe life back into him. He’s not active by any means but he’s reserved and he’s lost. He doesn't want to stay. He’s done.
He’s been fighting his whole life but he’s never been good at knowing when to give up.
There had been life in him, initially. In the back of his mind, he’d hoped for this eventual returning to his life. His old life. It’s a complicated, convoluted thought that he carries for a week. His presence of mind comes back slowly and the drugs can not hide what he knows intuitively. He finds the wounds on his face, holds his fingers near his right eye and the sight is… The doctors tell him it was shrapnel and that he’s lucky he has some sight in it at all and that there is no perceived brain damage. He looks at himself in the mirror. Looks at this man that he can not recognize.
There is a mass of bruises and wounds on his face. His eye isn’t easy to notice the pupil blown wide and a well-meaning doctor tells him that the scarring he’s typically used to seeing will happen over time. Just as many of the wounds on his face, they just need time to scar.
They sit with him, run their fingers along the wounds as they guess at which ones will heal and which ones he’ll never get rid of. “This one looks like lightning,” a nurse tells him like he’s supposed to appreciate finally understanding what Harry Potter looked like. Does she think Jack will appreciate that? That he’ll look at his father’s face and see a hero and not a horrible mess of these warped scars?
It’s sick, he knows. He’d never think these things about anyone else. But he looks in the mirror and he sees someone that he hates.
And it all goes to hell when Dave shows up.
It’s… He doesn’t know what day it is anymore but he’s turned away from the door of the room. Propped up on pillows and looking out the small window in his room. The physical therapist had come in to move him, forced him to practice moving from the bed to the wheelchair, and then from the wheelchair to the recliner, a nurse had kindly pushed in. He’s left alone because he’s content like this, turned like a flower to the sun. Eyes closed and nearly forgiving, compliant.
“Hotch...”
He jerks at the sudden intrusion. Panicking at the sight of the man before him. It’s a little too much. “D--Dave?” he hasn't spoken in so long that his voice grates and cracks. Tears sting his eyes and he chokes, crying as Dave steps towards him. Sobbing as Dave bends down and shakes his head, his own eyes filling with tears. “You came,” he whispers, leaning into the palm that Dave presses to his cheek. Warm and rough and here and he hadn’t realized how lonely he was. How tired of his own mind…
Dave looks like he always does, carefully suspended between two ages. His hair greying near the temples but his eyes betraying him and his age. He’s tanned, dressed softly in a way that makes Hotch feel like a young cadet all over again. As if he’s marching into the bullpen to meet his hero. But here he is. Dave is right here.
“You’re too thin,” Dave whispers, stroking his cheekbone. “Being a pain in their ass, huh?” He smiles, fondly and softly and Hotch feels its warmth in his chest, in his face. He nods and smiles even harder when Dave brings their heads together. Rustling Hotch’s hair playfully. “It’s good to see you, Hotch.”
He nods, unable to trust his voice. He closes his eyes, leans entirely into the touch.
“Aaron?”
He hums.
“I brought you lunch, sweetheart.”
Eyebrows furrowing at the sudden change, he opens his eyes. The room is empty. He’s still in the recliner. He looks for Dave, going frantic as he realizes there is no proof of Dave ever having been here. But he must have just fallen asleep. “I’m not hungry,” he whispers and lays limply, bites down against his tears as they hook up to the supplements they pump into him. The only way they can think to keep him alive for just a little longer.
Dave keeps coming.
He shows up as Hotch’s falling asleep, whispers through the exhaustion about the next morning. Smiles and assures Hotch he’ll be here when he wakes up. He never is. Emily comes. She brushes her fingers through his hair and he asks her to tell him one more time the names of the countries that she visited as a child. The ones she loved best. He needs her to do the accents to squeeze his hand and throw her head back with laughter but she squints her eyes. She shakes her head and never answers. Never tells him.
“Who are you talking to?”
Hotch blinks, confused but not nearly enough. Some part of him knows what this is but he needs them so desperately that it keeps him from falling apart. He’ll lean into this delusion because it is all he has. “No one,” he whispers but they know. The nurses, the doctors, the therapist. They've noticed.
He doesn’t know why (he knows exactly why).
There are no thoughts leading up to it (it’s everything, it’s all too much).
No ideations (he just wants to sleep…).
It hurts. He rips the IV from his hand with his teeth, grunting at the pain as the needle comes free. He means to run away but he looks down at his leg - to where his leg should be - and he sees red. He feels red. Digs his fingers into the gauze, crying out when he finds the stitches. The hole of mangled flesh and the warmth of his blood coating his fingers. He doesn’t get very far. Isn’t capable of enough damage - not to him, at least. He wants to do worse. To hit and scream and throw himself somewhere dark and cold to die.
He passes out in a puddle of his own blood. Wakes enough when the nurses come in, dragging in crash carts behind them. The head of the bed falling and his hands being moved away. He’s floating. Not really there. He feels the odd little dance of his heart in his chest like it’s stomping quickly to a rhythm not quite right.
He wakes… alive, unfortunately. They restrain him - his two mobile limbs. His left arm still pinned with crap he doesn’t care enough to look at. It’s not as humiliating as it would have been just a year ago. He’s too drugged, too laden to care about the strap they have to put over his thighs to keep him from moving the stump of his right leg. His right hand is held to the bed by the wrist. He looks at it, occasionally, tests the flection of the fingers, and sleeps.
He’s restrained for three weeks but he doesn’t try anything. Doesn’t move or speak. Just looks at the wall. For three weeks they watch him - it’s suicide watch but unbothered. He’s more of a pacifist, anyhow, maybe it would be helpful to know that’s a return of character for him - to just wither away instead. For a week they have this grey area where he’s never left alone during the day and the restraints go back on during the night. They turn on the TV and try to get him to eat but he can’t or maybe he just won’t. He ignores them.
Dave doesn’t come back.
He’s just too tired to care anymore.
He’s there for a month and makes no progress.
“Agent Hotchner.” His physical therapist lets himself into the room. There’s no use in asking to come in, he won’t answer. “I was thinking we work on transfers today,” the other man informs him. He pushes the wheelchair into the room. There’s no point in working with prosthetics, he fluctuates in weight too dangerously to keep them to size. Besides, he is too weak. Too weathered and caved to hold himself up. His left leg is cramped in that bed. He isn’t’ strong enough.
Hotch doesn’t do what they ask but he goes numbly into their directions. Spurring to life like a machine before sputtering back out. He’ll sit up but his movement is mechanical.
He goes elsewhere because they can’t come here.
To Derek. Falling asleep after long cases in the backseat of whatever beat-up car Gideon rented, their shoulders rocking back and forth. Waking for just a moment either leaning, if not held, in Morgan's lap or to find the other man sleeping on him. The unspoken nature of the two of them. Laughing in the bullpen and the time that he carried Morgan across a field because they fell down from some rafters of a barn that Gideon warned them about. They made it to the driveway and laid atop one another called Gideon to come get them. He remembers cracking his eyes open when Gideon had stood over him, shaking his head. “The two of you are nothing but trouble.”
It distracts him from the pain and the way that he can still feel his right leg. They tell him it’s phantom pain but he feels it. He wakes in the middle of the night certain he can wrap his fingers around where an ankle or a calf would be. Is certain his toes hit the end of the bed. He moves to transfer from the bed to the wheelchair and he still tries to put either on a leg that isn’t there.
He’s stationary and that’s how they find him.
Penelope finds him on Tuesday and it feels far too much like the morning she spent frantically calling hospitals to find him. His name isn’t given - not public because he’s American and he’s in a veterans hospital because the federal government won’t fork over the money it’s going to take to airlift him home. Besides, he’s got no family listed. No one to call and raise hell to get him home. No one to care. It’s hard to say they did until just a week ago… Hotch was always good at hiding in the emotional sense but he’s never been good at hiding himself. It made his childhood miserable for reasons with much higher stakes than just children’s hide and go seek.
Dave goes because the plane ticket is nothing and his absence will be fine. Emily tries to come but he tells her to stay, makes her stay. Hotchs’ done all this for a reason and he fears the state he’s going to find him in. Never mind, Emily’s still dead to Hotch - still someone who is dying and needs protection. It’s too much.
Dave drives an hour to Washington D.C. and takes a one stop flight straight to Pakistan. It’s nearly eighteen hours and with too little sleep he arrives at the hospital at 3 p.m.
David had taken to Hotch effortlessly. He’s just that sort of person-- the sort that draws you in with their mystery, with the kindness they couldn’t be bothered to pretend it’s so challengingly genuine. That’s just how Hotch’s always been. Honest but somehow so intuitive, knew things you could never remember telling him but right still. Always says the right things without ever telling you a thing. Until you’re a decade into a friendship with him and you can’t remember if he’s from the east coast or if he’s from the south or maybe if he’s ever had a pet or even what his favorite color is. Not because you didn’t pay attention but because he’s careful. Never tells more than necessary and he’s got that perfected.
And it’s how Dave knows something isn’t right.
Because Hotch could be dying and he’d never bother you. He’d never put you off by asking for a thing.
“At the two week mark he got an infection, his right leg was severely damaged in the accident. The wound and the leg started to necrotize. His organs started to shut down. Sepsis set in--”
Dave’s eyes snap to the doctor’s, sepsis. He looks back to the man in question. Hotch had this way about him, the way he moved and breathed and lived like those old stop motion pictures. Every moment so carefully constructed to create this flowing motion, entirely soundless. Dave has always thought he looked like the grasshopper from James and the Giant Peach with his too long limbs. Thin and pliable. Now, he rests heavily. That grace and flow stolen from him.
“Agent Rossi?” Dave tears his eyes away from Hotch, forces himself to concentrate once again on the doctor. “He’s… He’s been experiencing some rather unpleasant signs of post-traumatic stress. He won’t speak to the therapists on staff--” The doctor looks hopelessly to the man so oblivious to them. “We had to perform a unilateral bk-- we-- I amputated his right leg just below the knee.” By that time, Hotch had lost his abilities to make these decisions himself. Mind ravished by fevers, he was hallucinating. Seeing people that weren’t there.
Dave feels a knot form in his throat as his eyes wander. Slowly over those thin shoulders, down the curve of his back and the bones betray, the bones that protrude through his thin t-shirt. Down to… to see where one foot sits in the rest and the other stops. Where they’ve tied the access material of his sweatpants off.
“He has a prosthetic,” the doctor sighs. “We’ve had to resize it twice. We can’t-- We can’t do it again.” The doctor looks so impossibly exhausted. “They have to be... the prosthetics are advanced but fluctuations in weight ten pounds, even, that throws them off. He can’t keep weight on him and so we size them and then he loses more weight and he’s not getting stronger.” And it’s pointless. He won’t walk on the damn things. Refuses aids and he could walk, by now he could likely run and leap and move but he refuses much else aside that damned wheelchair. “He’s damaged the nerves, the bone, that I don’t know if he’ll be able to use a prosthetic.”
Dave doesn’t need any of that explained to him.
He understands it all too well.
Dave shakes his head. Clearing his throat rouses through his trousers, pulls out his wallet, “if money is the issue--” He hands the man the cards Dave thinks he might need. “Size them,” he asks. “Size them one more time and let me take him home.”
The doctor shakes his head, “Agent, maybe… maybe I’ve betrayed your confidence here.” He sighs, “sir, he’s not well. He doesn’t speak. Not to a soul except in his sleep and he screams. In-- In agony, in fear. He wakes and he has no memory of this happening. Denies our therapy. He doesn’t eat. He sustains on intravenous fluids and a feeding tube which he once fought but now doesn’t even… He’s prone to chronic infections.” The doctor frowns sympathetically to Dave and he is truly upset with this prognosis. Of his patients' negligence to himself and it might be good to finally have someone here for the man but he can not be released. Not without imminent danger. It couldn’t even be recommended he make the trip to another hospital.
“Do what you can?” Dave pleads.
And the doctor wants to break down, to confirm that they have. Everything they can think of. From tough love to entirely too understanding. Everything they have ever been trained to do. He isn’t responding. But Dave isn’t hearing it.
Dave crouches down in front of Hotch, placing himself directly in his line of sight. “Hotch?” He reaches, slowly, up towards him because Dave knows to expect a flinch. No matter how many miles Hotch puts between himself and his childhood, it still comes back in the little moments like these. But Dave’s fingers ghost across cold, pale flesh and there is nothing. No flinch or recoil or even an in-take of startled breath. Only empty eyes.
He’s still so foolishly hopeful. There has to be something, an ember to send to life. He’s just in need of a little poking, the right words and the right commands and he’ll come back. “Hotch,” Dave calls once more. He smiles, cupping Hotch’s cold cheek in the palm of his hand. “Aaron,” he amends because, of course, Hotch won’t answer to his first name. It’s impersonal. Everyone knows it. Hotch is sacred. It’s something entirely their own.
Dave had assumed the doctor was a fool. What could this stranger know about his Aaron? But… this isn’t even his Hotch. This isn’t Hotch at all.
David Rossi has no idea who this man is but he’s not Hotch.
The physical therapist makes his way over, wheelchair pushed out in front of him as he edges closer. Looking between Dave and Hotch, trying to make sure the doctor’s okay for him to come is genuinely welcomed. Dave stands up out of the way, taking a short step back as he watches, numbly, the way the therapist talks to Hotch. The gentle way he kneels down and makes sure that Hotch’s eyes find him before he speaks again. “How are you doing, big guy? Up for the trip back?” he gets no answer, which Dave is growing to find less and less surprising.
“Alright,” the therapist answers as if Hotch has said something, like he’s even acknowledged the other man’s presence. “I think that pretty nurse--” the therapist locks the wheelchair and sets it up for ease transfer. “You remember?” the therapist asks all without breaking stride, like he’s having an active conversation with Hotch. “Well, I”m sure you remember, don’t you? You know, the pretty nurse Amy? Tall? Brunette? Damn, man, I swear I’m in love.” The therapist taps Hotch’s right knee and it spurs Hotch to life. He sits up and the therapist keeps talking as Hotch makes slow, lazy movements to push himself to the edge of the chair. “She asked me out for drinks tonight.” The therapist puts his arms under Hotch's, ready to step in and guide if Hotch can't do it himself. “I’m getting drinks with the hot nurse, isn’t that great?”
Dave watches silently.
Hotch maneuvers himself easily enough, his left hand is still covered in bandages, but he places his weight on one arm and one leg. The movement isn’t entirely sophisticated but it gets him where he needs to be - seated in the wheelchair without help from either of them men standing close.
The physical therapist kicks the breaks down. His smile startles Dave, mostly because of its brightness despite the dreary mood of everything else around them. The physical therapist grins at both of them - his spit and shine nearly a bit too much. “So,” the therapist hums. “Do I need to worry about this guy taking my spot as your best friend? I mean, we’re friends, right, but do we have to compete for the throne of best friend?”
Hotch’s head raises, glancing up at the therapist and Dave feels himself choke, as if punched at the look in his eyes. They stop, the therapist shooting Dave a glance before he kneels down. He places a hand on Hotch’s leg, the two of them eye-level with one another. The therapist clears his throat, solemnly offering, “he’s real, Aaron.” He glances up at Dave, motioning him closer.
Dave takes a stiff step closer - biting down to prevent himself from huffing an agitated breath at the younger man when he’s only beckoned closer. Until he’s kneeling down beside Hotch as well, his chest tight at the way Hotch’s eyes dart to him but seek comfort in the therapist.
“Who is this, Aaron?”
Hotch’s eyes dart to Dave, his dry lips parting but falling closed without an answer. He looks away, flushing with embarrassment at his inadequacy. Dave feels his throat tighten like a vice, begging someone to explain what’s happening here. He’d been told Hotch didn’t have any brain damage and that while nightmares and hallucinations had plagued his waking state, he was fine. Those were symptoms of PTSD and the hallucinations had abated and likely, the nightmares would too once his physical body is able to start to heal.
“You know,” the therapist prods. “Introduce me, Hotch.”
Dave moves, shifting as if to speak to beat Hotch to the chase and the therapist cuts him a look. He doesn’t say a word.
“Aaron,” the physical therapist takes his unharmed hand, trying to solidify Hotch’s attention. “Please? He’s real. Just like you and I, okay? You can tell me.”
Hotch turns his attention to his knees and Dave feels his conviction, feels the way Hotch has solidified his final opinion - Dave isn’t here. He looks at his lap, pulling his hand back to pick at his nails. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. He can’t bring himself to say it. Doesn't want to look at Dave and have him disappear again. Doesn’t want to feel his heart get broken again when Dave disappears.
Dave is stopped, he means to move forward to maybe grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Hotch does know. Of course he knows. Dave has known him since he was a twenty-something punk-ass kid with untailored suits and a shitty Windsor knot. He’s his best friend…
“Okay,” the therapist caves and shoots Dave a look that conveys all that it needs to: he’s to fall back. “That’s okay,” the therapist assures him. It’s pointless, Hotch has worked himself to the point of tears over what Dave had thought was a simple question and Dave feels like he’s been kicked in the head.
They go on without another word. None of them speaking. Dave watches Hotch cry, a few soft tears that trail down his face while he glares down at his lap. He wants to say something. To reassure Hotch or to remind him. Hell, anything is better than this silence that they’ve fallen into.
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fic: don’t take this haunting home - IV
Wei Ying lives with many ghosts. It’s usually not a problem. He used to be one himself, after all. However, ghosts have one glaring fault, and it is this: they are, by definition, people who refuse to stay completely dead.
And as far as Wei Ying is concerned, some dead people should stay that way.
Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four
Content: angst, violence, ghosts
Pairing: Wangxian
Length: 7.2k
read on ao3
//
Waking up is no harder than being resurrected. Which is to say, it is very hard and kinda nauseating and absolutely disorienting and could he maybe go back to being unconscious? There’s a song drifting at the edge of his awareness, all strings and silver, a soft, cradling presence that makes it seem like staying awake might just be bearable. For several minutes, as the music wraps around him, he lets himself sink into it, into the warm embrace of something familiar but enigmatic. A story he used to know but whose ending he’s forgotten. Let me stay, he finds himself thinking, and doesn’t understand why. Please, let me stay.  
Consciousness is relentless. No matter how hard he tries to push it away, it just comes back, nudges him with ever firmer insistence. Like a mangy dog, burying its cold nose against his skin. A groan peels through his too-dry lips – the music stops – and it feels like his soul is separating from his body with the pitiful sound. Like if he breathes too hard, he’s going to end up losing whatever churned up mess is inside. And gods, that will not be pretty for anyone involved.
Anyone involved… Who is involved? With another low moan, he reaches up, prods tenderly at his forehead. It seems to be distinctly Wei Ying shaped, which is a weird enough discovery to pry his eyes open. He’s greeted by a very welcome face, and a much less welcome surge of pain and dizziness as the light stabs at him.
Since the face has been seared on the insides of his eyelids for years now and he doesn’t fear losing it in the next few minutes, Wei Ying shuts his eyes again. The blackness is a pleasant balm to the pain, though the dizziness seems to have lodged itself into his brain.
“Lan Zhan,” he rasps, only slightly more pathetically than he feels. “Ah, Lan Zhan, I swear I didn’t steal the Emperor’s Smile this time.”
There’s no verbal response, but a hand catches his wrist, fingers skimming gently along his skin until they find what they’re looking for and press more firmly against his meridian line. It would be soothing, that touch, if it didn’t almost feel like it was pushing against someone else’s flesh. The transfer of energy is more familiar, though, ticklish and light and refreshing, and Wei Ying’s eyes flutter before he forces them open again.
It would be altogether too selfish to let himself enjoy the elegant lines of Lan Zhan’s face for a few moments… but oh, it is tempting. Even when those lines are just a trifle too sharp, a little too slanted, his lips pressed a bit too hard together. Even angry, Lan Zhan’s beauty is a visceral thing, summoning a bloom of warmth in the pit of Wei Ying’s stomach, and honestly, he should have more near-death experiences just for the pleasure of waking up to that leaning over him.
Of course, near death or not, Lan Zhan is very often nearby when he wakes up. It’s just that the looming thing is kind of sexy.
But because he is not selfish – and because the anger has something guilty and anxious swarming up his throat – Wei Ying swallows hard and tries to sit up. Lan Zhan immediately puts his free hand on his chest and keeps him pinned, though the man isn’t meeting his gaze, eyes fixed elsewhere. Wei Ying thinks he has nice wrists, but probably not nice enough to warrant them being stared at for thirty or so seconds.
“Lan Zhan,” he says, trying to delicately pry the hand from his chest. It doesn’t move. Even when his other hand joins in the attempt, with Lan Zhan’s fingers still curled around his wrist, he can’t get the other man to shift. “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whines, mainly because the Chief Cultivator still isn’t really looking at him.
“Rest,” is his companion’s flat insistence. It’s not the good kind of flat, either, the kind that is steady and stable and extends forever. It’s the kind that makes Wei Ying feel like he’s going to fall, with absolutely nothing to stop the downward slide.
He wilts, dizziness still swimming across his vision. Head falling back onto the bed, Wei Ying keeps his hands clasped around Lan Zhan’s forearm as he murmurs, “I’m glad to see you.”
There’s a pause, a silence that’s too deep, too thick, too easy to suffocate in, and he almost has time to be really, truly afraid. Almost. But not quite. Because then Lan Zhan is replying, in a voice that nearly breaks, “As am I. Wei Ying, you…” Extra pressure from the hand still pressed against his chest, a tightness in the fingers wound around his wrist. They’re the only physical signs of the aggravation Wei Ying knows the other is feeling. It all comes to nothing. “How are you feeling?” his lover asks, as though that were really what he had been about to say.
It’s – almost frustrating. He almost wishes Lan Zhan would let loose the anger, set out accusations in neat little rows, if only so Wei Ying could knock them all asunder. How is he supposed to be chaotically endearing if there’s nothing to whirlwind his way through?
“I’m feeling well rested,” is his response, a trifle more than a trifle obnoxious, and also a lie. A line actually appears between Lan Zhan’s fine eyebrows, which means Wei Ying is really making some progress on the maddening front. Partly because he knows it will annoy the other man, but mainly because he’s genuinely puzzled, he changes the topic. “How did you get here? And where is here, anyways?”
The room they’re in is a generic one, at least from what Wei Ying can tell when he cranes his neck, still unable to sit up because of a certain stubborn someone. One window is letting in a good deal of light, and the place is clean but largely unadorned. A simple bed, a nondescript table with plain sitting cushions, unadorned sectioning screens, little in the way of decoration. It’s also ghost-free, which may or may not be a good thing, but it’s a thing his head is throbbing too much to think about. At least for the next few minutes.
He hasn’t received an answer, but nonetheless he knows. “An inn, right? Which one?”
“Tiantan.”  
The village at the foot of Suntouched Sanctuary. The one he’d passed through this morning. Or – actually, he has no idea how long it’s been since his feet took him up towards the temple. That’s a realization that has disorientation tumbling down his spine, counting out each vertebra like there might be a few too many jammed in there. He wiggles uncomfortably at the thought, and decides he’s probably let Lan Zhan steep in his protective anger for long enough.
Relinquishing his grip on the other man’s arm, he reaches up, trails his fingers over the exposed hollow of Lan Zhan’s throat, brushing back little strands of silky black hair to bare the skin better. His lover doesn’t pull away, and the quizzical half-tilt of his head, the swallow that Wei Ying can feel through the pads of his fingers, they have a helpless little sound stirring behind Wei Ying’s lips. Gods, how can anyone so beautiful be so charming, too? He resists his impulse to wax eloquent about Lan Zhan’s many virtues and says instead, “You know, if you’re so determined to keep me in bed, I can think of a few ways you might convince me to stay.”
