#I think anyone should be allowed to lunge for Warren’s throat On Sight | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

literallyjustanerd · 5 years

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Hurts to Try, Hurts to Stop (Nightangel)

Ay, whatup, it’s ya boy, an obsessed fan who writes angsty fanfiction to deal with her own emotional issues. At this point I think Kurt and Warren are officially my emotional support mutants.

Genre: Romance, angst and daddy issues Word count: 1603 Pairing: Nightcrawler/Angel Rating: T+

The air in Warren’s room is stale, and his lungs fill with a thick, stifling mustiness when he inhales. Head swimming through last night’s beer, he is dragged unwilling from the comforting emptiness of sleep, thrust back into the dull, thudding roar of reality, groaning and reeling and squinting his eyes shut. He has little more than a moment to try and think before he feels something ungodly bubbling up from deep within him, and when he leans forward over the side of his bed, he manages to choke up a good deal of second-hand, second-rate booze. Still woozy, he is only dimly able to wonder how the waste bin that catches most of the putrid mixture got there. A clumsy hand fumbles for his nightstand, catching wood after a few attempts. Vague memories return, a leaky faucet drip-feeding him disordered, nonsensical fragments one or two at a time. The clink of shot glasses. A giddy laugh that fills him with dizzying contentment. A chord struck on an electric guitar. Lips against his, warm and graceless and desperate. Quickly finding the prospect of standing an insurmountable task, Warren allows himself to fall back onto the bed, his head sending him a fresh wave of agony as it hits the pillow, wings crushed uncomfortably at odd angles underneath him. More shards of memory circle him, enveloping him as he sinks back into the void.

When he next wakes, he finds the world a little easier to bear. The scents of citrus and chemicals fill his nostrils, eyes opening to see that the waste basket of the unspeakable has been removed, the carpet underneath damp and scrubbed vigorously, the majority of the stain scraped away. Presently, as he frowns down at the faint splotch, a glass of cool liquid finds its way into one hand, the other pried open by steady fingers and a pair of pills placed on his clammy palm. The same fingers then move slowly up to his face, sweeping stringy, sweaty blond curls to the side and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Drink. You need water.” He obeys without hesitation, downing half the glass before heaving his head up to meet his rescuer’s eye. Kurt is looking worse for wear himself, hair a mess, yellow eyes missing