It’s light enough in the room to see Lan Zhan’s pupils flare, dark and intent in the splash of sun spilling across his austere face. His throat convulses, another hard swallow, and for half a second, he leans in closer, unbound hair tickling Wei Ying’s face. It looks like he’s actually thinking about what he could do to keep Wei Ying obediently in place. Wei Ying’s body tenses, an automatic response to the smoldering expression, and it occurs to him that he really could think of a few things they could do on this bed. They’re so close right now, the least they could do was kiss…
Lan Zhan’s frustrated exhale puffs against his lips, and then the other man is straightening and backing away. Wei Ying doesn’t bother hiding his disappointed pout, which, given that his masterplan had been to get Lan Zhan to let him up, is a bit ridiculous. Whatever. No one has ever called the Yiling Patriarch a fount of Maturity and Constancy; he sees no reason to get them started now.
“You nearly died. You think I’d want to do… anything… after that?” Lan Zhan’s voice is so strangled with indignation that it’s somewhat funny, and Wei Ying has to stifle his rash impulse to point out that Lan Zhan certainly did want to do something, if only for a moment.
Quickly discarding his disappointment in favour of a smug grin, he sits up before Lan Zhan can change his mind. He only regrets it by about ninety percent when his stomach immediately lurches, nausea and dizzy pain warring for supremacy. The dizziness wins – thankfully – and, swallowing the urge to retch, he swings his legs over the side of the bed. He even (almost) manages to persuade himself that there hadn’t been a moment, half a second or less, when he’d thought his legs might not respond, given that they still don’t feel entirely like his legs. Nothing about this body feels entirely his, right now. A familiar sensation, but one aggravated by his use of Empathy.   
“Wei Ying…”
Ignoring that, he straightens, rolls his shoulders, mainly to convince himself that he has the ability to do so. Giving the room a more careful scan, he notes Lan Zhan’s guqin settled on the low table. The sight of the beautiful instrument has his throat closing, and it takes him a moment to realize why. The music that had been playing – the cursive, melodic trail he had followed out of the wrenching blackness of Wen Zhuliu’s despair – belonged to those strings. And those strings belong to Lan Zhan. Of course he feels like crying.
Of course he doesn’t cry. “Have you seen a spirit recently?” he asks instead, because really, that should take priority over his ripped up insides. “About this tall,” Lan Zhan’s eyes follow his vague hand gesture, “and really grim? You might recognize him, though it’s been a few –”
“Wen Zhuliu,” the other man says. “Yes. He was near when I found you. After you came back from Empathy...” There’s a pause, stagnant with more words that his beloved won’t say, and Wei Ying shifts restlessly, trying not to picture what pitiful state Lan Zhan had probably found him in. Trying not to remember the gut wrenching desperation in the voice that had called him back. “He disappeared when the connection broke. I’ve had the disciples preparing wards to ensure he cannot attack here.”
That distracts him. “The disciples? The – you brought some of the Lans? Who?”
An impassive expression. “Lan Jingyi, Lan Sizhui, Lan Feiyan, Lan Keung. Clan Leader Jin, who was visiting on Sect business, also demanded to come.”
“The kids? You brought the kids!?”
“Wei Ying.” For the first time since Wei Ying has woken up, Lan Zhan’s stone faced glower softens into something awfully close to amusement. “They are not children, despite your insistence on calling them as such.”
His hands flap dismissively. Semantics! “They’re younger than me,” he says by way of explanation, conveniently ignoring the fact that in some ways, he’s not truly much older than they are. “They’re also innocents! Defenseless idiots! How could you bring them into something like this?” If he had been on the sharp side of panic at the thought of Lan Zhan confronting Wen Zhuliu, that’s nothing compared to the gristly fear currently grinding up his insides at the prospect of the juniors being thrown into the mix. 
“It will be a learning experience,” Lan Zhan replies placidly. “Besides, I am here. Does Wei Ying think the Chief Cultivator is incapable of confronting this spirit? Of defending those he’s sworn to protect?” By the end of that, his voice has sharpened, and the very fact that he’s referring to himself by his title shows how upset he is.
“Of course not,” Wei Ying replies instantly. “If I had to choose anyone to be at my side, anyone at all, it would be you. It’s always you.” He leans forward as he says it, the truth of what he’s insisting stark in his eyes, and his lover doesn’t look away.
“Yet you chose to face this alone. You used Empathy alone, despite knowing how dangerous it is.”
Resisting the urge to wince, thankful that Lan Zhan is willing to speak about what’s hurting him and not bottle it up, Wei Ying smiles ruefully. “And that decision worked out so well. I’m… I might have made a mistake. A small one.”
“That almost got you killed.”
“But lucky for me, I have a handsome cultivator ready to swoop in to save me from demons and ghouls and such.” There’s no budge in his companion’s flat expression – not yet – and Wei Ying curbs his levity. “Ah, Lan Zhan, it’s not that I didn’t want you by me. It’s not that I didn’t think you could protect me from Wen Zhuliu. It’s just…” Lan Zhan is still watching him quietly, and he can’t help but reach out a hand, hopeful and yet a little breathless with apprehension, even after all this time.  
The other man doesn’t hesitate to entwine their fingers, and a second later he joins Wei Ying on the bed. Lan Zhan pulls their clasped hands into his lap, a seemingly unconscious gesture, as unconscious as the way he traces gentle lines across Wei Ying’s knuckles. “It’s just…” he prompts patiently, and gods, what did Wei Ying do to deserve such a man by his side? Perhaps he’d been a Saviour of the People in a previous life.
Not in this one, though. Shame creeps along his shoulders, making them hunch, and the raw vulnerability he feels, drawn out by Lan Zhan’s touch, is no less humiliating. Share his fear? Share his pain? Put yet another burden on the Chief Cultivator, as though Wei Ying deserves to be relieved of this weight? The urge to joke – to lie – wavers uneasily on his tongue.
But this, at least, is a habit Wei Ying has learned to restrain. For Lan Zhan, at least. “It’s just…” His free hand gropes along his sternum, like it could sink through his skin and cradle the pit of energy within. “I saw Jiang Cheng without his core, and I saw what it did to him. And when I gave my core to him...” He laughs, but the sound is hollow, and the smile he affixes to his lips is a reflex more than anything. “Lan Zhan, I know people called me a mad dog back then, but truly, sometimes, when I felt the emptiness inside me, well, they were not as wrong as they usually tended to be. I suppose even fools must be right once in a decade, hmm?” He laughs again and the sound rattles through the room before dying.
Lan Zhan is very, very still. He is not moving at all, except for his thumb, still stroking Wei Ying’s fingers. It is a stress response in reaction to grief and guilt for a tragedy long passed. It’s not a judgement. Wei Ying knows this, yet he still feels restless, restive, waiting for his lover to chide him for his thoughts and weakness. Deliberately careless retorts stack on his tongue, ready to topple off and dismiss what he just said, to reassure with a chuckle that the gouges in his soul are nothing.
Yet the man next to him does not offer a reproach. After a long moment, he just shifts, leans his shoulder lightly into Wei Ying. “You were afraid,” he observes quietly, and Wei Ying stiffens at the implication. Before he can argue, though, Lan Zhan shakes his head, a miniscule movement. “For me,” is his clarification.
Wei Ying is quick to agree to that as he relaxes. In his own way. This is swiftly becoming cloying, and he’s eager to move on. Not because he doesn’t want Lan Zhan to know he cares – that’s a battle he’s glad he lost more than a decade ago – but because there is pain in the tightness of his partner’s lips, and Wei Ying is so tired of this phantom ache that neither of them have healed. So… jokes.  
"What would we do if Wen Zhuliu took your core, and you couldn't cast the Silence Spell? I don’t know if our bond could survive the stress."
Lan Zhan does not laugh, or even smile. His intense stare might have been unsettling for someone else, and it had been unnerving for Wei Ying in a different time and place. Now, however, he basks in the attention, in the fierce devotion that inspires such a focus. "Wei Ying," Lan Zhan says, "I understand."  
As ever, he cuts straight to the heart of the matter, accepts without the need or desire to dwell on it. Before Wei Ying can be appropriately grateful for that forgiveness, the other man adds, "Next time, tell me. Whatever it is."
"Ah, Lan Zhan, I don't think we'll have the misfortune to meet two Wen Zhuliu ghosts in this lifetime."
A light furrow appears on his lover's forehead, and his posture, already immaculate, somehow becomes even straighter. "Wei Ying, promise me. Whatever it is next time, you'll tell me."
So the stare, as it turns out, can still be a bit unsettling for Wei Ying. He looks away, squirms in his seat and then makes to get up. Lan Zhan still has his hand, however, and the man's grasp is an anchor, forcing him to stay in place. "Wei Ying," he repeats, as close to an anxious entreaty as Lan Zhan ever gets.
Despite being a bit of an escape artist extraordinaire, the Yiling Patriarch is helpless to evade the sincerity of that plea. Huffing, he slouches back on to the bed and pouts. "Aish, fine. Next time I'll drag you with me to hell or wherever I end up."
It is a little bit ridiculous, how pleased the Chief Cultivator looks to be told such a thing. Wei Ying senses a shift in the room, a subtle loosening that means, once again, he’s been believed. Lan Zhan is not a simpleton, nor even particularly naïve, but he does have a tendency to think promises are not, in fact, made to be broken, and a habit of believing everyone else must think the same.       
Lan Zhan hums, whether in pleasure or conciliation, it's hard to say. Either way, the sharp lines of his face have softened, and the tension in his fingers has faded away. With a light snort, Wei Ying returns the pressure with his shoulder, the contact grounding him, letting the fear and guilt die down to a low flicker.
He still feels horrible, but at least it's only his body this time around.
"Speaking of our bond... I don't think it's quite strong enough to let you track me down. How'd you end up finding me?"
The smile is finally there, and Wei Ying had long ago learned to love the subtleties of that barely perceptible quirk, the slight tempering that so many people are likely to overlook.
Although he appreciates it slightly less when it’s at his expense.
“Lan Jingyi was to receive punishment for his actions during the Summer Recital of Values,” Lan Zhan explains calmly, as if that cleared up everything. Wei Ying truly doesn’t know how the young man had gathered so many butterflies, not to mention kept them concealed and unharmed until the moment he’d set them loose throughout the Chamber of Orchids, but he suspects there were accomplices. He also doesn’t know what the lecture-halting prank has to do with the Chief Cultivator finding him.
Seeing his befuddled pout, Lan Zhan’s smile grows by at least a millimeter. It’s dangerously close to being a smirk, now. Bastard. “Wei Ying encourages flexible punishments. I gave Lan Jingyi the choice between writing out the Values four hundred times, or keeping me appraised of your whereabouts and actions. He chose very quickly.”
Clutching dramatically at his chest, Wei Ying gasps, “You got him to spy on me? Isn’t that against the Lan Clan rules? What was the one… ‘Do not take part in dishonest practices.’”
“Be loyal,” Lan Zhan replies without hesitation. “Perform acts of chivalry. Believe sincerely.”
Wei Ying shakes his head. “Ah, Lan Zhan, I have been a bad influence. Lan Qiren would beat us both to hear you degrading the Values by actually thinking about their contradictions.”
The other man’s face loses some of its amusement, eyebrows furrowing in solemn contemplation, and Wei Ying has a moment to regret what was supposed to be a joke. However, Lan Zhan doesn’t seem upset. More softly than before, but more firmly too, the Chief Cultivator quotes, “Do not fail to carry out your promise.”
Their eyes meet, then, and Wei Ying thinks about a sky filled with floating lanterns, about hands clasped under his chin in fervent, naïve prayer. Of Lan Zhan, by his side even then. No regrets. "One of the Jades of Lan could not possibly fail at anything, let alone their promises," he jokes, but means it all the same. Lan Zhan might think differently, but the man has never failed him. Not on a mountain, or anywhere else.
That is not a path he wants to go down, however, so he draws himself up with officious huffiness. “Never mind. That brat has been tailing me? How could I not have noticed?”
“Lan Jingyi is very wily when motivated. Besides, I believe he has mostly followed your tracks, not your presence.”
Head cocking, finger going up to rub at his nose, Wei Ying stares narrowly at the Chief Cultivator. Lan Zhan gives nothing away, ghost of a smile still playing across his lips as he waits for Wei Ying to figure out what he means. Very smug. Very bastardly. And all in such an upright way, it’s impossible to challenge him on it.
Besides, Wei Ying’s attention is caught by the quandary. It takes a long moment, sorting through his mind what he’s done in the last month or so that could possibly count as tracks, but eventually it dawns on him. “The library. He asked Lan Kuan what scrolls I requested!”
A shallow nod is all the confirmation he needs, and he throws up his hands in disgust, ignoring the way it makes his head pulse with pain. He had spent weeks in the library, trying to determine where Wen Zhuliu’s former home was located, and, after he thought he'd figured it out, the best route to get there. He'd also familiarized himself with cases of non-aggressive hauntings, and situations where a cultivator's power continued even after death. It hadn’t occurred to him while researching that the old man who helped him wade through Cloud Recesses’ mountains of scrolls might tip off where he was going. “Aish! Lan Kuan, that doddering meddler!”
“Elder Lan Kuan is your senior, and a respected member of Gusu Lan Clan,” Lan Zhan says disapprovingly. He’s about to say more, no doubt a thrilling if stilted lecture about propriety and appropriate deference to the elderly, when they both hear something. A soft rustle at the screen doors, followed by a sharp inhale, more discrete rustling, and then silence.
Pointing at the door, Wei Ying grins. Anyone else would miss the way his lover inclines his head by just a little, but it’s all the benediction Wei Ying needs. Still smiling, maybe a trifle too evilly, he declares abruptly, “At any rate, Jingyi will pay! I’ll have spirits moan outside his bedroom for a month, at least!”
There’s a pause as Lan Zhan decides whether he actually wants to participate, and then the Chief Cultivator blandly comments, “That would be disruptive to the other disciples.”
“Then I’ll make him eat congee for weeks! Let’s see him spy on me when there’s a hole through his tongue!”  
It’s impossible to say if his learning-to-be-lenient lover would have continued the prank, because there’s a yelp from behind the door, followed by someone else’s wordless protest.
“You lunatic! Don’t you dare!” The exclamation comes as the screen is violently slid open, and three people are revealed, two latched on to the other’s white robes and trying to drag him away. Jingyi won’t be held back, however, and he points accusingly at Wei Ying. "Eating your cooking is a worse punishment than copying the Values ten thousand times!"
While Wei Ying gasps in affront like such a comment could actually wound him, Jingyi spins around. "Hanguang Jun," he says in desperate appeal, "I was just doing what you asked. Don't let this lunatic get me!"
Meanwhile, the two people who had tried to stop him from entering the room have relinquished their grip on his robe and now stand in sheepish silence. Lan Sizhui looks properly remorseful for the spying and interruption – and probably feels that way, too – while Jin Ling is just embarrassed and, to judge from his expression, getting sullen about it.
The Hanguang Jun in question hardly looks at the trio, just rises from the bed and puts his arm behind his back with elegant grace. He says nothing and, with the light from the window shining on his perfect form, accentuating the pale blue designs on his white inner robe, he looks like a god removed from them all. Stern, implacable, and hugely unimpressed with the shenanigans of mortals.
Of course, from where he's standing, Wei Ying can just make out a quirk of oh-so-pretty lips, and he rather suspects the reason Hanguang Jun isn't looking at the kids is to avoid any of them noticing his amusement.
"Hanguang Jun, we are sorry. We were coming to report that we've finished our preparations, and we heard you talking and didn't want to interrupt, so..." Sizhui's voice isn't meek or cringing; it's the steady cadence of a man admitting to his wrong.
Or Wei Ying is just a bit biased when it comes to the disciple.
Jin Ling lifts his chin. "Does Gusu Lan Sect own this inn, huh? Why shouldn't we go where we choose?"
"Be polite," Sizhui mutters, which just goes to show that Jin Ling's elevation to Clan Leader didn't destroy the bonds between them; the ever-polite Lan disciple wouldn't have chided a leader otherwise.
With a scowl, Jin Ling is about to reply with something no doubt unflattering, but Wei Ying cuts in. "You mean you choose to lurk in hallways, Jin Ling? Very strange."
The younger man flushes, but it's Lan Zhan's turn to interrupt. "Sizhui. Everything is prepared?"
"Ah, yes, Hanguang Jun. We've assembled the wards and created a watch schedule. The others are downstairs, making final preparations." So, in Wei Ying’s experience, they’re taking the opportunity to goof off away from Lan Zhan’s somber eyes. As much as Lan Clan disciples ever goof off.  
"I still don't see why we're bothering to ward against some random spirit," Jingyi mumbles, probably not purposefully loudly enough for them all to hear. Jin Ling bobs his head in agreement.
Lan Zhan is unmoved, and starting to get serious. "Wei Ying was harmed by it. That is reason enough." Still, his lover's eyes flicker over to Wei Ying, and for Lan Zhan that might as well be a scream of curiosity. Of course, the Chief Cultivator had been too disciplined – and kind – to jump all over him with questions when Wei Ying first woke up, but it's obvious the questions haven't been far from the front of his mind.
Given that his plan to keep them all safe and in the dark has failed so spectacularly, he has no reason to withhold this information now. “That ‘random spirit’ is Wen Zhuliu,” Wei Ying begins. He expects to have to explain further, about who Wen Zhuliu is and why it matters, and is rather taken aback when all three young disciples jump at his name, exchanging looks of trepidation.
“The Wen Zhuliu?” Jin Ling demands, while Jingyi yelps, “Core Melting Hand?”
Is he ever going to stop being surprised that the things so long gone – the things he lived through – are all but revered as legends now? Including the villains?
Especially the villains, he tells himself playfully. You know better than most how much people like a devil.
Waving a hand, dismissing their concerns, Wei Ying replies, “The very same. I assume Lan Zhan told you I was attempting Empathy before my… uh, nap?” Their blank expressions reassure him that the Chief Cultivator had told them no such thing. He resists the urge to roll his eyes, knowing well enough that the more anxious Lan Zhan was, the more he tended to close up, to communicate only what was directly and immediately relevant. It had probably genuinely not occurred to him to let the disciples know what was going on beyond direct orders.
“Well, I was. Wen Zhuliu was skulking around Cloud Recesses for several weeks, and I couldn’t get him to talk to me. So…” His haphazard gesture is meant to indicate everything that’s happened since then.
Apparently it’s not quite enough for any of them. “For weeks!?” Jingyi looks like he’s picturing rounding a corner in Cloud Recesses and running straight into the imposing spirit. “Why was he there!?”
“And why are you here now?” Jin Ling asks.
More tactful but still confused, Sizhui adds, “And forgive me, Master Wei, but why didn’t you say anything?”
Under the onslaught of questions, he can feel his headache surging, but Wei Ying pushes it back and grins. He struggles with some things, but performing under pressure is not one of them. “So demanding! Well, let’s see…” He’s about to start twirling Chenqing when he realizes the flute isn’t tucked into his belt. Now discomfort does writhe in his chest, and he fumbles at his robes like the instrument might be hidden there. Had it been left at Suntouched Sanctuary? Before he can become more alarmed, Lan Zhan moves forward. Chenqing is in his hand.
Wordlessly, the other man hands it over. With a grateful smile, Wei Ying takes it, the wood comforting under his agitated fingers. He doesn’t know why, but this item – this flute, out of everything he’s ever owned – connects him most to… who he is. Reminds him, when it feels like he’s forgetting.
And he forgets so often.
Whirling Chenqing, perhaps too wildly, Wei Ying resets himself. “As I was saying. He was there to find me. He couldn’t contact me, because…” That still wasn’t entirely clear. Slowly, tasting the words to see how they sound, his gaze drifting over to Lan Zhan to include the cultivator in the speculation, he continues. “There are powerful wards up in Cloud Recesses to dampen ghostly presences. Maybe they stopped him.” Which wouldn’t explain why he hadn’t reached out when Wei Ying had left the wards at the beginning of his trip.
“Resentment, too,” Lan Zhan offers, understanding the gap in the explanation.
Wei Ying considers that, then nods. It made sense.
“What do you mean?” Jingyi asks, bold despite the Chief Cultivator’s presence, and the other disciples crowd closer, too, eager to hear the response.
“What are ghosts made of?” Wei Ying replies, grinning at the mingled exasperation and resignation on the faces of his pupils. They well know his preferred teaching style, and how unlikely he is to give them a straight answer.
Sizhui is the first to respond. “Energy.”
“What kind?”
“Resentful!” That from Jin Ling. The Clan Leader announces it like he’s challenging Wei Ying to call him wrong, and it’s almost painfully reminiscent of Jiang Cheng’s belligerent forcefulness. Still, even now, Wei Ying has to wonder if Jin Ling realizes just how much he takes after his uncle – and how much of a blessing that really is.
Mostly a blessing.
“Often resentful, yes. Good!” Beginning to pace around the room, Wei Ying notes his nephew’s quickly stifled pride with inward amusement. “Not always, but often. Particularly when a person is murdered. And what does the culmination of resentful energy cause?”
Jin Ling is blank, which is understandable. Neither the Jiang nor Jin Sects specialize in suppressing ghosts. Sizhui, on the other hand, is quick to reply. “Distorted personalities, mindless rage, and increased aggression.”
“Precisely! So, Wen Zhuliu did not immediately reach out to me after I left Cloud Recesses because…”
This time there is a pause, but it feels more awkward than uncertain. Jinyi is the one to break the silence. “Because Wen Zhuliu hates you for your part in his murder, and that conflicted with whatever he desired to contact you about. So he didn’t attack you, but he couldn’t connect, either. The resentful energy was too strong.”
Wei Ying positively beams, ignoring the awkwardness. Technically speaking, Wen Zhuliu was murdered, so he doesn’t find it an inept description, despite the children being reluctant to describe it as such. “Ah, Lan Zhan, aren’t these students too bright? Who could have taught them so well?”
When he looks meaningfully at the Chief Cultivator, Lan Zhan lets the silence grow before he answers. “I don’t know.” For him, almost a joke. At Wei Ying’s expense.
With an affronted gasp, Wei Ying points Chenqing at his partner. “You lie! Who but a cultivator of renown, of talent, of brilliance, could have taught them so much? A handsome cultivator with a keen mind, a sense of righteousness, a bottomless fount of knowledge, a desirable face and–”
“Wei Ying.”
Though Lan Zhan says it as an interruption, Wei Ying chooses to interpret it differently. “Ah! Lan Zhan, you flatter me. Such kindness from the Chief Cultivator! But of course, I wasn’t referring to myself.” He winks outrageously, and the barest hint of a flush creeps up Lan Zhan’s cheeks, though he doesn’t reply.
Flipping Chenqing with a flamboyant flourish, satisfied as ever to catch his lover a little off guard, Wei Ying snags the flute out of the air and turns his attention back to the disciples.
Who are currently struggling to contain their amusement at seeing the Chief Cultivator teased. For all that Lan Zhan has, in his own way, relaxed as the years have gone on, that has assuredly not included encouraging others to badger him. Wei Ying tells himself it’s good for the stately cultivator, and it’s definitely good for Wei Ying himself, so…
“So, you well trained trio, why did I go to Suntouched Sanctuary?” A slightly unfair question, if Lan Zhan hasn’t given them all the information, but he isn’t destined to be disappointed today.
“You were researching Wen descendants and the subsidiary Clans at the library!” Jingyi pipes up, only to snap his mouth shut as Wei Ying side-eyes him at the reminder of just who had been spying on him.
Probably to save his friend, Sizhui rushes to fill the gap. “So you found Wen Zhuliu belonged to the Clan who called Suntouched Sanctuary home?”
Relenting his glare, Wei Ying nods. “Mhm. The Zhao Yu Clan lived in Suntouched Sanctuary before the Sunshot Campaign. Empathy with Wen Zhuliu confirmed it; I saw him with… some others from the Clan.” When he says it, his voice changes. Becomes quieter, and Wei Ying is powerless to stop the sorrow that seeps into the words.
He doesn’t want it. Wants to reject the emotion with a vehemence that’s just short of acidic. He’s been avoiding thinking of what Empathy showed ever since he woke up; filled the space in his head with Lan Zhan and the disciples and questions so much easier to answer than the state of his own soul. What does he owe those dead people he never met, strolling through their garden on that sunny day? What does he owe Wen Zhuliu’s Jiaying, with her firm shoulders and growing belly, with her supportive words and eyes so afraid of losing love?
What can he owe her, when she is dead and gone like so many others?
Lan Zhan heard the change and he’s now at Wei Ying’s side, eyes drifting to the floor but senses acutely trained on his partner. Wei Ying knows, can feel, how intently Lan Zhan is focused on him, ready to offer assistance at the slightest word or gesture. Falling into that quiet support, letting it take the weight of his decades-long fatigue, if only for a moment, is a relief he can’t begin to put words to. Not in a way that would do it justice, anyways.
“Is there any alcohol?” he asks, and of course there is, because Lan Zhan foresaw that particular need.  
Though he could order the disciples to do it, the Chief Cultivator strides over to the side table, swipes up two of the jars resting there. Then he is back at Wei Ying’s side, offering the liquid like he’s offering something else. Because, of course, he is.
Wei Ying accepts the drink gratefully, swallows deep and long. Not as good as the Emperor’s Smile, but it does the trick nonetheless, the mild burn tracing down his throat and soothing the pain of far more caustic emotions. By the time he pulls the empty jar from his lips, it’s taken the sting of haunted defensiveness from his thoughts. Not the alcohol itself – after all, Wei Ying is a first class drinker, and one glass is not anywhere near enough to get him drunk – but the familiarity of the motion, of the taste. It brings him memories, and he grounds himself in the sensation of the tart liquor slipping over his tongue.
The disciples are waiting patiently and without surprise. They know his drinking habits well enough – and more than his drinking habits, he is ashamed to admit. Unstopping the second jar but holding off from drinking more just yet, Wei Ying gathers himself. Another reset. He’s no longer in the mood for the question and answer game, as much joy as it usually gives him.
“At a place with strong emotional resonance such as Suntouched Sanctuary, Wen Zhuliu was able to break through the resentment, to reach out to me.” He doesn’t feel like mentioning the way he’d made his target’s resentment surge first. Doesn’t want to talk about the spirit Wen Zhuliu had ripped apart, doesn’t feel like speculating about who they were, who they had been to Core Melting Hand to shatter his fury like they had. Doesn’t want to admit to yet another murder, for all that he hadn’t held the cutting – melting – weapon.
He’ll tell Lan Zhan. Some night, when the candles are out and their bodies speak truths their throats find hard to say, he’ll tell him. But not today.
Tight-lipped, Wei Ying forces a smile. “However, the barriers were not completely gone,” specifically, his barriers, “so I decided to use Empathy to try to understand him more.”
“By yourself,” Sizhui says, and it’s such an echo of Lan Zhan’s disapproval that he has to laugh.
“By myself. It turned out fine.”
Jin Ling snorts. “You tell us all the time that it’s horribly dangerous to do Empathy alone, and then go ahead and do it by yourself anyways.”
With a light shrug, Wei Ying takes a swig out of the jar. “Do as I say, not as I do.” Smacking his lips to drown out Jinyi and Jin Ling’s protests, he waves off their affront. “At any rate, I learned much.” Much more than he’d wanted to, in fact. “Namely, how to get Wen Zhuliu to stop skulking around. He’s looking for someone.”
“To kill them?” Jinyi asks. He and Ouyang Zizhen both have a penchant for the melodramatic.
“No. They were… taken from him. He wants to find them.”
“Who are they?” Trust Lan Zhan to speak and ask the only question that matters. Well, one of two questions that matter.
There’s a tightness in his shoulders that no amount of drink will ease. Why can’t he get the warm feeling out of his chest, the one that Wen Zhuliu had clutched at so desperately when he was searching for her? It’s not his feeling, he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want anything to do with it.
He forces his mouth not to caress the name. “Mingxia. His daughter.”
The juniors react to that with the expected level of shock. Amid the yelps and rush of speculation, though, Wei Ying doesn’t look at the youngsters. His gaze searches out Lan Zhan’s eyes, and when he finds those dark expanses, he can tell the Chief Cultivator is disturbed. There’s a furrow across his brow, and he’s leaning forward just slightly. Is he thinking about that night, when he’d allowed Jiang Cheng’s Zidian to take one life, and had permitted the brothers to take another life after a great deal of pain and screaming? Or is he remembering the many Wens and Wen supporters he’s killed, cultivators all and none defenseless, but belonging to a family nonetheless?
Or is that just Wei Ying, inserting his own guilt into the honorable man?
Jiaying is probably dead. How else could Mingxia have ended up alone, and in such desperate straits? But how had she died? What had happened from the time Wen Zhuliu left the garden, certain he would see his wife again, to this very day?
What had happened, besides Wen Zhuliu being murdered, along with the man he’d sworn to protect?
Wei Ying thinks, if it had just been the two of them, Lan Zhan would have reached out by now. He would have gladly accepted his lover’s touch, gratefully pressed his face against his strong shoulder and hidden from the world. If only for a moment.  
Alas. They’ve an audience.
Interrupting the excited flurry of words between the disciples, Wei Ying says, “If we recover her, Wen Zhuli will probably stop bothering me.” Or at least his ghost will. The memories… well, some things are better at haunting than even ghosts.
“But who took her? Did you see through Empathy?” That from Sizhui, and is it any surprise he asked the second important question?
Wei Ying spreads his hands in a hapless gesture (after finishing chugging the second jar). “I didn’t see enough to be sure. But I think I know who’ll have an idea where to start.”
Jin Ling frowns, exchanging confused glances with his friends, but Lan Zhan’s mouth has thinned. He suspects he knows who Wei Ying is talking about, and he’s not sure if he’s pleased about it. Wei Ying sympathizes.
He smiles anyways. At least the man is interesting. “What do you say?” he asks the Chief Cultivator playfully. “How do you feel about visiting our old friend Huaisang?”  
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florbelles · 3 years
Note
C & E for Lyra, G & M for Lillian 💕
thank you lovely!! sorry for the delay xx
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— E / EXTERNAL PERSONALITY
i. does the way they do things portray their internal personality?
absolutely. it might seem counterintuitive, since a good deal of her life has relied on deception — her many cons, her evasion of suspicion in forty murders over the span of ten years, and eventually posing as a civilian to spy on the resistance for the project — but she’s effective because of her passive, instead of active, methodology; she will not tell an explicit lie, but she will make a statement that is technically true, but wildly misleading in its context; she really is that affable and good-natured. she is also sadistic, messianic, and freely admits that she considers herself monstrous ( yes, she is terrible; she knows what she is, do you? ), but generally speaking, no one has cause to see that until it’s too late ( no, literally, she is removing their eyeballs, she is cutting their tongues, she is sewing flowers where their organs used to be, and isn’t it beautiful, that their deaths have meaning, that their skin will not simply blister and burn, that they will not choke as the ash fills their lungs; she will string their bodies about the county; no one will know the work is hers, not until later, not until the end, but then, they never thought to ask ). her blood runs much too hot, she is much too impulsive and reckless, her fuse much too short to maintain a persona that is not, essentially, who she is; if others have missed something essential, well. that’s hardly her fault, is it?
ii. do they do things that conform to the norm?
absolutely not. she has never, anywhere in her life, not been glaringly out of place. it’s how she prefers it; she hides in plain sight. she was perpetually flinging herself up against what was expected of her, getting kicked out of boarding school, disappearing for days at a time on nantucket, eventually leaving the week before her sixteenth birthday and never returning. she left behind any semblance of a normalcy with her old life; she’s been on the run ever since. the closest she has had in her adult life to a routine, to normalcy, is with the project. that says everything, i think.
iii. do they follow trends or do their own thing?
see above. she has quite literally never conformed; even as a girl she was a scandal, far too obscene for the old money set ( doubtless her mother’s blood, they murmur; what was lawrence thinking? ). her manner of speaking is outdated, over-formal and over-familiar; her wardrobe consists solely of bare feet or high heels, of long white or pale pink dresses with thigh slits, plunging necklines, bared arms; she is entirely ostentatious. she was living out of her car pumping gas at a texaco in a wedding dress on a tuesday afternoon.
iv. are they up-to-date on the internet fads?
not especially, she stays informed prior to hope county on what’s presently influencing the public consciousness but she doesn’t especially engage with it; she’s never been much for the internet. she’s good at context clues. if you send her a gif or a meme she’ll understand it. if you send her a screenshot of a vine or expect her to understand that sort of shorthand she’ll be lost. why have you sent this photo of a man smashing his phone. is he a friend. does he need help.
v. do they portray their personality intentionally or let people figure it out on their own?
she projects her personality diligently. everything about her has been refined to this; everything about the way she presents herself is intentional. yes, it’s a manipulation, but it’s also true — she has never been anything else. she would not be able to be otherwise, even if she wished to. she allows people to draw their own assumptions from what she presents, and their conclusions are nearly always incorrect; she is indisputably a certain type of woman, but very few actually arrive at the type of woman she is. she weaponizes hyper-femininity to give the illusion of vulnerability to a certain type of man. she gives the impression of materialism where there is none. she bares her tattoos at all times ( the lilies strangled by vines, the thorned roses, the serpent twined in carnations, the wrath across her breasts ); she has shown everyone what she is, she warned them, she wears it on her skin, it is not her fault they did not interpret it correctly ( this is why the marking & atonement immediately resonates with her, it’s aligned with an ideology she already possesses ).
— C / COMFORT
i. how do they sit in a chair?
legs extended and crossed at the heel when she wishes to take up space or make herself an imposing presence; straight backed with her legs folded at a bar or in a meeting; a regular feline at home ( if she’s with her husband she’s curled around him and in his lap, no personal space in this house ). ( originally answered here x )
ii. in what position do they sleep?
she used to sleep on her stomach or side with one arm flung out and the other tucked under her head; she and john sleep in a tangled mess on top of each other because they’re disgusting. she likes to keep a hand on one of his pulse points; she can’t sleep unless she can feel him breathe. ( originally answered here x)
for the last ten years of her life she sleeps curled on the ground with her fingers in the dirt and tries to feel a pulse through the earth.
iii. what is their ideal comfort day?
watch the sunrise ( this is not john's ideal comfort day so his ass better be on that balcony ), fuck all morning, wander the mountains or get high by the river most of the day, read or dance to her favorite records, and a fire at night ( bonfire in the firepit or by the river preferable, hearth fire acceptable if the weather is not permissive ).
iv. what is their major comfort food? why?
hot, sweet, baked things. sugar donuts, scones, coffee cakes. she would loiter around the nantucket bakeries as a girl. lawrence would take her sometimes, if he needed something or was repenting.
v. who is the best at comforting them when down?
john is essentially the only person she even allows to attempt; faith and joseph very circumstantially. it’s less about emotional vulnerability and more about burdening anyone else with her problems; in any given situation, she considers herself the most expendable party, but specifically her discomfort/suffering — she quite literally believes her soul to be damned and forfeit as the price of the world, the lamb, if you will — and that extends to her emotional state in terms. she’s comfortable making herself john’s problem because he signed up for it; she adamantly refuses to do so elsewhere.
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— G / GORGEOUS
i. what is their most attractive external feature?
she favors her eyes; all of her sisters share them. she is most often complimented on her hair.
ii. what is the most attractive part of their personality?
extremely resourceful and an excellent conversationalist; either a real pain in the ass or a fucking delight when she lets her hair down, depending on who you ask.
iii. what benefits come with being their friend?
access to everywhere and everything, though if it’s above board she’s probably going to be dull about it and spend the whole time sniping at society she sees there. knows the best places to slip in if you don’t want to be seen, can guarantee you’re seen if you do. can dispatch unwanted suitors, artfully when she’s sober and off-puttingly when she in her cups. premium gossip, if you'd like it.
truthfully, before the war, she'll never be a simple friend to have; she comes with the complications of her family and her name, as much as she might like to slip out at night and play at anonymity to pretend otherwise ( which she will want to do, often ). nonetheless, she invariably comes with society's gaze fixed on her, her familial obligations, and a good deal of skepticism about the intentions of others. she’ll see to your social advancement because that’s what she expects you need from her. if you've withstood the test of time, however, you’re her family, second only to her siblings; she’ll do anything for you.
post-war she can offer her loyalty and a wealth of knowledge about the world before, context to pre-war technology, etc. very scientifically adept, if not trained; in another life she would have spent her years in a lab instead of in front of the cameras. a valuable ally as long as you don't put her on the front lines.
iv. what parts of them do they like and dislike?
she likes that she's resourceful. she likes that she's undefeated among her peers at chess. she likes how splendidly she can command a room, when she wishes; she likes that she can make people listen to her. she likes it better still when she feels she has something that's worth saying ( and she nearly always does ). she likes that she can be ruthless.
while it is one of her defining traits, she can dislike her obstinacy, insofar as she recognizes it’s to blame for her willful blindness to what was happening around her before the great war. she dislikes the extent to which her loyalty to her family led her to turn her head to what was happening around her. she dislikes that she cares so much what everyone thinks of her. she dislikes that she needs her mother's approval, that she hears her voice even after her death. even after she killed her.
v. what parts of others do they envy?
to that point, she envies the more uninhibited like jackie a good deal; to disregard the opinion of others, even their family, in the name of staying true to herself and her ideals is a type of bravery that lillian wishes she had, even if she thinks jackie misguided in her radicalism. she envies freedom, in all forms she lacks it. she envies those unconcerned with perfectionism. she envies anyone who lives a life unencumbered by expectations and legacies.
post-war, she envies those who aren’t burdened with what came before, all that was lost and how and why. she wouldn’t unknow it it she could — being the last to know is a great fear of hers that’s been realized one too many times — but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t envy those who don’t have that baggage of first hand experience and involvement.
— M / MATERNAL
i. would they want a daughter or a son?
neither, truthfully, but she would probably feel more comfortable raising a son; she’s already spent her life shielding evie from their mother, and feels she did an abysmal job of it, so she’s not eager to repeat those mistakes.
ii. how many children do they want?
none, really. lillian is unable to have biological children, but even if she could, she only would have had them out of a sense of obligation to continue the family line, and because of that sense of obligation — subconscious though it might have been — she came to resent the concept.
iii. would they be a good parent?
not really. she could learn — she can learn about anything — but it wouldn't come naturally to her. because it's not something she would choose for herself, it isn't something that would ever be uncomplicated for her. in many respects she's too much a perfectionist to strike a balance as a parent; she would either be overinvolved and overbearing or go to the other extreme and be entirely hands-off. her nanny would most likely be the better mother; hers was.
iv. what would they name a son? what would they name a daughter?
john is the family name for boys, from which she'd probably be disinclined to deviate ( even evie only ventured so far as "shaun" in her defiance ). she would name a girl anything but audrey ( her mother's first name, her own legal first name ). after the war it would be extremely circumstantial. she would probably name her after jackie. because of birth order, she tells evie brightly. evie is annoyed by this for the rest of their lives.
v. would they adopt?
she technically does adopt, in the sense that she takes in her nephew and passes him off as her own. she figured she owed evie that much. ( as it happens, the great war comes just before his first birthday, so motherhood is still not something in the cards for her ). she wouldn't do it again, and she would not have done it under virtually any other circumstances.
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the osprey and the barn owl, pt. iv
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She may be long out of the osprey’s grip, but there are some things that will haunt Emma no matter where she goes.
previous
for @amonthofwhump​’s brack challenge!
Bracket Three; Trope: nightmares
taglist: @whumpinggrounds​
cw: referenced wing whump, referenced lab whump, threatened winng whump
She rarely, if ever, participates in Danger Room sessions. Telepathy is no use against machines and her diamond form can only take her so far. Most times, she sits them out. Unless the day’s training session is hand-to-hand combat, Emma can usually be found elsewhere in the mansion, waiting to see what the damage is.
As is Forge, but the sentiment is entirely different.
There’s no hand-to-hand combat today, not that Emma can remember, yet she’s in the middle of the Danger Room, alone, as far as she can tell, and everything is humming. The red light flashes—DANGER ROOM IN USE—and some fuzzy, nondescript voice somewhere tells her there’s a program running, but she doesn’t catch which one it is.
The room hums around her, and before long, she’s under fire. Emma dodges one way, then the other, her cape catching in the crossfire, and it’s the least of her worries, not when she still has bullets being rained down on her. And it’s going to get even more shredded, even while her diamond form prevents her from being shredded, but it’s a loss she can accept. 
She ducks behind the nearest block and lets that catch the bullets for her. Her heart races. This program wouldn’t be her first choice for someone who’s essentially a newbie to the Danger Room, and she doesn’t even remember why she chose it. She doesn’t remember what possessed her to run this one of all programs, when instead she could have sufficed for watching the younger X-Men run through it and take the damage instead of her.
Well, in any event, she’s going to have to make the most of this and hope she can escape without further damage. 
And just as she calculates her next move, the room shifts. The firing stops. The block she’s been hiding behind disappears. The room is active and crowded one moment, and empty and eerily silent the next. There’s no one else here. The observation deck is empty. She’s alone.
Emma takes the chance to shed her diamond form. She reaches out mentally for anyone who might be around and finds...no one. The room is empty. The house feels distant.
The Danger Room hums again. Something else whirs to life behind her. Emma doesn’t have time to register what’s coming until a rope of metal is coiled around her arm. She yanks away, held fast, and while her attention is diverted another wraps itself around her other arm, and no matter which way she yanks or how hard, she can’t free herself. Her diamond form can’t help her now.
The metal ropes pull her face-down onto the ground; a third wraps tight around her ankles. No matter how she struggles, she can’t get any of her limbs free; and it doesn’t take long for her to realize she’s exposed. Her wings are unprotected.
No, no, no, no—
Emma screams as a pair of pointed clamps dig into the edges of her wings, struggles with greater fervor as they’re pulled taut and painfully so. This is too familiar, far too familiar for her liking, and—
When she’s able to twist her head around to see the observation deck, there’s a figure lurking in the window, arms crossed and looking down at her with a kind of smug indifference. 
Sinister moves his arm once, to press something somewhere on the control panel, and what Emma hears next is another hum that blocks out the sounds of her own screams and her pleas for him to let her go—and then there’s a glint of metal, something long and sharp at the end of a metal arm. Emma cranes her head around to find a pair of sharpened scissors hovering above her, eyeing her wings hungrily, swaying back and forth like a snake. 
She struggles, thrashing against the restraints to no avail; the scissors snake closer, indifferent to her struggles, opening and closing and opening and closing until it’s right on her, and then there’s a snip—
Emma jerks awake in bed, a mess of sheets and loose feathers. She’s drenched in sweat, her heart thunders, and there’s an ache in her wings and her shoulders she never wants to feel again. She doesn’t know where she is immediately, the walls are plain but the room is dark and there’s light coming from somewhere and—
The floor underneath her isn’t hard, it’s soft, warm with her own body heat, and the blankets are tangled around her legs. Emma blinks, shaking off the last bit of sleep, coming to terms with her environment. She’s not in the Danger Room at all, but in her own bed, and the faintest hint of the back porch light filters into her room. The clock on her wall ticks rhythmically; in the dim light she can just make out the time--3:47. It’s the early hours of the morning.
Emma grabs the nearest pillow, hugging it to her chest. The phantom ache in her wings lingers, faintly, but enough that she knows it’s there. She folds her wings as tightly against her back as she can manage.
A nightmare. It was just a nightmare. She leans her head against the headboard. That’s all. Her wings are still attached to her back, albeit damaged. The feathers have yet to regrow; they won’t until her next molt. But the wounds have begun to heal; her stitches are due to come out within the week. She’s okay. Her wings are okay. She’s okay. 
I’m okay. Knowing that doesn’t stop the fear of losing her wings from shaking her to her core. She’d come so close in Sinister’s lab, and she’d come just as close in her nightmare, closer, even, and that...Emma hitches a sob into the pillow, hugging it tighter, burying her nose deeper. And once she starts, she can’t stop. 
It had only been a nightmare, but it had still felt too damn close. The scissors had made contact with her wings this time, and all Sinister had done before was show them to her. It was the threat of losing them for real that sat heavier with her than she knew, and it’s manifesting in her dreams—her worst nightmare. And it’s leaving her with residual aches and pains; she can still feel the teeth dug into the edges of her wings.
It wasn’t real at all and yet it felt so real. That rattles her more than anything. 
She takes a deep, shaky breath. Just a dream, she tells herself, even as her wings tingle lightly with the bite of metal. Just a dream.
And then, after a while, as she sits and breathes and hugs the pillow like a lifeline, the adrenaline rush begins to wear off, her crying has worn her out, and exhaustion beings to sink back in. Emma blinks; she’s not ready to fall back to sleep yet. If she falls asleep too soon, she might wake in the Danger Room again, tethered to the floor with an unforgiving pair of scissors hovering over her back. And she can’t—she can’t face that again, she can’t be there, she can’t do it, she can’t. 
But with each passing moment, as the sky lightens from black to pale blue, and the sun climbs into the sky, Emma drifts closer and closer to sleep. By morning, she’s slouched against the headboard, wings loosely folded, sound asleep again with the pillow clutched to her chest.
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Permafrost . A fantasy AU
A On The Prowl... spin off for @geld-sama
Nsfw
Warnings. brief. Non con. Vanilla, Impregnation.
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Where was he? It was late out and the incubator keeps asking for him. Was he killing the kittens? Shoto had no idea if Shinso was even capable of such a thing. The leopard grew impatient , flicking his tail around the grass.
Atleast Bakugo was quiet for once , probably because he had to deliver the kittens but oh well. What would happen if the kittens were his? They would all stay together right?
Chizome had offered the incubator food but she declined it , how can you deny food? Werent you hungry? Were you just going to sit and wait for Shinso and not do anything else?
Shoto was bored, and needy . He wanted his turn too. He wanted kittens too. Shinso returned finally, stopping near Shoto to show him the kittens. His eyes grew wide when he saw them . Alive and purple. He had no chance to say anything though. Shinso had went to you dropping the kittens on your lap.
He watched from his look out spot. Your smile, your tears. You were so happy the kittens were alive . When could he experience that too? Soon? Never? Waiting was becoming more and more difficult.
When Shinso told the pack his plan Shoto was taken aback by it. Split up? Why? Because of Aizawa? So? Why? Bakugo is in charge? Nothing will get done. All the incubators will die. He made a fist, fire creeping up his fist to his arm for a second then quickly dissapearing. Bakugo left first , Chizome followed soon after.
“Id rather not have us split up.” He finally said once they were alone, besides you.
“Its for the best, Todoroki”
Was it? Was it really? We all had been together for a very long time and he was just going to throw it away? Just like that? How could you? ..I want a family too. But i wont find it here i guess, ill look elsewhere.
“You were a good Alpha.”
Even if it was for a short time, it was better than Aizawa. Shoto gave Shinso one final nod before taking his leave and joining the others.
•••••
They wandered, not knowing where to go exactly. Chizome was the only one with a good nose and he had to lead them around. It was a little anoying, all Bakugo did was complain that he was hungry and horny.
Chizome enjoyed the walk obviously, he was a wolf. And Shoto was starting to think he was leading them no where just to extend the walk. He did have time to think though.
He thought about kittens for the most part. Shoto was covered head to paw in pure white fur . Unlike the other three who had more human bare chests and arms. He was covered. Would his kittens be like that too? It kinda made him insecure since he was the only one like that. If he had kittens he would not be alone but.. for some reason the incubators feared him the most, sure they feared Bakugo but not as much as they feared him. It hurt him, he would always go feral over it, nearly hurting them. Loosing his cool in such a way hung over his head, he felt more animal than .. human? Was he human?
•••
“Hey Icy hot!! “ Roared the angry lion .
Shoto shook his head seeing Bakugo and Chizome in front of him and what looked like a giant sign with a forest behind it, he could smell a river too, and a camp fire.
“Dog breath led us to a campsite. Lets rest here”
“It looks nice dont you think?” Chizome said , his tail wagging .
Shoto lifted his nose again sniffing the air his eyes widened then got smaller again. Chizome smelled it right? He had too. Bakugo might not, his nose is the weakest out of all of us.
Shoto looked to Chizome and the wolf pawed his snout winking. Incubators, if he could just get a glimpse without Bakugo knowing... “Its very nice. Lets rest here” Shoto said, his tail wagging slightly.
The three set up camp in a isolated area next to the river. The sign had indeed said Camp Site. Confirming where they were, they were no longer near the jungle, this was a new place.
•••
Shoto went off on his own while Bakugo was asleep, Chizome was out looking for food. Shoto followed the smell of the camp fire , he needed to know, to see. He wanted to touch them. Were they soft? Were they different than the villagers in the jungle?
He pulled some branches aside looking forward and a chunk of ice fell out of his paw. Incubators, three of them. All talking , having a grand ole time by the fire. One was laughing rather loudly, it irked him, the second one was drinking something that burned his nose when he sniffed the air. The last one though, you were snuggled under a blanket by the fire just watching the flames dance, you looked very content with your life.
Something in Shoto connected, he needed to have you. Make you his.
You saw him first, he was not exactky hiding, he was half behind a tree and just staring. You rubbed your eyes only to still see him. What is that? You got up with the blanket still around you , you told your friends you would be right back and they waved you off .
Its coming over, its getting closer, its so cute . What? Cute? Wait. What do i do? Think Shoto. Thi-
“Excuse me..?” You said shyly, you had the blanket on your head.
Shoto had fire spark ok his arm for a second , you stepped back and he held his massive paw out to you. You clutched the blanket around your neck gazing at his pure white fur.
“Beastmen..? Your.. your real?”
“Y-yes. Im .. real”
“Ive.. only read books on you. Your..”
Im what. A monster? Just say it..
“Your so beautiful.”
He shot you a look and you stepped closer , touching his paw with your hands. You were so warm, so soft.. your skin was like freshly washed fur on a sunny day. Smooth and gentle.
Shoto held his other paw out to touch your cheek, soft.. delecate. He needed to have you. Shoto was about to say something but a roar caught everyones attention. You cowered and Shoto wrapped his arms around you looking all over till he saw Bakugo running towards the other girls . He looked like a feral mess , tongue hanging out, claws out, drooling. Chizome was with him and he stopped running to look at Shoto.
Bakugo cant have you, he will kill you. Shoto gave Chizome a nod and the wolf waved with his ears down. Shoto scooped you up in his arms taking you away from the scene. You peered over his shoulder to see your friends on all fours naked and being bred by a lion beastmen and a wolf beastmen. You dug your face into Shotos shoulder trying not to hear their screams for help.
••••
Oh fuck, dammit, why, stupid lion. Where am i going? I dont know this area. They smell so nice. Where am i? Is it safe here now? Im still running but i dont know where im going. Its all forest still.
You gently tapped his furry chest making him stop , he heaved dropping to his knees holding you. His breath was hot on your face and smelled like coals. He squeezed you tight and you tried talking to calm him down.
“I know .. from stories what you are. What you were born to do. But i never expected you to be real.” You pulled the blanket off and laying it ok the ground spread out.
He looked at you when you left his arms. Where were you going? I dont know if its safe here.
“Can i know .. your name..”
“Shoto.. Todoroki...”
“Im Y/N.. uhm i..Shoto. Will you breed me?”
He nearly fell forward into your arms. His tail was flicking wildly, scattering nearby rocks and sticks. He gave you a look of hope. Wide eyes and an open mouth, smiling slightly.
“I.. your giving up your life..”
“Shoto.. this is the life ive been waiting for.” You pulled off your pjs and panties, you rolled over getting on all fours looking back shyly. “I uhm.. please. Ive been so interested in Beastment ever since i started reading about them. “
Was this really happening? A incubator offering themself? Its never happened before . She was not scared , she.. she wanted kittens.
“You want this..?” He asked moving closer, standing up on his knees, his cock hitting your plump folds. It was enough to make him cum right there.
“Yes. Yes Shoto.. ive always fantasized .. about this. About kittens.”
He gently grabbed your hips , inching his own forward , watching the head slip inside you, your folds stretched and you dug your nails into your hair trying to adjust to his size. You screamed once but thats it. He stretched you farther then what you were use too. But once he was in you warmed right up, it felt like you had just stepped into a over heated room. Your core was shaking for him, and his thrusting did not help either. You came instantly , it was unlike any orgasm you had felt before, your thighs shook and you were seeing stars around your head.
You were so sensitive that your pussy was twitching around his cock, sucking him in deeper and deeper. Shoto had started out messy but he corrected himself and pumped into you in long steady strokes. Should .. should he mark you too?
Shoto leaned down over your back , you looked back at him, face red and wet cheeks. He asked you and you agreed as fast as you could. Shoto moved back a bit till he was at your shoulder. He growled in his chest and bit into your shoulder sinking his fangs in. You came again and Shoto did too this time. His paws wrapped around you and a satisfied grunt muffled under your shoulder .
His pace slowed to a complete stop but he did not pull out. Instead he let go of your shoulder , he looked at the mark for a minute , not messy and easy to see . Good. Carefully he laid down with you in front of him, his cock still buried inside you, securing his seed.
“Sho..to..”
“Y-yes..”
You looked back and he licked your wet face till it was clean of tears , you reached back holding his face close to yours, kissing him.
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neuro-whump · 4 years
Text
Lost in Transit, Part 4
This is my entry to the Box Boy Extended Universe which was originally created by @sweetwhumpandhellacomf and written by @shameless-whumper and I’m using a lot of world-building which was done by @ashintheairlikesnow. Still somewhat vague on hospital procedure here.
CN: Dehumanization, human trafficking, amnesia, mistaken identity, box boy universe, vomiting, insomnia, nightmares, flashbacks, IVs
798591’s new owner had told him to obey the nurses, and the nurses had told him to sleep. So he tried to sleep. He really, really tried. It hadn’t been so bad when they were there with him, talking to him and giving him nice touches but now he was all alone in this white room and he could hear machine noises and someone else whimpering down the hall and it was making it very, very hard not to remember things he was supposed to forget.
“Position 30. Position 31. Position 32.”
“I don’t want to —“
“Position 32, 798591.”
He wasn’t supposed to remember training, he was only supposed to know it.
“Look at the page 798591.”
“It hurts, ow, ow it hurts please no more.”
The pain in his head had been starting to go away but every lapse and correction sent a spike of it through his skull just behind his eyes, and made the room spin a little bit. The hot cramping pain sitting in his stomach had got a little better once he’d been sick but it was getting worse again with all the spinning.
He lay there, and squeezed his eyes shut and tried to make himself obey his orders and fall asleep. He been afraid to be in the dark again after being left for so long in his box but now he thinks he would have preferred to have the lights off. It would be easier not to think about any of those forbidden memories without being able to see all these glaring white surfaces. He looked at the button Kenna had told him about and wondered if he pressed it, if someone would come and turn the light off. But he was afraid to cause any more trouble. He was not supposed to complain, or make trouble, or make a mess and he had already done all three of those things and his owner had left him here and not said when she would be back and Kenna said she was scary and he didn’t want to make her any more upset with him and find out.
She would be back in the morning. Joey had said she would be back in the morning. She was just leaving other people to deal with him while he was sick and disgusting and making a mess. He was where he should be, and he was grateful, and Dr. de Courcy was going to come back tomorrow. He tried to think about that, and not about the shine of the white walls or the soft sounds of pain he could hear from elsewhere or any of the other things he was not supposed to be thinking about.
Eventually, his stomach lurched and cramped in a way that sent pain radiating out through his belly, and the only thought in his head was that he was going to be sick again. It was almost an improvement.
He managed to make it across the room to be sick into the toilet instead of the bed, but it hurt, and then he just folded up on the floor in the bathroom and waited for the cramping to stop enough that he could stand up and get back into bed - or get worse until he was sick again. There was a new sharp twinge of pain in the crook of his elbow too, and a trickle of blood running down his arm when he looked at it. He’d pulled out the IV Joey had put into his arm by accident, and Kenna had told him specifically that he was supposed to call someone rather than let that happen.
“What’s it done this time? Christ what a mess.”
“Who the fuck is going to want this one, huh?”
The shooting pain of the reset was worse than the last ones had been, it left a trail of dark spots across his vision. The cold, hard floor was making it harder to avoid the thoughts he was not supposed to be having. There was more whimpering noises, he thought might be the one making them this time.
He was too miserable to realize someone else had come into the room until there was a strange man standing directly over him.  He cowered back a little without meaning to, even though there wasn’t really anywhere for him to go.
“What’s happened?” the strange man said softly, as he crouched down next to 798591, “did you fall?”
798591 shook his head and tried to pick himself back up.
“Easy there,” said the stranger. He was wearing a badge with letters on it, but 798591 couldn’t read them and he didn’t want to look at them to hard and risk another correction.
“I’m Aaron,” said the new person, seeing him looking, “I’m gonna sort you out, and then I need to draw a little more blood. Now what’s happened? Did you get sick?”
He nodded.
“That’s okay,” said Aaron, “Do you feel like you can go back to bed, or are you still too nauseous?”
798591 shook his head, his stomach was still hurting, but he didn’t feel as sick, and he wanted to be off the floor. He would probably be punished now for letting the IV come out, but at least it sounded like he would be allowed back in bed after. He couldn’t quite bring himself to admit it, but he held his arm out so the new person could see and get it over with.
“Lost your IV?” Aaron asked, “that’s never fun. Don’t worry, I can sort that out for you in a minute. Are you in pain anywhere else?”
798591 nodded.
“Where does it hurt?”
He pressed his fingers into his eye sockets before he could stop himself. He wasn’t supposed to complain, but he wasn’t supposed to lie and keep secrets and he was so tired.
“Headache huh,” Aaron said, “I’ll page the resident, see if they can get you something for it.”
Aaron stood back up for a minute, 798591 couldn’t see what he was doing, and he was afraid for a moment that he would leave again, but he knelt back down and got 798591 to sit up and rinse his mouth out, and then gave him a cup of water to take the stinging taste of the mouthwash out of his mouth.
“Alright,” said Aaron, “feel ready to stand back up? I can get a chair if you can’t.”
798591 clambered back up to his feet and let Aaron take him back to bed. It stung when Aaron drew more blood and put the IV back into a new part of his arm but only for a moment. And then a second person came in, a second man, with ruffled hair, looked at 798591 and then at Aaron and asked, “what’s the problem?”
798591 thought that maybe the new person would be responsible for punishing him, but instead, Aaron said, “he had some nausea, which he says is better now, and a headache, which is new, based on the chart. I was hoping you could help him out.”
The ruffled man looked at 798591 and then back at Aaron, and then picked up the clipboard that was hanging off the edge of the bed and read it and frowned.
“Is Dr. de Courcy still here?” he asked.
“Don’t think so,” said Aaron, “but I can try to page her if you like.”
The ruffled man shook his head vigorously, “no, no, I’ll just give him some acetaminophen and see how he does.”
He didn’t give 798591 anything though, he scribbled a bit on the clipboard, and rushed back out of the room. Aaron moved things around the room a bit and then went away and came back with two pills in a small paper cup, which he gave 798591 to swallow with another cup of water.
He nodded and looked pleased when 798591 swallowed them the first time, “hopefully those help with that headache,” he said, “and there’s more water here for you, and a basin in case your stomach plays up again, alright?” He asked, showing 798591 where everything was.
798591 nodded, too frightened to ask Aaron to turn the light off, and then Aaron walked away again and didn’t come back.
798591 still hadn’t been punished, and he was still awake when he was supposed to be sleeping.  Had that little stinging pain in his arm been it? Where they leaving it to Dr. de Courcy? She was his owner, and Kenna had said she was scary, and it would make sense. Maybe that’s why the ruffled man had wanted to get her. They’d let him come and lie down in bed at least. It was a lot more comfortable than —.
It was very comfortable.
His stomach wasn’t feeling as bad and he drank another cup of water, which felt nice on his throat, and curled up, and squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to be grateful instead of scared.
He tried to be grateful instead of scared until eventually he was too exhausted to be anything, and finally dropped off to have nightmares instead of worries.
@haro-whumps @whatwasmyprevioususername
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Text
If the Spit Hits the Fan (Glee) pt VIII
Follows pt I, pt II, pt III, pt IV, pt V, part VI. and pt VII.
Readjusting to life at Dalton is a lot easier than Kurt had feared. It helps that he isn't scared witless this time, of course. It also helps that Blaine isn't there to monopolize his time – which, in hindsight, had been the root of a lot of Kurt's isolation. Now he's got the Warblers for real, and Sebastian. He's also got a much better understanding of what it'll take to keep on top of academics, and how much he can allow himself to relax. He hadn't known that last time.
(There's a nagging thought that Blaine must have known, yet said nothing, that refuses to leave his brain. It's not a pleasant one.)
Another difference is that this time Kurt's not looking to return to McKinley. Last time he'd wasted valuable time and energy trying to come up with a way to return, and daydreaming about being back. This time's different. He chose Dalton this time, and he's staying no matter what.
Also, things being what they are he's not spending large chunks of his time with Mercedes and Rachel. From what Finn reports Rachel is furious – that Kurt's left, that he's not getting punished for the election and that he's left them another person down for Sectionals. Kurt's okay with that, seeing as she hadn't exactly been a great friend before he left. As for her rantings, well. If she spreads the cheating rumors too far Kurt'll deal with it – or his dad will – and the rest is easy to ignore.
He does miss Mercedes, but at the same time he's not willing to bend enough to fix things between them. Not this time.
She didn't believe in him.
It's that simple. He was on the verge of suspension, and Mercedes didn't believe in him. She wasn't even enough of a friend to pretend she did in public. Adding her behavior over Blaine's disappearance and West Side Story.... It's up to her to make the first move, and there's nothing guaranteeing their friendship can be salvaged in the end.
So instead of spending time and energy on the mess that is the New Directions – because even with the split that's who they are – Kurt throws himself into making the most of his time at Dalton.
“I'm sorry we can't give you a solo.”
Kurt stares at Sebastian. A solo? Where did that come from? Because honestly, Kurt hadn't expect one, nor had he entirely decided if he should audition for one or not.
“We talked about it and we all know you could use it, and none of us is applying to performing arts' schools. It's simply too close to Sectionals for us to rework our setlist. Not if we want to go on to Regionals. If we do though, then we've agreed that you get a solo.”
There's a hint of pink on Sebastian's cheeks, but Kurt doesn't have the energy to try and analyze that now. It's probably Sebastian's way of apologizing or something.
“Auditions?”
“Right. I guess that this is when I tell you that the Warblers have changed how things are run. Used to be someone auditioned, and then the council decided. Only everyone knew that auditions pretty much were a sham. David and Thad admitted as much themselves, once the others started pushing. After all, it is kind of hard to pretend auditions matter when the person ending up with all the solos never even participated in the auditions in the first place.”
Which... True. Kurt just never thought the Warblers would become aware enough to see that. Maybe it's a side-effect of Wes being gone. Him and his cursed gavel...
“So now the council is gone, and everyone gets a vote on solos. And this time everyone agreed that if we make it to Regionals it was only fair to offer you a spot.”
And well, that changes things. Hopefully.
“Well, it's much appreciated either way. It's a little too late to add a Regionals solo on my NYADA application but I should be able to add it to some of the others.”
Because he is applying to other schools, regardless of what he and Rachel agreed to. Only applying to one school? Insanity. Especially a school like NYADA, which accept only 60 students per year, and only 20 of them for the concentration Kurt (and Rachel) had applied for. What if they doesn't accept him, then what? Was he supposed to stay in Lima and reapply? Spend a year or several working at the garage or in some store while his meager CV became more and more dust-covered by the minute?
No. He's applying to every school in New York that'll suit him – and a few that won't – plus another couple elsewhere. He's even considering throwing in an application to Ohio State, since the campus in Columbus offers a couple of options when it comes to theater and music. Not that he wants to stay in Ohio, not really, but he'll go just about anywhere as long as it's not Lima.
“Well, dreaming about Regionals is all very nice, but we're not there yet. Also, there are other things to consider as well, like passing all my classes. You wouldn't be willing to lend me your notes for French for a night or two, would you? Oh, and I'm not sure I interpreted the third question for our advanced reading homework correctly, so do you think we could sit down and talk it over?”
It's easier to focus on schoolwork, on grammar and linguistics, than on the strangeness of Sebastian's actions. Much easier.
Sectionals comes and goes – and leaves a trophy behind. The Warblers celebrate, and Kurt with them. If his joy is also about the possibility of a solo... Well. Who can blame him?
That is, of course, if what Sebastian said still goes. There's no reason to think it shouldn't, not really, but Kurt remembers being burnt too well to not be cautious.
Regardless, they won't be competing against the New Directions at Regionals. The Troubletones had wiped the floor with their former teammates, and Kurt can't say he's surprised. Finn isn't either, even if it's obvious that he's unhappy about it. Oh, he tries to hide it, but. He's used to winning, loves it, and was already thinking about how to do better at Nationals than last years.
And now that's not going to happen.
“They deserved it, I don't care what anyone” read Rachel “thinks. I know how much they've been rehearsing.”
And the New Directions, true to form, hadn't. Or so Kurt supposes. After all, they hadn't had a setlist when he left, and Finn hasn't complained about suddenly ending up with a ton of extra rehearsals.
“Finn? I know they are good, but I also know you guys are. And it's okay if you're not happy about losing, even to them. It sucks to lose something you really want and losing to your friends doesn't make it easier. Not at first at least.”
“Experience talking, huh?”
“Mmmmmmm.”
Kurt still remembers how it'd hurt to lose to his friends, and not even going back to them had made it feel better. He'd gone to Nationals feeling that he didn't deserve it, and knowing that Mr Schue thought the same.
“You know what really sucks about all of this? We had a suggestion for a setlist that would have given us the win. Michael Jackson songs, solos for everyone... I think it would have been awesome.”
“Let me guess, Rachel flipped.”
It's not even a question, because obviously she would have. Allowing everyone solos? No matter how small, that would have meant less time in the spotlight for her. Just as it wouldn't have mattered how great the suggested songs were, because Michael Jackson isn't something Rachel would be able to do well.
And of course Mr Schue would have folded faster than wet cardboard once she started complaining, neither of them caring that by catering to Rachel's demands they weakened the group.
“Oh yeah. And now she's on a 'woe is me because NYADA' tear, and it's driving me insane. Well, everyone. I'm pretty sure Tina's on the verge of punching her. Plus, she... Anyway, Glee sucks now.”
“She's blaming me, isn't she? For leaving, and for supposedly making Blaine leave.”
It makes sense, in a totally-not-unless-you're-Rachel-Berry way, and it's nothing less than Kurt's been expecting if he's honest. Because there's no way Rachel would ever lose gracefully, just as there's no way she'd accept the rightful blame for having messed up.
“You guessed that, huh? Yeah, sorry. I don't know what's gotten into her, I swear.”
“She's being the worst version of herself. I knew I made myself a target by leaving, I just didn't care. Then again I already was one, so I guess that's 'bigger' target. And I can't imagine she took it any better knowing that the Warblers won our Sectionals.”
Kurt can practically hear Finn wince over the phone, which is never an encouraging thing – and yet, much too frequent with Rachel Berry in the picture.
“I...might have told her that I wouldn't talk to her about it, and walked out the door when she did it anyway?”
Kurt removes the phone from his ear, stares at it, shakes it to see if anything is broken inside, stares at it again and then replaces it.
“I'm sorry, you what? Are you telling me you finally located your balls when it comes to a girl?”
And then it's Kurt's time to audibly wince, because while true that's also extremely rude – and crude – and Finn doesn't deserve it. Not even though it's true.
“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.”
“Nah, it's nothing I don't deserve. I just, I've had it okay? I love Rachel, I do, but sometimes I'm not so sure I like her. And the past few weeks have been worse than usual. When we got back together it was supposed to be for this year, since she's going to New York after graduation. Which I figured I could get around, you know? Part of me wants to ask her to marry me and commit to going to New York with her. Another part figured it'll never work since she can't respect anything or anyone outside of herself and her dreams.
“She only changed her mind about sex because Artie told her she wasn't credible onstage otherwise, and she didn't even tell me at first. Then she's been an absolute bitch about everything with you. So let's say I change her mind and we get married. What else will she do?
“I'm not sure about being with her at all anymore, and it's not breaking my heart like it should.”
Hearing that? Kind of breaks Kurt's heart though. Once upon a time he'd have been ecstatic to hear something like this from Finn. Now he's grown beyond that, and all he wants for Finn is happiness. (That he's not sure Rachel can provide that isn't really the point. Up until now Finn has believed it, and that's the only thing that matters.)
“I'm sorry. Do you... I'll be home Friday evening. Want me to bring some cookies and watch a movie, or do you have plans?”
“Peanut butter chocolate chips? Plus, Captain America comes out on DVD this week, and I know you like Chris Evans.”
“I really really do.”
They both laugh, and if Finn's is a bit strained neither of them are going to admit it. What's important here is that regardless of everything they've got each other.
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idreamofhazel · 6 years
Text
All Work, No Play
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Requested by @murielthemagicalgirl​: Reader crushes hard on Sam and works from time to time together with the boys. And she's introverted and a usually mature and serious person. But when she accidentally sees Sam without his shirt she gets hella flustered and awkward and Dean grins from ear to ear and teases her because of it until she confesses maybe that she indeed likes his brother, not knowing that said is standing behind her
Pairing: Sam x Reader
Word Count: 1.7k
Warnings: just fluff
Your machete sliced cleanly through the neck of a falling vampire. As the body thumped to the floor, you drug the blade across your jacket with two quick swipes.
“You’re going to need some tide pens for that.” Dean Winchester stood behind you, chuckling to himself.
A quick glance around the room showed you that the last of the nest was fallen. The bloody mess had splattered and pooled on the victorian rug beneath your feet. There might have been some pieces of salvageable furniture elsewhere in the house but none in this room. Four dead vampires had stained the parlor with red. It was very Addam’s Family meets The Walking Dead. You picked up the arms of a vampire who fell across the velvet footrest and drug it across the floor. You dropped her on top of the one you just killed and headed for another one.
“What’s up with the pile? Or vamp-ile, if you will.” Dean couldn’t contain the pleasure he derived from coming up with that joke.
You dumped another body in your pile. Out of the corner of your eye, Sam knudged Dean with his shoulder and began to help you with the clean up task. When you thought no one could see your face, you smiled to yourself. You appreciated the help.
“I never knew a hunter that could smile about their work like that.” Dean was suddenly beside you, his voice in your ear.
“I never knew a hunter that cracked so many jokes on the job,” you said.
“Jokes keep the sanity alive, sweetheart.”
“Dean,” Sam chided from across the room.
“She’s worked with us enough times to know my style,” Dean said.
“And you’ve worked with me enough to know mine,” you shot back.
That elicited a smug smile from Sam.
Your cheeks grew hot as Sam looked at you with pride. Your cleverness was instantly cut back. No matter how confident you were, one look from Sam turned you into a stuttering mess.
“I know you won’t come celebrate with us,” Dean said, “All work, no play. It’s really sad.”
“I’ll go.” You faced the opposite direction of the Winchesters, bagging a vampire head. You could feel their wide eyes on the back of your head.
“Are you sure? You don’t have to take your notes or, or clean your knives?” Sam didn’t mean his question as a jab.
You smiled at his memory of your habits before turning around. “No. I’ll just do it tomorrow. Come on,” you said, slipping your knife into your boot and throwing the garbage bag full of heads over your shoulder, “It’s time to have some fun. Let’s party. Or whatever you do.”
Sam and Dean exchanged a glance as you walked out the stained glass door. The tattered blanket covering the glass gave up and fell to the floor as the lock clicked into place. Dean mouthed Fun?; Sam shrugged. Sam had never seen you with a drink in your hand, let alone in a bar. The thought of it made him worry that something else was going on. He’d have to ask you when Dean wasn’t around.
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Being in a bar was an uncomfortable experience. You could handle hunting challenges with tact and grace but the dynamics of the drinking scene disoriented you. You alternated your attention between the stray threads on your shirt and taking sips of your jack and coke. Dean played pool for gas money while Sam sat next to you, finishing his second beer.
“So, honestly,” Sam said, “What made you decide to come out here? You trying to prove something to Dean?”
His smile was teasing and overwhelming.
“Uh, no. I,” you began, your cheeks growing hot, “I guess I-”
“Hey Sam!” Dean called out. You both turned your heads to the sound. Dean motioned Sam over from across the bar, “New game! Teams!”
“Hold that thought,” Sam said apologetically.
He took off towards the pool table, leaving you with the rest of your answer hanging on the tip of your tongue. The Winchester Pool Games lasted as long as Dean felt a winning streak. You’d have to explain another night, whenever you ran into Sam and Dean again.
You sucked your jack and coke dry, staring down the barrel of the straw until the last drop was gone. Dean whooped behind you. Maybe it was time to join the fun.
You grabbed a handful of peanuts, swung around on your stool, and hopped off. Sam was leaning over the pool table, the arch of his back displayed gracefully. He adjusted his pool stick with deliberation, his shirt hovering over the edge of the table, his hair falling over his cheek. He hit the cue ball with accuracy, sinking in two of the opponent’s with one strike, then stood proudly.
The other two men grimaced, unaware that Sam had such precision. There was a fair amount of money on the line.
You wandered over to a table with a satisfactory view of the game. Sam winked at you as one of their opponents tried to sink a ball but grumbled when he missed. The alcohol in your system gave you the sense to smile back with a laugh.
The stolen glances continued and ended when Dean declared victory with a sunken eight ball. They had played four games and won each of them. Sam bought three victory beers and handed one to you. Your eyes fell to the floor as the confidence you had wore off.
By the end of the beers, exhaustion had creeped up on all of you. You unanimously declared the night over, getting up to leave the bar in unison. Dean grabbed your shoulder from behind before you reached the door. Sam kept walking.
“Hey, you’re staying at the same motel as us, right?” he said, glancing over as Sam walked out the door.
“Yeah, why?”
“Can you come to our room? I wanna talk to you about something. I’ll send you a text when we’re decent.” He added a smirk but his request seemed off.
“Uhh, sure.”
“Cool.” Dean patted your shoulder then let his hand fall as he took off after Sam.
He left you standing in the middle of the bar without an explanation but with a hoard of questions. A deep voice slurred from across the bar. “You all alone now?”
There could only be about two reasons why Dean would ask you to his room. One, he was going to play a prank, or two, he or both Winchesters had been keeping a secret from you that had life-or-death ramifications.
The voice called out again. “He-eey you wanna drank I sayd?”
You were in the mood for none of it. You stalked out the door, letting it bang loudly behind you. Dean, or both, would hear it from you if one of them had decided to do something stupid again like sell their souls.
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The text came shortly after you brushed your teeth and changed into sweats. You knocked four times on the thin, wooden door and waited. Dean took a long time to answer for someone who was expecting a guest.
The door flew open and instead of Dean’s face, Sam’s bare chest greeted you.
“Hey Y/N, what’s up?” Sam said.
“I, uh, Dean said he’d be here, but I guess I, I heard wrong. Sorry.” You kept your eyes anywhere but on his freshly showered six-pack. You noticed his pajama pants were plaid but you had to be careful where you looked there, too. You looked up but darted when you met his eyes. Then you moved down to his feet. They were bare.
“You can come in and wait for him if you want.” Sam was acting nonchalant. Way too nonchalant.
“No that’s ok.” You turned on your heels and fled.
Well that was stupid! Could you have handled that situation any more poorly!
“Hey Y/N!” Dean.
You stopped next to a row of vending machines, the light from their displays revealing Dean’s smug face.
“You said to meet you in your room. I went to your room. You were not there.”
“Well I’m here.”
You glowered at him. “I think you know what I mean.”
“I don’t think I do.”
You threw back your head and sighed. “You knew Sam would be there by himself.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“Because he was shirtless when he opened the door!”
Dean chuckled to himself. “I can’t say anything about what Sam chooses to do when I’m not there.”
Your cheeks grew hot again. “That’s not the point!” you sighed, “I can tell by the look on your face that you orchestrated this whole set up.”
“Set up for what?”
“You know exactly what.”
“Ooh, because you have a massive crush on my little brother?”
“Yes! Fine! Ok? And you knew he’d be there, probably shirtless, and you knew I’d answer the door completely unprepared and make myself look like an idiot!”
“You didn’t look like an idiot, Y/N,” Sam said.
Sam.
You spun around. Now he wore a gray t-shirt paired with his sneakers and a facetious grin.
“Why are you here!” you cried.
He chuckled. “I wanted to get a snack.” He gestured towards the machines.
“I’m sorry.” You shook your head. “I didn’t really know what was going on.”
“So you don’t actually have a massive crush on me?”
“Well I-”
“Because that would be disappointing,” Sam said. His eyes never wavered from your face.
Your heart picked up speed as if it were going to fly out of your throat and the butterflies in your stomach felt more like a flock of hummingbirds.
Sam reached his hand for your elbow and pulled you close. You didn’t protest.
“I’ve actually waited a long time to do this,” he whispered to you.  
“Me too,” you breathed out.
Sam responded with a beaming smile before his lips met yours. The kiss wasn’t perfect; there were nose bumps, but it was everything you imagined it would be. You melted. Sam was a great kisser.
“Uh guys, I’m still here,” Dean said.
Sam didn’t stop so neither did you. You wiggled your arm out of his hold and waved Dean off. This is what he wanted after all, for you and Sam to finally admit your feelings for one another. How it was happening was all his fault really. You felt Sam smile against your lips and you mirrored him, putting your arms around his neck and pulling him closer, basking in the glow of an off-brand soda machine and a blinking vacancy sign. Having fun was the best decision you ever made.
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dalekofchaos · 5 years
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How the Empire could’ve won the war
Imagine if The Empire had competent military leaders and decided to bypass Palpatine’s overconfidence and incompetence. These are ways I think the Empire could’ve won. Before anyone calls me out, this is just for fun and I do not believe they should’ve won, I just think if more competent Imperials were in charge aside from Thrawn, The Empire could’ve won.
Better PR. Seriously, The Case for the Empire lays out an excellent defense for the Galactic Empire. Basically, the Republic was rotting, everyone saw that. All the Empire had to do was take power and not make people desperate enough to rebel. Keep the peace, enforce the law and not be so heavy handed.
Do not be dependent on fear. When Palpatine ascended as emperor, ended the rotting Republic and ended the Clone Wars basically everyone was happy. However in only 20+ years he went from most loved person in the galaxy to the most feared/hated one. There was no need to build the Death Stars and such a massive military. Those were necessary for rule through fear. But instead of fear Palpatine could’ve ruled by love. He was definitely cunning enough to fool the galaxy further. Instead Palpatine’s, Vader’s and Tarkin’s methods led to a creation of a giant rebellion that brought the Empire down.
Act like a real Empire with no Xenophobia. Induct alien races into their empire and continue their expansion by conquering territory while promoting their way of life over others. Their downfall was being dogmatic and authoritarian to the point that everyone rebelled against their regime.
Don’t terrorize other species. Whether Palpatine genuinely hated other races than humans or just pretended to do in order to divide his potential enemies it was a bad move. Excluding non-humans from the upper echelons of the Imperial military and power structure (Thrawn, Grand Inquisitor or Mas Amedda excluded) limited the Empire’s power base. Terrorizing other species created more enemies the Empire had to deal with and which helped to brought it down.
Krennic’s survival. I fee like the Death Star might not have been destroyed in A New Hope if Orson Krennic was still in charge. He was far more in tune with the battlestation’s capabilities than Tarkin ever was. I feel like he would have recognized the threat to the base sooner and squashed the Rebel fighters in the trench sooner He wasn't afraid to get into the battle and it really wasn't his fault that the plans fell into the wrong hands, the Rebels just outclassed the Empire during that sneak attack. Tarkin's blind arrogance and underestimation of the Rebels is what allowed the Death Star to be destroyed.
A New Hope 1. Recover any jettisoned escape pods right away, otherwise destroy them: Some see this a major plot hole. I'd say people (and imperial personnel, for that matter), do make mistakes. To avoid those, they should have had a pursuit protocol: Pull the captured ship in, then close the doors, maybe have two or three squadrons of TIE fighters doing the rounds, in case a escape pod gets out before the doors are closed and, more important, have some recovery ships out, so that fleeing pods can be captured instead of just blasted into oblivion. A captured pod can be searched. As far as we know, only one copy of the plans was made. 2. Disable the Millenium Falcon: You just captured a ship that matches another ship you were chasing, no one is inside, at the very least, take the keys off the ignition, remove the battery, maybe secure it with a chain and a lock. And they had time to work on it, enough time to install a tracking device, anyway. However, I'm willing to give them this one: Let's say they were absolutely sure the Rebellion would not find anything useful by looking at the plans, so it was fine to let them escape with them, make presumably a hundred copies and spread them across the galaxy. That level of confidence in your development and validation teams is amazing. Not only do you think a potential enemy will not find any flaws, but you're also convinced they won't try to build their own space station using your plans. Bravo. 3. Build an Imperial blockade of Star Destroyers around the Death Star. 4. Send the Imperial Fleet to Yavin IV, not your ultimate weapon: The Death Star had just accomplished what it had been built to do: It was a last-resort enforcer of policy. They destroyed an entire, fully populated planet, because Tarkin wanted to do a demonstration. That was stupid, but effective anyway, it would definitely make it into the news all over the place. Then you put the gun away, hopefully never to use it again. Any opposition in the galaxy would have crumbled at the chance of seeing that thing show up in the sky. They had tracked the Millenium Falcon to Yavin IV, but the Rebel Fleet was clearly not there. The attack on the Death Star was executed with thirty small ships, hardly a major engagement (unlike the battle against the second Death Star). If anything, the Battle of Yavin could have been compared in size to the Battle of Hoth, which was dealt with using a subset of the Imperial Navy, plus infantry. In the meantime, they could have done some additional vulnerability analysis with the Death Star well hidden elsewhere, find the exhaust port and maybe even other vulnerabilities, and put torpedo-proof blinds on it.
Empire Strikes Back 1. The Battle of Hoth: There are eight Star Destroyers (Executor, 6 smaller but still impressive Star Destroyers of two classes and one Victory class) involved. Executor closes with the planet and proceeds to blast the surface with their turbolaser batteries, ignoring the shield generator. Eventually the base with flood (with magma or ice). The two Imperial-1 class destroyers fly interference for the Executor, keeping fighter wings in the air as well as intercepting anything attempting to escape. The four Imperial-II class destroyers blockade the planet: One at each pole, and one either side of the equator to watch for trickery. The Victory class destroyer is a mobile interception device for capital ships and corvettes launching from Hoth. Now all they need to do is wait. They'll either pick the base off piecemeal, destroy it with Turbolaser Terraforming or the rebels will attempt to flee: In which case, the remaining destroyers will pick them off. The Ion Cannon doesn't act as a permenent 'disable', the base has a limited power generator and there are too many ships for the Ion Cannon to cover for. The planet will give way long before they starve the rebels out. Hell, the 501st had elements in the fleet sent, they could have just left everyone in orbit and stuffed Vader with them into a drop pod, unleashing on the base instead of the costly assault. 2. On Bespin: A heavier hand. The figurehead of the rebellion and five of its greater heroes were present.. and all of them got away. As soon as the trap was sprung, simply moving in with heavy interception cover would have been enough to decapitate the Rebellion. They had, at the bare minimum, twelve fighters: Three ties, 8 tie-interdictors and at least one Tie Defender (Which was probably capable of destroying the Falcon alone). They'd surrender before dying, so Vader gets his apprent-er, 'the emperor's prize', the Rebellion gets executed in a suitable gory fashion on Galactic Holovision and the Rebellion ends. 3. The Falcon, a known dangerous and rebel-owned craft, was sitting on its landing pad the whole time. You've got EIGHT Tie Interdictors (bombers) prowling Bespin. Maybe one could spare a second to drop some ordinance on the powered down craft? The one on a pad with no supports barring its umbilical, about 50-100m out from its parent building? 4. If you won’t destroy the Falcon, criple the Falcon. Seriously, cripple the Falcon: The same technicians who disabled the hyperdrive could've taken a few more minutes to mess up the rest, making it unable to take off. Leia, Chewie, Lando and the droids were already surrounded at the landing platform. It would've ended up in a horrible standoff or maybe even a peaceful surrender. But it would have ended there. Afterwards, Vader would've sensed and captured Luke, making sure he was given top-notch medical attention and a high-end replacement hand. Then, who knows, maybe he could've have enjoyed some much-needed face time with his dad and get things off to a better start.
Return Of The Jedi 0. Jabba The Hutt is smart. Jabba does not hold a grand execution. He has Luke, Han, Leia, Chewbacca, Lando and the droids at his mercy. He plans to offer them up as hostages to the Empire. Since it's established that Vader and Jabba became partners in the new canon comics, I could see The Empire paying Jabba's demands. Jabba’s demands are simple. Money, a replacement Rancor and Princess Leia as his personal slave for the rest of her life. The Empire is more than happy to oblige. Vader comes to Jabba’s palace and takes the Rebels. The droids are dismantled.  Han, Lando and Chewbacca are executed. Leia remains by Jabba’s side as a slave. Now that Luke has nothing left, he embraces his destiny and joins his father. They take out The Emperor and rule the galaxy as father and son. 1. Stop and arrest the crew of the stolen imperial shuttle: Part of this is pure speculation, but I assume the crew led into Endor by Han Solo had no way to let their fleet know that they had made it. So, as a perfect corollary to a great plan to force the Rebel Fleet into a decisive battle, set up an ambush to capture the advance team on the ground on Endor as soon as they set foot on it. Of course, it would be a lot easier to just blast the shuttle before it even lands. The thing was loaded with explosives, even a humble stormtrooper with a thermal detonator could have done the work. Of course, Vader would have been upset because of his insistence in mixing family and business. In any case, the generator shield would have remained intact, with the second Death Star being fully operational: It did manage to do a lot of damage to the Rebel Fleet, and the Imperial Navy could've done the rest once they started fighting at close range. Also, think of the fact that the Rebels would've had Lando Calrissian insisting that they should wait on Han to blow up the shield. At that moment, Han would've been either dead or sitting in a cell. And the assault on the Death Star II would’ve been a failure. 2. Vader tries to convince his son to join willingly. Vader does very little to connect with his son. He wants to call him Anakin? That's fine, let him do it. In fact, Vader could have used that to tell him his story, after all, the Jedi were indeed very arrogant and unfair towards Anakin, let Luke know that. Maybe even tell him about Padme, he seemed very curious about his mom, he would've listened to that. Same goes for the Emperor, instead of antagonizing Luke from the beginning, he could have asked him about the things he disliked about the Empire. What reforms would he support? Would he be willing to lead some of those reforms from the inside? Just because you're bad, doesn't mean you need to be crass. Also, Palpatine was friends with Padme, right to the very end, bring that up as well. 3. Exterminate the Ewoks. The Empire is not above genocide and would showcase even more reason to want to take them down. They're a warrior culture. You know it, they know it. Your first expedition to Endor was nearly foiled by the furry little bastards, who were surprised and outnumbered. You know, the one where they were looking for a site to set up the shield generator for the second Death Star? Or don't even bother! First, glass the area with turbolasers. A quick planetary firestorm and you've got a nice wasteland to build your facilities in. Suddenly, no ewoks. You can see the rebels coming a few kilometers away. Problem solved, no exploding battlestation.
Build the Death Star II around Coruscant. This is the heart of the enemy. It's in the galactic core, there is plenty of space for a shield generator and it is HEAVILY defended. Not only is it heavily defended, it's even further into the Core than Coruscant and Palpatine is even more powerful there. He can very literally puppet a good portion of the population.
Practical Mass Production Vs. Egomaniacal Engineering. Bigger is not always better. Constantly seeking to build bigger military weapons takes time, money, and resources all of which could be used towards the mass production and perfection of smaller weapons. For example, how many millions of Republic credits does an Imperial AT-AT walker cost and how completely unnecessary is a vehicle of that size on the battlefield? The Empire already has a fighting force a million times larger than any other in the galaxy, why does it need to waste time on things like Death Stars and Super Star Destroyers? Building smaller fighters and ships is the better way to go. Build more Interdictor-class cruisers. These ships used mass shadow generators to literally pull ships from hyperspace by projecting an illusion of the gravity well of a planet. In Star Wars a ship cannot go into hyperspace while inside a planet’s gravity well. This means that any rebel ships that unwittingly raid an Imperial facility where an Interdictor class vessel is present are sitting ducks from the moment they are sucked out of hyperspace. In the Imperial Handbook: A Commander’s Guide, Princess Leia writes that “if the Empire had known how to build smart instead of big they would have built thousands more Interdictors.” She goes on to claim that, if they had, the Rebel Alliance “might not have survived.”
Give Tie-Fighters armor and shields. Sacrificing armour and shielding for maneuverability and speed is gross incompetence. With armour and shielding plus the talented Imperial Pilots, you have an Imperial Navy that is a force to be reckoned with.
Do not sacrifice quality for quantity for the Stormtroopers. They are as they are meant to be, elite soldiers of the Imperial Military. So do just that. Make them elite, feared and powerful. Only recruit the best. Give better protection and the best tech. Give the quality of the Clone Troopers, but improve on that for the Stormtroopers and you have an army worth fearing.
Continued Production Of Dark Troopers. Sometimes a top secret expensive weapon can give you an advantage in war. One that the enemy will never see coming and not have the slightest hope in the universe of stopping. Enter the Imperial Dark Trooper, a seven-foot tall robot who fights better than any human being, has a jetpack, fast, fires a supercharged weapon that shoots both high concentrated plasma and rockets, and is considerably scary looking. A simply platoon's worth of these guys is enough to wipe out entire outposts and bases of their enemy. They work fast and leave nothing, but death in their wake. After a few minutes whatever was their target is gone, reduced to smoldering ruins. Sometimes their victims don't even have time to make a distress call. Needless to say, they're bad news, though they remain pretty much unheard of. Fortunately for the good guys, the Empire never got around to truly deploying the Dark Troopers in great numbers like the Trade Federation did with their goofy battle droids. You may already know the history from playing the classic first-person shooter Dark Forces, of course: the mercenary Kyle Katarn was able to locate the secret production facility for Dark Troopers in space. Once aboard the Arc Hammer, he destroyed the ship and the Dark Trooper menace was put out of commission to almost never be seen again. If they did have more than one facility, and use Dark Troopers solely in their battles and invasions, keeping the regular storm troopers in reserve, The Rebels would not have a hope of winning.
Design better Death Stars. This might be the single most obvious and easiest solution to them all. If you build a planet-sized space station, then you don't leave a small hole two meters wide for the enemy to launch torpedoes into. Now the idea of a Space Station needing an exhaust port does make sense in that pseudo sci-fi way. Don't want our Stormtroopers dying in the middle of the night to carbon monoxide ventilation problems, do? But why not place a metal slab with slits over it? Or raise the metal slab so the vents are on the sides? Or make the ventilation pipe more crooked inside so it's not a straight shot to the reactor core? What if? What if? What if? There are so many painfully simple solutions to the problem. I can forgive the idea of the second Death Star being blown up because it was still under construction, although - I'll say again - if the exhaust system leading to the reactor core isn't made in a stupid straight line then a ship isn't going to be able to pass through it.
Make Thrawn the commanding officer on Endor. I know what you must be thinking, Thrawn was sent away via Rebels finale. Let’s just say this is a scenario where Thrawn was successful on Lothal. Thrawn would have shown up weeks before the battle, taken one look at the "primitive natives" on Endor, and figured out a way to stop them from beating up AT-STs with giant wooden logs or killing stormtroopers with rocks. The Death Star lives, the Rebel fleet gets completely wiped out. Mobilizes the fleet comprised of Interdictor-class cruisers and Tie-Defenders. Thrawn would be smart enough not to allow Luke anywhere near The Emperor. Thrawn would successfully either destroy the shuttle or capture the landing party. Thrawn would convince Palpatine it is safer to execute the Jedi and Palpatine agrees and if Vader objects, Palpatine would just unleash a storm of force lightning killing Vader and securing victory for the Empire once and for all. 
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lovemesomerafael · 5 years
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EL AMOR TODO LO PUEDE Chapter 13:  Evolution
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Chapters 1 - 10  Chapter 11  Chapter 12
There’s a phenomenon in psychiatry called transference.  It happens when a patient transfers to their therapist feelings of love and dependence that rightfully belong elsewhere. Laura was familiar with the phenomenon, but she didn’t think transference had anything to do with her love for Dr. Charles.  He was, quite simply, her savior, and she loved him for the concrete way he had walked her through a trauma that would otherwise have destroyed her.  The way Ethan Choi had healed her body, Daniel Charles was healing her soul, and she loved him for it.  She loved him the moment he came into her room the first time and, rather than tell her she was a hero for killing that man, asked her what it meant to her that she had killed him.  
Dr. Charles was a big lummox of a man, rumpled and messy. He could smell bullshit a mile away and gently, kindly called her on it every time she tried to deny feelings she really had, or claim feelings that weren’t properly hers.  At the same time, he never once told her not to feel them. Instead, he helped her sort through them and reject them if they weren’t useful.  
Much of that was easier said than done.  Her shame and guilt over having exposed herself to such obvious danger were, in some ways, deserved and appropriate.  But the penalty for taking a foolish risk was worlds away from what that man had done to her.  In the same way, it was appropriate to feel guilty for having killed a man, and to be disgusted by the manner in which she had done it.  But, again, that guilt and disgust had to be tempered, all but negated, by the fact that the man had given her no choice.  He had made the rule: only one of them was going to get out of that room alive.  She had only reacted.
So Dr. Charles had helped her sift through the deformed mess of her shame and guilt to work through what was real and what was not, and then figure out how she was going to carry what was hers through the rest of her life.  
The other thing Dr. Charles did for her was to assure her, as many times as it took, that her intrusive thoughts and night terrors would not always be as pervasive as they were now.    Mouse said that his own trauma had been turned into a gift, because she could see that his PTSD was manageable and survivable and know that hers would be, too. Laura couldn’t imagine that, but she trusted both Dr. Charles and Mouse completely, so she allowed herself to hope.
In the meantime, she could not tolerate hearing noises behind her.  She could go only a few minutes before the sight of that room, the sound her ribs had made as they cracked under his foot, and the feel of that man’s throat in her fist, overwhelmed her.  And the worst part was the screaming, sweaty, uncontrollable terror that woke her every night.  She flailed her healing limbs, desperate to escape the sensation of being trapped while something monstrous approached.  
Dr. Charles had taught her to look around her, telling herself as many times as it took what was real and what was nightmare. Some of the things she chanted to herself made him struggle to control a grin.  He suggested that she tell herself, “I’m alive.  He’s not.”  She preferred, “That motherfucker’s taking a dirt nap.  I’m still here.”  Whatever worked.  
Dr. Charles couldn’t be with her every night, but Mouse could.  And he was. Whenever he was jolted from sleep by her screams, he would quietly, calmly turn on every available light and help her remember what to tell herself as she gulped for air and cried uncontrollably. He sat with her for as long as it took to pull herself out of that cellar with the dirt floor and back to reality.
“He’s not here.  He can’t be here.”  He’d prompt her.
“He’s in hell!  I know he’s dead because I killed him.  I felt him die.  I saw him dead,” she would gasp.
“Look around.  He’s not here, is he?”
“He’s not here.”
“And you’re safe.  You’re OK.”
“I’m safe.  I’m OK.  You’re here. You’re Mouse.  You’re my friend.”  Her sweat-soaked chest would heave as she panted in terror.
“Can he hurt you when I’m here?”
“No.  He can’t hurt me.  You’re a trained killer and I am your only mission.”  OK, maybe teaching her that one had been a little self-indulgent, but it made him smile every time he heard it.  
“Fuckin’ A,” he would reply.  
Mouse started to see the light at the end of the tunnel when, one night, she’d looked right at him – not past or through him as she did when she was struggling to find her way out of that cellar – and asked, “Why do people say that?  What does ‘fuckin’ A’ even mean?”
He’d thrown his head back and laughed while shedding relieved tears.  Then he’d distracted her by scooting next to her in bed while they Googled the etymology of that expression.  
Ethan Choi objected to the way Mouse continually found his way into Laura’s hospital bed.  When it first started a few weeks after her attack, he’d threatened that she’d be crippled for life if her traction was messed up, or suffer some catastrophe if her IV was kinked or disconnected, only to arrive most mornings to find them, limbs and casts tangled up but traction and IVs intact, sleeping peacefully. He’d grumbled about it to Dr. Charles, who made him sit down and review Laura’s chart.  The numbers didn’t lie.  Since she’d been healed enough for Mouse to crawl in beside her, she’d had a lower blood pressure and needed less pain medication.  Although Ethan had scowled and shaken his head, he hadn’t bothered to forbid Mouse and Laura from finding whatever physical closeness she could safely tolerate.
******
The first time Voight and Olinsky had visited her in the hospital had been rough.  They’d needed to take her statement about what had happened in that cellar, and all three of them had cried at times as she told them the hellish story. Although the Medical Examiner had explained that she had crushed the killer’s larynx and damaged the internal structures of his throat to the point that he’d drowned in his own blood, her description was even more horrific.  He had already beaten holy hell out of her, and she hadn’t been able to do much of anything to defend herself or wound him back.  But once he’d broken her leg, she’d been unable to rise from the floor.  When he came for her, she knew it was over.  He would rape her, then kill her, then rape her dead body, as he’d done to those other women.
The only thing that saved her was that he made a mistake.  She was lying against a wall where he’d thrown her, head first and too disoriented and injured to put her hands out to protect herself.  He’d stomped her thigh with his full weight, breaking her femur with a sickening crack.  Then he’d gotten behind her head to put his hands under her shoulders and drag her into the middle of the floor where he could defile her.  He kept telling her all the foul things he was going to do to her in retribution for having fought back so fiercely.  And that’s when he had made his mistake.  He’d leaned down over her.
She’d screamed defiance as she lifted her arms to grab at him; dislocated shoulder, broken fingers and all.  She’d clutched his hair as well as she could with her twisted left hand, and seized his neck with her right.  He was huge; her small hand would not go around even half his neck. But she sensed her fingers sliding toward the center, and felt them latch onto the hard mass of his larynx.  Pure, adrenaline-fueled survival instinct overtook her.  She held on, digging her nails as hard as she could into his flesh, determined to wrap her fingers completely around his larynx and tear it from his throat.  She refused to let go.  He dislocated her finger trying to pull her hand away, and pounded on her arm trying to get her off of him.  But that pounding only helped her pull harder at his neck.  She had a literal death grip on his throat.  She squeezed, pulled, and screamed until he’d fallen over onto her.  Still she hadn’t let go.  She’d clutched at his throat until he began to retch and gasp wetly, then whimper. He went quiet and still she squeezed with all her strength.  Only when she realized that her strength was gone and she was no longer really squeezing, yet he wasn’t moving or breathing, did she let go and shove him heavily off of her.
Voight asked her to email him the typed responses she’d been making on her tablet to tell this story, which she did.  She then quietly made a personal ceremony of deleting them.
Olinsky had stayed after Voight left, awkwardly and haltingly trying to apologize to her.  She would have none of it.  In the end, they made each other agree that all blame, the only blame, lay with the inhuman killer who was now in a drawer at the morgue.  
*********
When Laura was discharged from the hospital, a train of Intelligence detectives had carried the mobility equipment, flowers, and other paraphernalia she’d accumulated to her apartment.  Mouse had worked with the physical and occupational therapists to prepare everything for her homecoming and had moved in temporarily. She had long since ceased to need the sling on her right shoulder and her dislocated finger was no longer splinted, so he had full use of her right arm and hand.  At long last, her left leg had been released from traction and encased in a huge, cumbersome cast.  Although her jaw was no longer wired shut, she had only a temporary flipper where her missing teeth had been.  She hated it and covered her mouth when she smiled, but it beat the hell out of the raw, gaping hole it covered.  She looked forward to getting permanent teeth back.  The bruises and cuts had healed, along with the wound where her chest tube had been.  Ethan assured her that her internal injuries, including the skull and rib fractures, were healing, too.  She had a long course of physical therapy and rehabilitation before her, but she was home.
Laura’s brothers had gone home to Bloomington as soon as it had become clear that she would survive.  Her parents had stayed long enough to participate in the happy parade from the hospital to her apartment and see her settled, but now headed home themselves.
She and Mouse had a hell of a party that night; the apartment crammed with cops, firefighters, medical personnel, and assorted other friends until well after the sun had begun to rise the next morning. When one of her neighbors had called the police about the noise, the responding officers hadn’t tried to quiet the party.  They had gone instead to the neighbors’ apartment, explained the situation, and told the neighbors that they were invited.  The neighbors initially declined, but it turned out that they were friends of the Dawson family, so Gabby and Antonio had drunkenly dragged them upstairs to meet Laura and Mouse and have a drink.  
Peter Stone had shown up for a while, bringing a court reporter he’d been seeing.  At first, he’d been afraid to hug Laura as tightly as he wanted to as she sat in her wheelchair, surrounded by drunken friends.  She still seemed very fragile to him.  Somehow, in the middle of that loud, festive, alcohol-fueled party, Peter and Laura had managed to have a quiet, tearful conversation in which he told her how afraid he’d been for her, and how viscerally angry he’d been at what she’d been through.  He’d visited her plenty of times in the hospital, but this was the first time he allowed himself to share the depth of his feelings, now that she was safely on her way to healing.  By the time they were finished talking, he hugged her back as fiercely as she hugged him.
It was that night, seeing Laura talking and laughing, and especially seeing her with Peter, that a thought began to form in the back of Mouse’s mind.  He wasn’t even aware of it.
********
As the months passed, Laura’s life slowly began to resume its shape.  Mouse had returned to work as soon as she could care for herself at home and, when she was ready, she returned to work as Sergeant Voight’s assistant.  
Since there was no elevator in the building, Kevin Atwater insisted on being the one who got to carry her up and down the stairs. For some reason, he had demanded to be the first to carry her up on the day she returned, and it became his job. Only when he wasn’t there did Mouse or one of the male detectives do it.  Laura had never felt so loved and supported, and did everything she could to return that love by making their jobs easier.  She decried the sorry state into which the unit had fallen since she’d been gone, but no new assistant had been able to work with Voight.  He quickly either fired them or they quit.  Either way, he was happier than he’d been in quite a while to have Parker back.
*****
The day her leg cast was removed was a landmark for Laura. She couldn’t wait to take a shower without having to wrap anything in plastic, or a bath without having to let her leg hang out of the tub.  
Ethan told her that, now that her cast was off, she was cleared to have sex again if she wanted to.  
“Oh…  um… were we supposed to wait?”  She’d asked.  
The surprised look on his face was so funny she couldn’t help laughing out loud.  
“Well, I guess no harm, no foul,” he responded. “Let me rephrase.  You’re cleared to do anything that doesn’t hurt.  How’s that?”
“Works for me.”  
She and Mouse enjoyed a laugh about that as they relaxed in the huge bathtub in the hotel room they’d splurged on to celebrate her freedom from the last of her casts.  They had candles, sparkling cider, and so many bubbles they were overflowing onto the floor.  Mouse spent a very long time massaging, soaping, and shaving her newly-liberated leg, something she’d been dying to do for months.  Not surprisingly, pretty soon his hands were roving.  He loved the feel of having all of her skin to touch again, without anything getting in the way of his caresses.  
In the soft candlelight, with no casts, braces, or bandages, and her healing scars invisible, Laura felt normal and attractive for the first time since the attack.  She eagerly returned Mouse’s kisses, moving to give him access to her body and letting her own hands explore his arms, torso, and finally his more intimate parts.  
They had to laughingly figure out how to adjust their positions so that he was laying stretched out in the tub with her on top of him, which spilled more bubbles and not a small amount of water onto the floor. Eventually, though, they got there. Laura’s left leg was still too stiff to bend and her left wrist still too weak to support her full weight, but in this position, supported somewhat by the water, she could maneuver just fine.
She kissed him deeply as he caressed her breasts, teasing her nipples and rubbing his hardening cock against her.  
“Thank you,” she murmured, a moan escaping at the end as he did something particularly wonderful with his hands.  
He chuckled.  “I haven’t done anything yet.”  
She pulled up a bit so that she could look in his eyes, which looked purple in the candlelight.  “Oh, yes, you have.  You’ve done everything.  You saved me, Mouse.  I mean it, thank you.”  
“You saved me a little bit, too,” he said sincerely. He then pulled her back to him and resumed moving against her.  Apparently that was all the serious conversation he was in the mood for.  “And I got a great idea how we can show our appreciation.”
She sank herself down on him, both of them groaning with pleasure as he was able to bury his full length in her at long last. “Horndog,” she whispered.
“Yes, Ma’am.”    
Their rhythmic movements began to slosh water and bubbles out of the tub, and actually put out a couple of the candles, but neither noticed.  
Later, in the huge, fluffy bed, Laura had to talk Mouse into getting on top to make love to her the second time.  For months, they’d had to use their hands and mouths to pleasure one another, which they’d made into kind of a fun game, but they were thrilled when they could finally manage to actually fuck again.  Even then, she’d had to be on top because of her cast.  Which was exactly why she insisted that she wanted to feel his weight on her again now that she could.  
“Ethan said I can fuck however I want to,” she urged. “I’m tired of being careful.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Don’t ‘yeah but’ me, Soldier.  I’ve fucked you enough.  I want you to fuck me.”
Mouse was a sucker for dirty talk, which Laura felt silly doing most of the time.  So hearing her growl that order, he didn’t hesitate to obey.  He was overjoyed to finally be the one setting the rhythm and free to control how deeply he penetrated her.  He hadn’t known how much he missed it until he felt how blissfully good it was again.   Happy to be making progress with her recovery, and delighted to feel Mouse’s weight and the sensation of him plunging into her again, Laura very quickly lost herself in the second of many orgasms he gave her that night, with him following closely after her.
*******
The following morning, as they were lying sprawled across the bed with the room service breakfast dishes scattered around them, Mouse was abruptly distracted from his lazy tonguing of her nipple by her completely random question.
“Do you know krav maga?”
He looked up at her, eyes wide and mouth in the ridiculously sexy crooked smile he sometimes used.  “What?”
“I want to learn krav maga.  You know, the self-defense techniques the Israeli Defense Forces use?  I thought if you knew it, you could teach me.”
“Well, I’m kinda busy right this minute.”  She could tell Mouse was a little offended.
She laughed apologetically.  “I…  Right, sorry… and I was paying attention, I promise.  It just popped into my mind.”
She was entirely taken off-guard to find herself suddenly and completely in a different position, with him directly over her, her arms above her head and both wrists held in one of his hands.  The other was softly but unmistakably around her neck. He let her notice that, then moved it up to hold his thumb under her chin while his hand splayed across her cheek in a soft caress that allowed him to turn her face to his.  He gave her an expert, demanding kiss.
“Yes.  I know some krav maga,” he said.  She gasped, feeling her body instantly respond.  
“Holy shit,” she breathed.
For the next hour, he took absolute control of her willing, electrified body with a profound mastery that was so intense it came just short of scaring her.  She was pretty sure krav maga didn’t actually include a series of mind-blowing sexual techniques, but apparently, she’d asked the right question of the right man.
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0bfvscate · 5 years
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Halloway’s Night Out
Fanfiction for @nothwell‘s sequel to Mr. Warren’s Profession, Throw His Heart Over.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Alcohol use, mild sexual content, references to violence and drug use
Summary: John Halloway celebrates selling his most recent, and most controversial painting, The Fall of Icarus, with dinner and wine, but true to form, neither Halloway nor his dear friend Cyril Graves manage to do anything in a quiet or orderly way.
The reception to the painting was mixed. Some called it a masterful use of technique, others an aesthetic triumph. Others called it a debasement of ancient myth, a clear excuse to indulge in homosexual tendencies, and an affront to good taste. Halloway heard people call him both a genius and a monster for displaying the vaunted Icarus as a scarred and beaten man, and felt a bit thrilled to invoke such strong reaction.
Until he saw Warren in the crowd. Warren was a quiet man with quiet habits who preferred his privacy. Warren’s eyes darted around the room as he squeezed through the crowd toward the painting, trying to reach it without making any sign that he was there. Halloway came to the sudden realization he’d brought a very private friend to an event celebrating his naked, painted form. Halloway could see him struggling to be invisible, squirming in his suit when he bumped in to someone, apologized, and saw their eyes flicker over his scars.
Halloway jumped through the crowd. “Warren!”
His voice did not have its intended effect. Instead of being a life raft thrown into open water, it seemed to act like a bullet at a hart.
“Come here,” Halloway called, struggling with the tools at his disposal for some anchor to ground his model. “Let me shake your hand—find you a glass—no? Very well, as you wish—but do allow me to introduce you to my friend—Mr Talbot—the proprietor of this fine establishment.”
—and reached behind himself to extract one Mr. Edward Talbot, art patron, critic and former tailor. He’d inherited a strong business sense, an eye for color, and a tailor’s shop from his father, which he then liquidated and converted into a gallery for the sake of art.
“How do you do.” said Mr Talbot.
Aubrey replied in kind, but with mounting meekness as Talbot’s eyes widened with recognition. Talbots’ customary congratulations to the model froze on his lips and a yawning silence stretched in its place.
“Mr Warren,” said Halloway, clapping his free hand upon Aubrey’s shoulder, “is the celebrated model.”
“Indeed,” said Mr Talbot. “I thank you, sir, for making such a splendid work possible. Your visage is a most inspiring one. Forgive me for abandoning you so soon, but I’m afraid business calls me elsewhere. Good evening, Mr Warren. It was a pleasure meeting you. I hope to see you again soon.”
He gave them each a nod and vanished into the crowd as easily as a ghost, where his absence was filled with Halloway’s annoyance. Talbot failed to offer Warren any comfort, and left him still and fragile and unsteady as a newborn fawn. If only Warren drank, Halloway would have given him some liquid courage.
“Talbot thinks we might have an offer on the painting this very night,” Halloway blurted out.
“That’s good,” Aubrey replied, though his uncertainty turned the remark into a question.
“It’s very good,” Halloway confirmed. “Better than I’d hoped—though no less than I feel it deserves, if I may be honest at the risk of being arrogant. Have you seen it yet?”
When Aubrey admitted he’d not yet glimpsed the painting hanging in the gallery, Halloway bid him follow, and carved a path through the crowd to the wall. Every wall in the gallery bore artworks from floor to ceiling, but Icarus Fallen seemed to have a glow all its own. Or did Halloway imagine it? Did it draw his eye for the piece of himself he recognized within it, or was there something universal in its composition? Did it have that unmistakable spark of beauty that every artist chased, or was it just a nice painting that he was proud of?
Aubrey craned his neck upward towards the painting, and for a moment, he seemed at peace.
“What do you think?” Halloway asked.
“It’s… impressive,” Aubrey said at last.
Halloway smiled, but before he could say more, a hand clapped him on the shoulder.
“Halloway,” the man said. “Tell me more about this recent painting. Tell me where you found the nerve.”
And with that, the crowd drew him back in, where he was in his element.
By ten the gallery was shut up, the champagne was gone, and Richard Talbot was using Halloway’s coat and hat as a lion tamer used a chair.
“You ought to apologize to my friend Warren,” Halloway said. Graves had his fingers in the back of his jacket and was trying to pull him toward the exit. “He’s a very handsome man, you know. Very kind, very gentle. He’s sort of like a deer.”
“For God’s sake, John,” Graves grumbled. “The event is over and we’re starving. If we stay here any longer the party will end.”
“I know, I’m coming. And I’m not upset with you, I’m just a bit protective of the poor chap. He’s like a deer.”
“I understand completely.” Mr. Talbot said, advancing on him with the coat and hat.
“He saved an entire factory. That’s why he’s got those scars. Have I told you that?”
“Yes.” Talbot said.
“You’re drunk.” Graves said.
“You’re drunk.”
“I think you’d both do well to have a hot dinner and a nice cup of coffee.” Mr. Talbot said, taking another step forward with the hat and coat.
“Oh, yes. Splendid.” Graves answered.
“I just want you to know—“
“I know, John,” Mr. Talbot said, finally saddling Halloway with his own coat and hat and giving him a gentle pat. “I know.”
And then they were out in the street, unsteadily climbing into the hansom. They collapsed on top of one another and awoke some twenty minutes later feeling like watersodden logs, but after food, coffee, and yet more liquor, they both felt as fresh as spring rain.
“To Icarus!” Graves cried. “To a man who died a noble death, in the pursuit of absolute, ideal beauty. A man who stretched out his hand to touch the sun and felt its fire burning. Here’s to a man who flew out of prison and fell to the sea.”
“Now I’m not arguing against the technical skill,” said Hainsley, the editor and founder of his own magazine. “It is clearly a beautifully painted piece. What I am arguing against is the choice to mutilate Icarus.”
“He fell out of the sky and smashed on the rocky earth,” Halloway argued. “If I wanted to mutilate him, I would have done much worse then a bruising.”
“Exactly. That’s my point. You can’t argue for realism, since true realism would reduce the painting to an unrecognizable, pornographic mess. If Icarus Fallen were pure veritism it would hardly be a painting at all. Your choices were weighed accordingly, which is every artist’s right, but I respectfully disagree with your decisions.”
“Well, sir, I respectfully disagree with yours. Icarus has been portrayed in art for thousands of years, and I for one am tired of seeing unending galleries full of heroes in unblemished death throes.”
“God, are we going to sit at this table forever?” Asked Forsyth from the other end. “I’ve been stuffed in this jacket all day.”
Next they went to the Catullus club, descending on it like a flock of bats if bats waddled on foot after too much food and wine. The club was a relatively sedate place at that time of night, except for a few private parties bursting with exclamations and loud thuds from behind locked doors. They took the main room and filled it with noise and smoke as the company and the alcohol brought them all a new burst of energy. The staff, noticing the celebratory nature of their party, circled them like moths.
Halloway had a very pretty toff sitting on the arm of his chair while Graves proudly recounted his triumphs. The toff was a bit too pretty for Halloway, incessantly barring eyelashes he’d enhanced with kohl and cheeks darkened with rouge. Hainsley was sitting on the other side of the chair and salivating up at the pretty toff. Halloway, eventually, retrieved his arm from the toff and used it to wrap around Graves.
“Couldn’t we move the pronouncements to a private room?” He asked.
Graves, frozen in the act of giving a speech, took his time to arrive at John’s point. “I’m not averse, if you don’t mind leaving you adoring entourage.”
“I’d prefer it.” He admitted quietly.
Graves raised his eyebrows, but got out of his chair without comment. “Very well. Excuse us, gentlemen.”
The orderly at the welcome desk gave them a key to a room on the second floor. By the time they arrived, towels, lubricant and a clean water basin were laid out for them by the bed.
“Didn’t that pretty young gentlemen interest you at all?” Graves asked, pulling off his shoes.
“God, no,” Halloway answered. “Although if you’ve a fancy—“
“Hmm. Do I? Well, I’d certainly give it a try. But why not? He seemed very partial to you.”
“Shame I’m not much for willowy boys.” Halloway grumbled.
Graves laughed. “So it’s another question for aesthetics! Tell me, John, what disinterests you so in beauty?”
“‘Beauty’ isn’t a predetermined factor,” Halloway declared, giving up on untying his tie and just pulling it apart. “If it were, the Asthetes wouldn’t have anything to talk about.”
“Isn’t it? A truth doesn’t become less true for having facets, nor are gems less expensive for them. If beauty were in the eye of the holder, a painting could not be celebrated. As an artist, you must admit that beauty is generally agreed upon.”
“As an artist, I can tell you now that beauty is a trend that comes and goes,” he struggled to pull off his socks and eventually let himself fall forward, onto the bed. “No one today would paint a Rueben.”
“But there is still something enduring about their beauty.” Graves mused. He was stretched out in his chair, waistcoat unbuttoned and only one sock off. He seemed to have forgotten he was unbuttoning his pants.
Halloway jumped up on the bed and flipped over to work on his pants. “Alright, let’s you and I discuss the female form.”
“My, you are in a rare mood.” Graves mumbled.
“Exactly— Exactly!” Halloway cried, triumphant, standing on the bed in his johns and shirt. “We’d never deny a woman her beauty, but would you take one to bed?”
Graves made a few noncommittal noises.
“What about the most beautiful woman at the opera? What if I were to introduce you to Miss Virginia Stendhal, who sat for my celebrated painting of Persephone?”
“Oh but that brings us back to the point, my dear, which is that people find Ms. Stendhal beautiful but pity her for the sitting!”
“No, my point is that she’s beautiful, but neither of us would fuck her.”
“You put the poor woman in an unhappy marriage,” Graves pouted. “Persephone, the goddess of spring, the personification of the bloom of youth, staring at Hades as if wishing she could put him in his own pit. What a waste!”
“But why?” Halloway cried. “Why can’t I? I haven’t done anything wrong. I love those stories just as much as anyone else, and you can’t argue that no one sees them as I do, because people have told me they do!”
Graves was laughing, shaking his chair with quiet mirth. “You see, John, this is why I admire your work. You’ll do what you like and stamp your foot when people tell you they don’t like it.”
“Oh, you’re just mocking me.” Halloway said. He wobbled, fell to his knees, then landed face down on the bed. The darkness there was warm, soft and inviting, and he was in the process of exploring deeper when Graves pulled him upright. He sat on the edge of wakefulness, judging the benefits of each side of consciousness, when Graves tipped the scale. He kissed him, cupping the back of Halloway’s head in his hands. He was so warm that Halloway let him carry him fully into wakefulness, pressing his tongue against Graves’ lips until they opened and let him explore. When they’d gotten all their clothes off he pressed his chest to Graves’ and felt his heart beating on the other side. The rasp of skin and short, dark hairs tingling over his body made him flush with heat, but when he reached between Graves’ legs he found his cock still soft.
“Give me a minute.” Graves promised, pushing John onto his back. His lips tickled his skin as he kissed down Halloway’s collarbone and into the sensitive skin between his thighs, but though desire pumped through his blood his little soldier was too drunk for a full salute.
They tried a few more times, and sometime before three Halloway was startled awake by a sudden knocking on the door.
“Halloway! Graves!” Someone shouted. Halloway waited for them to announce themselves or explain what they wanted, but there was just silence on the other side. There was shuffling, then quiet, disappointed muttering and an embarrassed retreat.
“Who was that?” Graves mumbled, lifting his head up. He made a face and scraped a hair off his tongue, then slowly lifted a bit farther off the bed and took in their surrounded. “Where are we? And, good god— what are these hideous statues?”
“I think,” Halloway said, careful not to make any concrete proclamations in light of his irrational condition. “That we have abandoned our party.”
“Nonesense. We’ve only been gone a few minutes.”
Halloway searched the room for a clock, and was relieved to find a small one on the mantle. He got up and squinted at it, but although he could see both hands, neither figure shared information with him.
“I think we’ve been gone a bit longer then that.” He said tentatively.
Now it was Graves’ turn to stop and think, churning through the butter that was once his brain for all the pieces of the night to lay out in order.
“No,” he said, but that was just a reflex, come from the certainty that Cyril Graves did not abandon a party. As it dawned on him that that was indeed what he had done, the finger resting on his chin migrated north and pushed nervously into his upper lip. “Oh.”
“I think we abandoned the party, Cyril.”
“Oh,” Graves said, then got to work collecting his clothes. “Well, let’s resolve that.”
They abandoned their futile efforts to put the room back together and stopped by the front desk to drop off their key. But when they reached the sitting room, it was empty. Nothing remained of their party except for crystal cups with rings of liquid, and one cigar still smoking in an ashtray. As they stared at the ribbon of smoke rising up, they heard a giggle behind them. Glancing over their shoulder, they saw the pretty toff from before wrapped in a curtain, trying to hide but shaking with mirth.
He explained when they approached; “When you two disappeared, the others went to look for you, and that became a game of hide and seek. Right now it’s Hainsley seeking, and he’s terrific. He gets so angry when he can’t find anyone.”
To prove it, the toff encouraged them to hide behind a large potted plant. Within minutes Hainsley came in and began to turn the sitting room over, cursing the whole time. The toff was helpless with laughter, covering his mouth with both hands to smother the hiccups and gasps that escaped. Hainsley caught the echo of a cough and lifted his head with alertness, as dogs did during hunts. Slowly he inched forward, and pounced on a couch at the edge of the sitting room. He paused, as if checking his success, then threw the pillows aside and cursed again.
The toff was helpless with laughter.
Halloway straightened up and stride towards the editor. “Hainsley!”
The man jumped. “Halloway! There you are! We’ve been looking for you for ages. Don’t tell me you lost Graves on your way back from Fairyland.”
“Of course not,”Graves said, leaning against the potted plant with an air of ennui. “But what are you doing to that poor couch?”
“The bastards all thought it’d be funny to hide after you went missing.”
“Or perhaps they are the ones whisked off the Fairyland.” Graves mused.
“Anyways, all the servants have gone to bed and I need another drink.”
“Perhaps we could use another drink.” Halloway agreed. His poor, pickled brain was trying to shut up for the night, but like a bicycle with the breaks cut he could only keep moving.
As they were making up their minds of where to go and how they could get another drink so late at night, members of their party popped one by one out of doorways and down the stairs.
“Hainsley, you spoilsport!”
“Are we getting a night-cap?”
“Do you know of a place that will still be open?”
“No,” Graves said. “Regrettably, we’ll have to go home for hospitality.”
It was no longer the blackest night, but the blackest morning. Halloway was speculating on the change in atmosphere that seperated morning from night in the wee hours. Was it the dew in the air that changed the texture of the darkness, or simply the knowledge that dawn was approaching? Or was it instead the weight of his body on his mind, dragging just a step behind his alert consciousness, like a cranky child?
“Here we are. At last,” Cyril said, banging on the front door. “Open up! Come on, we don’t have all night.”
But the door did not open. Soon the whole party took up a chorus of the demand and chanted it like a drinking song.
“Open up! We don’t have all night!”
Lights glowed behind the drawn curtains and the door was abruptly opened. The party poured into the foyer, still chanting.
“Open up! We don’t have all night!”
Someone clipped John’s nose in their clumsy effort to remove their jacket, and another fell on his back as they were trying to untie shoes.
“What in heaven’s name is going on?” Demanded a voice.
Graves was trying to reason with the sober individual. “Now, listen, would you turn away an old friend for celebrating the triumph of an artistic master? This is a triumph. Triumphant. We are triumphant!”
“For god’s sake, sit down before you fall down.” Answered the sober tyrant, and orders for bedclothes and water were answered with the drumming of feet which seemed to circle Halloway before entering his skull and stamping around the dome.
“This is not a triumph,” said a second sober voice. “This is tragedy. You look like a platoon of wounded soldiers limping home.”
“Oh, come, have a nightcap with us.” Hainsley slurred.
“You’ve finished off the night, there’s nothing to cap.”
“A toast to our host!” Shouted a different voice, and when John turned to identify it, discovered the toff from the club had come out with them.
“You need to go to bed. You’ll all feel like death in the morning.”     “Oh, thank god. A piano! At last, we’ll have music!” Forsyth had made it into another room, plopped down on to the piano bench, and begun playing a waltz as slurred as his speech, alone, in the dark.
“No-- no! Absolutely not!”
“Gentlemen!” Cried a voice. John turned towards it and beheld a women on the stairs. At first, he mistook her slender, loosely-draped silhouette for Grecian garb, and the woman at her elbow as some Olympian attendant. But then the weights and pulleys in his brain settled into balance and he recognized it as a nightgown. “Welcome! And congratulations!”
The whole party gave out a cheer.
“You all look like you’ve had a fabulous night!”
Another rousing cheer.
“I propose a toast!”
Their party lost their minds. There was applause and stamping of feet.
“One last toast to the hero of tonight, Mr. John Halloway!”
She was like a priest, and they her feverish followers. John felt tears prick his eyes. A servant appeared and put a glass in his hand, with something cool and sweet. It tasted like a fruit juice, and for the life of him he could not settle on the flavor of the alcohol. It was very delicate, and mixed perfectly with the cocktail’s foundation.
“We drink to Artemis, and she brings us ambrosia!” He cried.
“Fine lady, I’d say you should sit for Halloway, but not a soul here can predict how the results will look!” Hainsley brayed, and everyone fell over themselves laughing.
She bowed graciously. “Gentlemen, my house is yours. I place my servants at your disposal. If any of you should need anything, you need only let them know. I beg you to forgive me of my absence.”
The party made a loud, collective noise, but the tone of their response was impossible to decipher. Not even Halloway could tell if he was disappointed that she was leaving them or begging her to do as she saw fit. She, her attendant, and the two masters of the house left them in the sitting room, among the pillows and blankets that were brought down when they first arrived. The toff was fast asleep, curled around a folded blanket like a child. Hainsley, after sitting down and having some of whatever substance was in his glass, was frozen in place, his mouth hanging open.
“What fine people,” Graves said. He was still upright, still smiling his knowing smile, but there was something off-balance about his posture. “What a wonderful night. Where’s Forsyth?”     They discovered Forsyth asleep on the piano.
“They act like they’ve never had a drink before.” Graves muttered.
“Let’s leave them and have another drink,” Halloway said. “That cocktail she gave us was wonderful. What did you think of it?”     “Something with apple.” Graves said pensively.
“She said we could ask for another. Didn’t she leave some of her people with us?”
They checked the rooms and the hallway around the sitting room, but everywhere was dark and empty.
“I can’t see a thing. Where’s a candle?”
“I can’t find any,” Graves said, slapping countertops along the wall for something to light. There was a clang and a bump and a series of heavy metal objects fell to the floor as Graves cursed. “How the devil did they get the lights on and off so fast? I can’t even smell the candle smoke.”
“Perhaps it’s electric?”
“Where are the lamps?”
Halloway tripped on a lurking ottoman and sprawled across the rug. Graves made a show of disgust as he pulled him up.
“John, please.”
“As if I chose to fall!”
Abruptly they found themselves back in the piano room with Forsyth, still peacefully asleep on the bench.
“Witchcraft!” Halloway cried. “She plans to turn us into pigs!”
Graves scoffed. “We must have gone the full circuit of the house. The staff must be asleep.”
“What do they expect us to do?” Halloway cried.
“Sleep, I’d expect,” Graves said. He put his hand between the curtains and lifted up a corner. “The sun is coming up.”
“No.”
Graves stepped back from the window to offer his view. True to his word, there were the pink clouds rising in the east, the red light of dawn coloring the pale sky. They  pushed back the curtains and stood in the early dawn light as the sun rose. The air under the curtain had the same chill as the outdoors, whereas behind it, in the sitting room, was still warm and dark and full of the even sounds of sleep.
“We should get to bed.” Halloway said. They joined the rest of their party on the floor of the sitting room, sober enough to spread out the cushions and blankets to make their bed. Without their shoes, coats or shirts they had a very comfortable bed, and Halloway drifted quickly off to sleep.
Halloway woke up with a headache as fierce as if he’d been beaten. His tongue was so dry it felt swollen in his mouth. He could barely open his eyes. As consciousness overtook him, and pain overtook his body, all he could manage was a helpless groan.
“I thought you’d say as much,” said a familiar voice. “Sit up, we brought you breakfast.”
Sitting up was a tall order to fulfill. Halloway only managed to roll over, and when he did was blinded with a flash of sunlight bright enough to pierce straight through his eyelids.
“Come on.” Coaxed the voice.
Now on his back, he had both arms at his disposal to lift him up, and he managed to struggle himself into a sitting position. Warren and Althorp were standing before him, to Halloway’s relief looking more indulgent than furious. The others from their party were sitting up around him, their collars and hair askew and each looking as glassy and tired as Halloway felt. The ground seemed to be tilting beneath him.
Three trays were placed on the ground of the sitting room, in easy grabbing distance to the drunkards. On each tray was a pile of toast, peppermint tea, butter and a little cold chicken, shredded into easy bites.
“How did we get here?” Halloway asked.
“You would have to tell us.” Althorp said.
“Why did we…” Halloway began, but trailed off as his train of thought left him, evaporating like water in the sun.
“Who was the woman?” Hainsley asked. “Who are you? Where are we?”
“This is my good friend Sir Lindsey Althorp.” Graves said, leaning forward to take a dry piece of toast. “The two women were his wife and sister, Lady Emmeline Althorp and Lady Rowena Althorp.”
“Where are we?” The toff asked.
“Halloway, what happened last night? What brought you here?”
“I can’t for the life of me remember,” Halloway admitted. “We were going to have one last drink and go to bed.”
“We’re glad to help, but don’t do that again.” Warren said.
Halloway grimaced and gave them a toast with his peppermint tea.
“Wonder where my hansom is.” Graves muttered.
“London, I’d expect.” Althorp said.
“Naturally.” Graves responded bitterly.
There was an uncomfortable silence. Very carefully, Halloway put his fears into words.
“Where is London?”
“England?” Althorp answered tentatively.
“Not here,” Warren said. “You’re in Manchester.”
“What!?” Halloway cried. “How in the world did we coordinate a train ride!?”
“That’s what we wondered, as well.” Warren remarked.
“You said they had space for all of us.” Hainsley said.
“This is the beauty of the intoxicated mind,” Graves said serenely. “We are capable of so much, without our inhibitions to hold us back. Gautier wrote extensively on the visions he saw while under the influence of hashish--”     “I hope you weren’t smoking that, last night.” Althorp said with all the sternness of a disapproving parent.
“I hope you don’t need to get that drunk again to find your way back.” Warren said.
“I suppose I could impose on your hospitality a bit longer for a hansom back to my lodgings.” Halloway said. He still couldn’t remember getting on a train with Graves or the others, but it was becoming easier to see why he would argue the party move to Manchester while he was at his drunkest. Despite all the travelling he did, Manchester was still home. Manchester had all the comforting amenities a drunken Halloway would crave, and a drunken Halloway could wax poetic on their benefits until an equally drunken group of men were happy to follow him across the country.
In fact, of all of them, the toff was the only one with any difficulty getting home.
“My mother will be worried.” He said.
“Tell her you were out with friends.”     “I think she’ll expect that. She’ll say not to worry about her, but she does for me, and I do for her.”
As Halloway was putting himself together, smoothing down his hair with a little of Althorp’s pomade, Warren approached him.
“I’ve never seen you like that before last night,” he said quietly. “Do you drink yourself into that condition often?”
“No, not often. Last night was a celebration.”
“I didn’t like to see you that way, Halloway,” Warren admitted. “You weren’t the man I respected.”
Halloway gave him a hard look, drying up any temperance speech that might be forthcoming. “Warren, until my drunken behavior overtakes my life, I’ll thank you not to proselytize.”
“I’m not proselytizing. I’m pointing out to you that you bought a train ticket in a state of total unconsciousness. That you’re safe and sound in our house this morning is pure luck. I’m telling you, as your friend, that drinking yourself unconscious isn’t a habit to make!”
Halloway sighed. It was unfair to treat Warren like a nagging puritan in the wake of troubling behavior. Even Halloway had to admit that last night could have taken a turn for the worst at any point, and he was in Warren and Althorp’s debt for providing them with a safe place to sleep for the night. If they’d forced them to sleep in the horse stables, no one would have blamed them-- not even Halloway.
“You’re right, of course. I was a bit out of control, and I can’t dismiss my behavior just by saying that I don’t do it often. I ought to be more careful in future,” Halloway said. A smile slowly overtook his face. “But it was quite a night.”
Warren gave him a smile in return.
He walked Halloway to the front door, where Graves was waiting to drive with him into town.
“Halloway, I have a final question about art,” Warren said. “Do you ever miss your paintings after they’ve gone?”
“No.” Halloway said.
Warren seemed taken aback by his certainty. “Never?”
“I have better paintings to make.”
Warren was quiet for a moment, and then slowly a genuinely cheerful smile spread across his face.
“Naturally.”
Halloway gave him a warm handshake. “We’ll meet in town, shall we? I’ll send a card around.”
“I’d like that.”
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kyanmaaaa · 5 years
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i told my bro abt this dream and hes just like why are your dreams so dark (so like, tw for this one)
but honestly i didnt really consider this dark it was oddly beautiful if scary. im going to fill in parts with what i think could have happened there but im also not going to include the details for what the room looked like in every scene besides whats neccassary, cause this was so vivid i could try to describe to you what each PERSON looked like and people usually dont even have faces in my dreams!
its still long so heres a read more
beginning of the dream im walking home at dusk and im coming from a direction i almost nvr walk, except for when its halloween. so it may have been halloween in my dream, the sunset is a beautiful BRIGHT orange and its on the side of my house rather than behind like it usually is but thats a minor detail.
cause around the house behind mine theres a very strange cloud formation, much lower than i usually see clouds and its not foggy but its just, theres clouds wrapped around the house except for the front and the wall just goes up and up and up to the top and slightly past the house. paired with the sunset i think thats really beautiful so i take some pics with my phone and go closer just to see how close i can get before the clouds disappear and then i’ll go home
i didnt get to go home, the clouds wrapped fully around the house and a strong, something, stopped me from leaving. also there was like an evil to/riel so she mighta been the one doing that
next part of the dream kinda jumps around so ill have to infer some parts but essentially the house changes from the building ive seen there for you know, my entire life, to a small dark wooden mansion. also muffet is there and guess what she ALSO sucks. and then theres this bitch blond haired human pony tail man and hes dumb and i dont like him. im not allowed to leave and im kinda enslaved i guess (my bro called me a prisoner with a job when i told him and it was stupid funny). muffets off on a job after i get settled in there and i dont know what happens to make me so submissive considering the next part of the dream focuses on another servant but whatever they did was REALLY REALLY BAD cause at every point after this im terrified of fucking up and ive pretty much given up on getting out.
this next part was more of a flashback sequance that happened later but for ease of reading im going to add it here instead. first other servant i meet is a beautiful large green shiny beetle man, seriously hes gorgeous and so well spoken and kind. when he was brought into the house he was introduced as just a regular human man, still as beautiful as ever tho, was hired to play piano for a party. as hes fiddling away with the keys though if you looked around you could see bright shiny green and gold strings just, laying flat against the wall, piano, his suit, etc. turns out those were his beetle wings but stretched out and distorted and at this point hes discovered cause to the untrained eye those look like decorations, but its how his kind disguises themselves. cause he can change his entire appearance except for his wings, so they have to try and hide their wings in the environment around them.
they didnt like him lying but it was calm at first. muffet invites him to a small welcoming dinner, just for a chat. they share a platter of food on one plate, partly meat, but most of whats facing him is just a lot of rice packed into a line. he slowly pecks away at that as he carries a polite conversation with muffet, but nvr touches the other side of the food. after hes abt halfway through it she asks “Why aren’t you trying the other food deary?” and he responds “I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to Miss.” and has a bite.
after whatevers in that food kicks in he keels over in pain and she makes it very clear how things go in this house. he listens, he does not act without being told to, and if he ever tries to pull a stunt like that again he’ll be dead. “Am I clear deary?”
since he was there before i was some times passed since that happened. hes currently being punished by mr asshole blond ponytail man and his punishment is all of his meals are very plain. just rice and unseasoned meat. the chef clearly put effort into each platter tho as theyve been shaped into increasingly elaborate shapes the longer the punishment lasts. im not quite sure why this is a punishment? maybe beetle man isnt getting all the nutrients he needs and thats harder for his kind, perhaps he has a taste for good food and this is just the most the ponytail dude can get away with as a punishment since muffets in charge of the house, or maybe its meant to bring up bad memories of when he first came here.
this next parts, really foggy
back to me and muffets talking to someone through a large portal in the room? plans are made abt making humans lose hope and wiping out humanity. the vegan next to me is very excited abt this and comments on it and im just like, bro, that would be super bad for the earth and also immoral? and shes like oh right. at some point i befriend a guy even tho we hated each other at first but he’s moved elsewhere after some time
time skip to muffet informing me that due to my most recent mistake my family is going to be killed. at this point im just sick of it i’ve been here for months im miserable im lonely, i miss my family im just kinda, unstable
really unstable
im shouting at her if shes going to off my family she has to kill me too cause i cant live knowing theyre dead because of me or live without them, just sobbing, kill me, please just kill me i cant stay here anymore she sends me to my room and i pass by my beetle friend but neither of us says anything, also passed by some buff monster but its irrelevant. i dont go to my room instead im just looking through hallway after hallway, opening a storage closet and just trying to find SOMETHING to work with because yeah im miserable, yeah this is probably going to backfire but you do NOT. FUCK. WITH MY FAMILY! so i have to leave. i dont care if this might kill me i have to get out of there with whatever the hell i can find. what i find is two deflated balloons with little plastic bits inside that when u press a button they light up and im like OKAY maybe i, maybe me and beetle man can use this to signal to each other! thats great i can do this i can. i think i may have been crying and laughing here after my exploring Im hiding behind a sofa in a room in the furthest corner of the house cradling my little weird balloon bundle, just trying to find space to think. im safe because u cant see me from the door and the blinds on the window are drawn already. it feels like i havent seen the outside in a while remember how i said i was really unstable? this felt completely real in the dream so maybe it was real due to dream logic, but it feels like desperation in hindsight. i clicked both of the balloon lights on and realized i could use it as a phone! i need to call mom i miss her so much. so i do and she goes honey where are you? and im just crying and saying i love you, i love you so much im okay mom, its okay, and shes like are you at school??? and i just turn into a mess. at this point i look through the sheer curtains on the window and notice my brother driving a really tall truck moving some construction supplies. it sucks that hes here too but im just so happy to see him even if i know i cant talk to him. maybe if they dont find out we’re related he’ll be okay and then i leave the mansion, and i run. nothing here is familiar. im somewhere in the woods. i try to run to the front and see all of the construction workers there making something, but besides all the people somehow the dirt is just, this sheer cliff up up and up in front of the place. so i run to the back and try to get through the barrier around the place. i think i do but its not exactly easy. i fought off a possessed wild boar, but it was the size you think a pig would be, so like a medium sized dog, it just tried to bite me and while it hurt i just hit it til it stayed down long enough for me to bolt after im some distance away, further into the forest on a wide path i meet a human whos instantly on guard to fight me. i spray paint in his eyes and then run on i meet a strange human on the same path and he smirks at me and puts paper in front of his eyes to stop my tactic. i go hey fuck it maybe the fumes will disorient him and spray and his magic stops the paint in mid air and im like dude that is SICK, before he flings it back at me
i dont know how but i beat him too but the next part of the dream im finally somewhere residential, houses along the water, its a warm but not too warm day, light breeze, so all in and beautiful. i feel like im seeing and breathing freely and clearly for the first time in, i dont even know how long. its bright and while i know i have to run im just going to keep running, im free for now.
i use my little balloon contraption and call up my mom again now that im somewhere im positive no one will hear me. i tell her im sorry but i cant go home, that this is likely goodbye, and i cant guarantee ill get out of this alive but it’s okay. i love you so much. and she has to leave too. i stress this. she has to leave, cut all ties, cut all things that could trace you and get out of there. 
and then my alarm woke me up
its hard to explain why some sections of this dream were so scary, just the feeling of wrongness, isolation, powerlessness, and just some distant pain that i dont know what it was. it felt like the longer i was there the more my world was ending
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palechasm · 6 years
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aloe.
one word drabble prompts
                                   A L O E  -  B I T T E R N E S S            five times hisato was bitter, and one time he wasn’t.
                             (alternatively titled ‘one more time, with feeling’)
i also want to apologize for how fucking long this is?? like wow you go to write six tiny little blurbs and it still ends up being five pages long. i’m so sorry
warnings for death, gore, animal death, animal cruelty, dissociation, and Bad Morals For Children.
i. bitter
          Rain drips down his nose, clouds smothering the dusk sky like wads of soiled cotton, choking the dying rays sunlight. Dark skies and gentle rolls of thunder have marked each day of his life, more surely than the steady cycle of the pale, cowardly moon they hid.
         He was born beneath a roiling, weeping sky, and now it seemed he would die beneath another.
         The forest sings around him, a chorus of frogs loud enough to rival the storm’s lazy rumbling. So often did the rain fall that it seemed the sky itself was too bored with precipitation to make any real effort at a weatherfront.
         But the frogs and the clouds’ cranky grumbling were the only signs of life around him, and his throat was too raw to yell over the noise. Not even a lone doe picked her way through the underbrush, searching for tender greens. Instead the deer dozed in their thickets, safe and dry with fawns tucked safely into their sides.
         Would they object, he wondered, if he tried to join one of the peaceful families? The longer he waited, the less it felt that his parents were fervently searching for him the same way he had for them.
         His throat ached and burned from calling for his mother, and as a trickle of cold water rain down his neck and between his shoulder, another sob hitched in his throat. It hurt, more than anything, to cry. But what else could he do?
         The rain carried him through into the night, and as he knotted his limbs into a tight ball under the feeble arms of a bush, the verity of his situation set into his chest like a sharp, heavy stone.
         Although young, he was both smart and old enough to know that sometimes, children went missing–  and sometimes, they weren’t found.
         He imagined little skeletons littering the fields and the brush, the rice paddies and the bottoms of wells. The lonely remains of little boys who wandered away and died alone, bones poking through the moss and mud like pale branches.
         He thought about the trees that wrapped around him in an endless sea. Thought that this might be where he would die, where the creeping fingers of green weeds would wrap around his bones and hold on forever. The forest would steal him away, and shy, friendly deer would step on his ribs where he lay forgotten.
         Night bled into thin, reedy wisps of dawn. The rain didn’t stop, and no one called his name.
         Something angry and resigned and unfamiliar squeezed his heart.
         They weren’t looking for him.
ii. bitter
         Black feathers ruffle in a thick mane around the bird’s neck as he shakes water from his body, plumage rolling down his back like an inky wave. He’s smaller than Susutori, and the way he postures toward her in greeting, head dipped and wings splayed, makes it evident that he’s younger as well.
         But Susutori is pleased to see him and warbles a pleasant call, her eyes soft and her chest puffed like she’s proud. The newcomer straightens and fluffs his own feathers, their greeting finished. The motherly crow ushers him closer and buries her beak into his neck, preening a spot of mussed feathers.
         “You take too long to visit,” She scolds, once finished. “And Sokkou says you’ve been lazy with summons.”
         “Sokkou is a worm-eater and a suck-up.” The other bird grouses.
         “Watch your words in front of my nestling, or I’ll stick you with your own team of them.” Susu shakes her wings, preening irritably. “We’ll go elsewhere to talk.”
         The black, curious gaze of her companion rests on him, and Hisato stares back with matched interest.
         “I forgot you had a little human.” The large bird cocks his head, neck stretched to peer at him. “It even looks sorta like a chick. In an unfortunate way.”
         Something tugs at Hisato’s heart. For a moment, he’d felt nothing but an easy fascination. It was rare to see any of his adoptive mother’s clan, and there was a sliver of pride in hearing her claim over him- pride, and the warm embrace of belonging. As if he really were one of them, a chick taken under Susutori’s wing.
         And then it’s gone, and he was just an oddity. An it. Something strange and sad to gawk at, a boy with no family taken pity on by a crow. A misfit amongst humans and birds alike.
         A large wing shoots open and clips the crow’s body, sending him flapping and stumbling with a squawk.
         “He’s a human, and he looks perfectly fine.” Susutori bobs down to Hisato’s height, fixing him with a stern, parental look that broke no argument. “Hisato, I have business to attend to. Stay put. I’ll be back to bring you a meal.”
         She turns, meeting her younger counterpart as he rights himself from her push.
         “You have a bald spot on your tail,” Hisato mumbles, giving him a sour glare. “It looks unfortunate.”
         Susutori has the sense to disappear the both of them into a puff of smoke, just as her subordinate’s beak drops open with indignation.
         Then he is alone, separated from the safe and familiar like he’d been just a few years ago.
         This time, crows and humans both far away, and together with their kind.
         And Hisato, alone, the taste of dirt filling his mouth.
iii. bitter
         “Normally we’d use our feathers, but a leaf will have to do.” The oversized crow settles into the dry, brittle summer grass. Hisato feels her gaze, making certain he was beginning the exercise correctly.
         “Susu, is this what ninja do? The ones your friends help, sometimes?”
         “Using chakra is a shinobi skill among humans. Useless, as always.” She mutters, picking at the feathers of a wing. “They leave so many of their own kind defenseless.
         “Among crows, we teach all of our young how to protect themselves. And you must learn, too. There are many humans who won’t understand your position, and may try to harm you.”
         The crow speaks carefully, skirting around words like ‘death’ and ‘murder’, but the message is delivered without question. Hisato would always be in danger from other people.
         “What is my position?” He wonders aloud, cross-legged and raptly focused on the soft green patch quivering on his knuckles. What did it mean to be kept apart from the world?
         “You have no village, so you are unprotected. But with the skill to defend yourself, other humans will be suspicious because you are not a civilian. With no headband or sworn allegiance, they will fear you as a bandit, or worse, a defector.
         “You will be surrounded by threats, Hisato. The day your parents failed you was the day this fate was sealed.”
         Her words are succinct and sharp. His focus is broken and he stares at his mentor, leaf forgotten.
         “Am I… an outcast?”
         The thought is foreign, strange. It isn’t something he’d before considered himself to be, but the more he looks at himself the more the word fit. It wraps around his skin like an ugly tattoo… or a manacle, perhaps, callously locked over his wrist.
         “You are what you are, Hisato. Such is the only certainty in life.”
         He looks down, and begins the exercise again.
iv. bitter
         There is no blood on his hands, he idly thinks. Slivers of dirt ring his nails, but the pale lengths of his fingers are clear of rusty smudges. His palms are unmarred, his knuckles clean, although dry and lightly scarred.
         And yet, a dead man lies a scant few yards away, head lolling and chest peeled open like an overripe fruit.
         A jutsu he would rather not use again, given the others at his disposal. He wouldn’t have used it, if he’d known. Known the reality.
         But he hadn’t realized, hadn’t understood….
         Hadn’t thought.
         Before the man’s blade had sank into his throat in a ruthless swipe, he’d pushed him back, air colliding into his enemy like a wall and when he landed, tearing up dirt and grass and moving to rush back at Hisato with rage in his eyes–
         – when he landed, springing to attack again, Hisato kept pushing.
         Air funneled into the man’s lungs faster than he could think to stop. And when his opponent had finally realized, he couldn’t scream.
         Susutori had given him this jutsu. It was one of the first combat techniques he’d learned, being a simple but brutal attack with little possibility of a counter. He understood, now, how ruthless the crow was. How the battlefield had painted her with blood and resolve, and what it meant that she could kill so efficiently and without remorse.
         Hisato touches a hand to his side, robe torn open with ragged, stained edges. It isn’t deep, or life-threatening, but it could have been. His neck would have been. The wound bleeds like a warning.
         But for how closely he’d let danger touch him, or something else entirely?
         Red coats his fingers and seeps under his nails as he puts pressure on the wound.
         Ruddy dirt cools beneath the gaping corpse, and skyward a trio of scavenger begin to circle. The only blood he wore on his hands was his own, hot and slick from a living, pumping heart. And wasn’t that just as bad? Did it matter what spatters of blood belonged to who, when someone lay dead?
         He approaches the gore, reaches with sticky, warm fingers to close the thing’s eyes. Twin smears are left behind on the pair of eyelids, and he withdraws to clasp at his side once more.
         No matter whose blood it is against his skin, a man that had breathed and walked only minutes ago lays still, the broad wings of a carrion bird spreading to full as it breaks its swoop to perch on his leg.
         Hisato watches as they descend, one by one, a funeral procession claiming his body for the wilds. Nature will cycle his life back into itself, an ever-flowing balance.
         It shouldn’t be disturbing, watching them clean up the terrible mess he left behind. He’d seen death, animals picked apart and others thriving from the end. He’d seen what was left of humans that had met their fate, only the remnants of bleached, stained bones as their final mark of passing. The encounters had never left him feeling sick. Crows, after all, were scavengers at times, and so he’d never thought them gruesome.
         He sits with his head in his hands, folded into himself and wondering if it shouldn’t be him, carried away by the birds in pieces.
v. bitter
         Pillowed in his lap was a shivering dog, coaxed with gentle murmurs and a skewer of trout. Hisato ran a gentle hand across its shoulders, though the fur clinging there was thin and coarse. Strays were not uncommon in villages, no matter how large or small they happened to be. Hisato often sought out the wandering canines enjoyed their simple and easy company.
         They were seemed so uncomplicated, living next to humans who might react a dozen different ways to his presence. Dogs either welcomed you or didn’t.
         But the dog cradled between his knees was different from the other strays he’d befriended, kicked by the world within an inch of his life and chased away from the sunspot he’d been curling himself into. Not hurting a thing, but made to put his tail between his legs regardless.
         His health was poor, fur damp and coming away in clumps on his haunches. He’d chewed his paws until they were bloody, then licked at the wounds until they were hot and sickly. His pads were cracked, his nose dry, his tail limp. There wasn’t an inch of dog that wasn’t sad and broken.
         He would fix this, Hisato decided. He would fix the terrible things this place had done, because what more important thing did he have to do with his time? He would make it right. And when once healthy again, he would take the dog to a kinder, warmer place with dirty streets and plenty of strays to clean them.
         Next to a warm fire, an element he usually forwent, Hisato slept with a lapful of dog that, for the first time in its life, had not been chased or beaten.
         The world was not kind to strays. Many of them never knew a better life or a different place than the one they were born into, but Hisato had been lucky.
         When he left his friend to the bustling streets and overflowing trash bins of a Wind village just west of River country border, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had been so lucky after all. Dogs, after all, were passed over without a thought no matter what village they wandered into. For humans, homes were a tricky thing- stay in one place too long, and someone might notice you don’t have the right papers or the right permission from the right people. Just a group of men in fancy robes, foolish enough that land could be owned like a lifeless commodity.
         He would visit, Hisato told himself.
         And that would have to be enough.
i. warm
         “You’re a weird kid,” Said a well-muscled and ill-shaven man, cigarette dangling from his lips. “But I guess that don’t hurt nothin’.”
         Hisato stared silently, head cocked curiously even as he craned his neck up to watch the gruff, scarred face. A dull, warped shuriken was cradled in his little fingers, the feeble shine of tarnished metal drawing him to the empty field. He’d pulled it front one of the few, lonely wooden posts jutting from one end of the field, scattered with forgotten weapons.
         “What are you even gonna do with that? Can’t throw it anymore, th’ hells been bent outta it.”
         He looked down at the weapon, feeling bashful, and thumbed a blunted edge. “It’s for my mom. She’s a crow.”
         “Don’t you call your own mother a crone, boy.”
         “No, she’s a crow.” He corrected, squinting up. “What’s a crone?”
         The man guffawed, and Hisato wasn’t sure if he was laughing or choking. “Well my ma-in-law is a buzzard, so I’ll give you that one, twerp. I don’t know what th’ hell she’s gonna do with scrap metal like that, though.”
         A grin had split through the rough face towering above him, and he smiled back, enjoying the warmth of the man’s attention. Large, thick fingers reached into a pouch at his hip, pulling out a sharp, crisp shuriken.
         “You want me to teach y’how to throw one of those things or what?”
         At Hisato’s awed grin, he pressed the cold metal into pale, childish fingers.
         “Tell ya what, if you can hit that post I’ll let y’have this one, too.”
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allcatsaregreyt · 6 years
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Sollux Captor - Today at 4:47 AM
[TA began trolling CA!] @Eri Ampora TA: hey, i know you really don't want to talk to me right now, and reflecting on everything, i can't say i blame you in the fucking slightest. TA: you don't have to respond to me TA: but TA: uh TA: please dont block me yet TA: because there's a lot a want to tell you and itll take a few messages to do it TA: afterwards ill leave you alone
Eri Ampora - Today at 4:49 AM
[There's no response. But there's no idle message.]
Sollux Captor - Today at 5:59 AM
TA: when i met you, you were just this fun guy who memed the appropriate amount to be unserious and likeable, and you were fun to mess with too. just. a really fun person to be around. i really wanted someone like that around in my life, you know? TA: the pitch crush i gained on you should have really stayed just a crush, because outside of playful banter and memes, our relationship didn't really have much foundation. you weren't ready yet, and i wanted more out of you than you were ever willing to give me. TA: you started getting flush for me while i started getting pale for you because the more i learned about you, the more i started to pity you. the more i wanted to help you. TA: i wanted to fix you. TA: what an arrogant thought, right? TA: but i never thought of you as a project or a puzzle, i always thought of you as a person, my partner, someone hurting that i wanted to see heal. i wanted to be the one who could help you get there. TA: but, well. i'm shit with people. TA: and we both agree that you have a lot of shitty qualities too. TA: i couldn't figure out how to help, the only thing i knew that worked to get you to open up was to push you until you cracked. no one ever offered any other solutions, and it was the only thing i had to get you to talk to me. TA: that was wrong to you, and i don't think i can ever apologize enough for doing that to you. it'll never be enough. TA: i feel like i was wrong for making you be in a relationship with me to begin with. TA: i'm proud of how far you've come, of how much you've healed. TA: but trying to evaluate that pride, maybe that's wrong too. maybe i'm only proud because you did what i wanted you to do. TA: and that's disgusting too. TA: i hate people doing what i want because they don't want to bother telling me otherwise. Sollux Captor - Today at 6:00 AM TA: all this time i thought i was doing the right thing. doing right by you. i genuinely believed it. i've poured so much into trying to get you to thrive and be happy that i lost that ability for myself, and i'm realizing that it not only wasn't ever asked for, but didn't even help. TA: i wasted both of our times, all these last few months. TA: i'm still guilty about hurting you, when i was trickster. TA: i remember the whole thing. i remember that i was made to hate you. but i was so bitter even without that. TA: bitter that you kept running away because you needed to be left alone, and i wouldn't give you that. TA: i should have given up, back then. TA: when of all the things you could have chosen to forget to make your life easier, you chose me instead. TA: that i was the thing making your life so terrible, that you needed to erase me from it to find peace. TA: what did i do instead? TA: i kept pushing. TA: maybe mindfang was right about me and i do have some kind of hero complex. TA: need to be a savior. need to create the disaster. TA: and it did this to you. TA: you deserve so much more. TA: you deserve someone who can love you the right way, not poison you with "good intentions". TA: i really hope karkat can do that for you. TA: i hope that nothing happens between the two of you because of me. TA: please dont be mad at him. TA: we never really even had a real talk about breaking up. TA: just some vague ventposts. TA: i've never been more blind in my life than i have when being in a relationship with you, eri. TA: i didn't know where to go, had no one who would tell me, and you wouldn't talk. TA: i had to do trial and error and even that was hard because you wouldn't tell me if i was doing something wrong. TA: i didn't WANT to give up on you. TA: but trying to help you has eaten me to the point of crying constantly, and i just couldn't fucking do it anymore. TA: my heart can't handle it. i couldn't do it anymore. TA: but i didn't have an intention to stop being your friend, or to stop supporting you. TA: karkat said he'd keep doing what i tried to do, and hell, god knows he's doing it better than i ever did or could. TA: he said that maybe, once you'd healed, we could be together again. TA: but i knew then that it wouldn't happen, even if i could be hopeful. TA: i knew karkat and i wouldn't be enough, that's why i used my contacts to set you up with a therapist who could. TA: i hope she helps you. > There's a pause. TA: i dont know what pushed you to want to kill people in my town, i don't know how saness found you to stop you. TA: karkat and i were really, really sick when that happened. TA: i could barely walk and still i told her i'd come there if i needed to. TA: i wanted to make sure you were okay. TA: but i TA: i felt like you didnt want me there TA: that me being there would have made it all worse TA: so i didn't TA: after i found out where you were i was trying to figure out how to make things better TA: i'm fucking terrified of star but i contacted him because you two were close TA: i thought maybe you two could stay together TA: so that saness wouldnt have to keep you prisoner TA: but then star told me that you two fell out TA: and i didnt know any other options TA: i wanted to talk to you so badly TA: i wanted to understand what was happening TA: i was at school when shit hit the fan and i asked saness again if i could go there TA: because there wasnt another way to you TA: and i was so fucking scared eri TA: i couldnt lose you TA: i couldnt lose another moirail TA: i didnt want anyone doing anything they would regret TA: and i didnt have any fucking answers to suggest anything TA: i heard you were going to that prince guy TA: nadire? TA: and he was kind to karkat TA: so i thought youd be safe there TA: and im glad you went TA: and fuck i've already said so much but there's still so much i want you to know TA: i'm sorry about everything that's happened with saness TA: i'm sorry i pushed you so hard TA: i'm sorry i couldn't be a good kismesis TA: or moirail TA: or matesprit TA: fuck i haven't even been a good friend to you. TA: i'm never going to regret meeting you, or loving you. TA: i'm never going to regret kissing you, or forget anything that the stuffed wolf stood for. TA: did you know i got the scarf its wearing from star TA: star told me not to tell you that but i dont think im going to talk to you again TA: star was the one who hired me to check up on you while you were still living with me too TA: i wasnt supposed to say that either but it doesnt matter anymore TA: you deserve to know all the things i didnt tell you or couldnt tell you or wouldnt tell you TA: ive appreciated all the time weve spent together TA: theres been so much trouble but theres been so much good too TA: i miss you TA: i miss holding your hand TA: im not going to live all that long compared to you but TA: youre someone im always going to think about TA: no ones ever going to replace you eri TA: so what if theres people with your name TA: so what if im dating one TA: hes not you TA: and hell never be you TA: hes got your voice but ive never heard you in his words TA: youre sweet and kind and troubled and so so gentle and TA: not replaced TA: im sorry i just realized you wouldnt care for any of this TA: im sorry ive guilted you so much TA: im sorry ive pushed you TA: im sorry i broke promises TA: im sorry ive hurt you TA: im sorry ive forced you TA: im sorry ive cornered you TA: im sorry for all the things i cant name TA: i blocked you because i thought youd be better off without me still trying to engage this awful friendship TA: and im going to want to every time i see you TA: because just seeing your username on the dash makes me smile TA: just like it did months ago TA: even after everything thats happened TA: thinking about you makes me smile eri TA: and it still will TA: im not going to go to your lighthouse anymore TA: im having a transportalizer put into the hole so i dont have to cross your property to get into it TA: and its far enough away that it shouldnt be a bother for you TA: ill stay out of sight so you dont have to see me at all TA: and if its still not good enough ill abandon it and dig out elsewhere TA: but i can't leave it because the bees need cared for TA: and im sorry for getting mad TA: at this point i dont have a right to be angry TA: i took your tag as an invitation and broke in TA: and hell thats probably what you were baiting me for TA: because youre fucking smart and im just a shitty lowblood that happens to know how to hack TA: i'm not going to say im sorry for being in your life TA: you would have died TA: and i dont know maybe you would have preferred that TA: but ive been grateful for the extended time ive gotten with you TA: but i dont think ive helped you at all since the start TA: just gave you a few laughs but ultimately ive only hurt you TA: and i dont even think youre still reading at this point ive sent a lot TA: youll probably block me before you finish because its annoying TA: so its probably safe to say this by now TA: before we cut this off forever TA: i want to see you one more time TA: i want to give you a hug TA: and i want to say goodbye TA: because youre a real person TA: and you deserve a proper seperation instead of everything happening over text [TA ceased trolling CA!]
Eri Ampora - Today at 6:05 AM
CA: i don't think i could look you in the eye wwithout feelin' sick. don't come to see me.[CA ceased trolling TA!][CA has blocked TA!]
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recentanimenews · 3 years
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Horimiya – 07 – Downpour
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I. The Coffee Stain
Yuki would never say so, but Hori falling for Miyamura worked in her favor. It meant Tooru would have to give up on Hori and look for love elsewhere. Yuki makes an effort to hang out with Tooru more frequently, in hopes they’ll grow closer. She doesn’t let little opportunities like carrying the class trash out together slip away.
Unfortunately for Yuki, this backfires when, while she’s teasing Tooru, he bumps stright into Kouno Sakura, who is presently crushing on him hard. Coffee from the trash spills on Sakura’s top, and when Tooru runs off to grab his gym jacket for her to wear, Sakura asks Yuki if she and Tooru are dating. Yuki tells the truth: they’re not. But she also leaves out the truth: she’d like to.
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Sakura takes Yuki’s reply as cause for relief. In the StuCo office she asks Kakeru about why he likes Remi. He gives a very heartfelt response about how despite him not being that strong, he feels compelled to protect Remi, which inspires him to become stronger, so Remi really protects him too…and Sakura.
Buoyed by these words of support, Sakura returns Tooru’s washed jacket and gives him a bag of homemade cookies. He genuinely loves them, especially the sakura colored ones, so Sakura gets him to repeat “I love Sakura”, which is wonderfully devious on her part!
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II. Smiles and Cupcakes
Hori watches something play out in the bookstore that’s a microcosm of Yuki’s tendency to withhold how she really feels or what she wants: she reaches for the last issue of something just as someone else is, and lets that person take it. “The things she loves or wants tend to escape her.”
The more upset she is, the more she’ll smile to hide it. So Yuki is beaming when Tooru goes out to the hall to talk with Sakura, and smiles even wider when Sakua offers her cookies, after initially refusing them under her breath. The trash is right there in which to toss them, but they’re too damn good to waste.
Not wanting to give up on what—on who she wants, Yuki reaches out to Miyamura for cake-baking advice. He assures her he wasn’t born a baker, and nobody’s good at anything when they first start out. If she messes up, she should just give it another shot.
Yuki takes that advice to heart in both baking and Tooru. She has Horimiya try her first (failed) attempt, but to her horror Tooru joins them, eats an entire burnt cupcake, and smiles his big smile saying that while it was utter crap, he looks forward to the next batch. The Yuki-Tooru-Sakura love triangle is official!
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III. FIVE DAYS
After two very strong segments focused on secondary characters, this felt like it would be an entire episode in which Horimiya’s romance would be placed on the back burner. O me of little faith! On the contrary, the latter two segments are all Horimiya, All the time, and greatly advance their relationship.
This segment is the epitome of the adage absence makes the heart grow fonder, as Hori and Miyamura are separated almost the whole time. Miyamura is away with family in Hokkaido for five days (a funeral from the looks of it). It’s he longest period they’ve been apart since they became a couple, and to make matters worse, Miyamura’s phone dies and he left his charger back home!
While those sound like the ingredients for another rom-com cliché, in which a lesser show would milk the misunderstanding around his lack of replies, by now we know better. Hori never feels like Miyamura is avoiding her, it just sucks ass that he’s away. She also carries out functions as if he were there, like getting him a drink at school or setting a place for him at the table at home. She counts the days off on her hand.
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Five Days is a little masterpiece of brooding atmosphere and steady crescendo-ing anticipation of Horimiya’s eventual reunion; anyone who’s had to endure time alone with a new love knows full well what they’re feeling.
When Miyamura finally gets home and plugs his phone in. we don’t get to see the message that greets him, only his reaction: to run to Hori’s. Hori, meanwhile, can’t wait any longer, and rushes to Miyamura, and the two end up meeting in the elevator.
I breathed a sigh of relief, having been conditioned by countless other anime for the two to just miss one another another couple times. Hori’s tearful look of elation really is a sight to behold, and as she steps back to welcome him back, we see the message on Miyamura’s fallen phone: “Hurry up and get back here, dummy.”
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IV. FEELING THE HEAT
That brings us to the final most stunning segment of the entire series. It starts out so simply, innocently, and comically, with Yuki, Sakura, and Remi taking Hori to task for loving horror and slasher movies and making Miyamura watch them. They insist that’s weird and could even push him away.
The next time Horimiya watch a scary movie, Hori tries to follow his friends’ advice, first by pretending to act scared as an excuse to draw closer, which scares the bijeezus out of him. Then she tries to surreptitiously take his hand, only causing him to recoil in terror. He apologetically goe off to be alone for a minute, and Hori retires to her room, devastated that what Yuki said has come true, and he wants nothing more to do with her.
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Naturally, nothing could be further from the truth, and before long Miyamura joins Hori in her room where she’s sulking about “not being cute”, because she doesn’t and can’t get scared. Miyamura realizes she was doing that stuff for him, and reminds her he didn’t fall for a “normal girl”, but for “her”, just like she fell for him and all his quirks, among them his tendency to be a scaredy-cat.
Miyamura suggests they go back and watch the rest of the movie, but instead Hori calls him Izumi and slides off the bed and into his arms. She puts her ear to his chest to listen to his heart; he does the same. As the rain continues to fall in sheets outside, they move to the bed. Hori notes Miyamura’s cold ears and hands, says he can’t go home in such a downpour.
In her head Hori says “There was a heat within me, and I wanted Miyamura to feel it too.” And so Hori and Miyamura make love for the first time.
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At some point after that, Miyamura has some real talk with Souta, who is worried about losing his big sister. Miyamura assures him he won’t take his big sister away, but asks if he can have Kyouko, to which Souta assents. Poor Souta! Still, he’s really not losing anyone; he’s gaining a big brother.
In a post-credit, post-coital sequence, the two are naked together and Hori proudly declares she’s bitten Miyamura on the neck, so he’d better grow his hair back to hide it. So there you have it! Going from a stolen candy kiss and a make-out session interrupted by Hori’s dad, to going all the way.
There’s no doubt that being apart for five days, and the joy they felt upon reuniting, was another milestone in their relationship, something they couldn’t reach without experiencing being apart. But it was also a matter of it simply happening—effortlessly, organically, just like so many other important moments in this series. Nothing is forced; everything just makes sense.
By being in Hori’s room they had the privacy; by reiterating that why they love each other has nothing to do with anyone else, they had the intimacy; and heck, the fact it was cold out, and there was the soothing sound of that rain…I can’t stress enough how simply, beautifully and tastefully this scene was composed. It’s exceedingly rare for an amine series to depict a loving couple earnestly taking the next step—one of the best, Kare Kano, is twenty-two years old—is but if any contemporary series could do it, it’s Horimiya, and it did.
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By: sesameacrylic
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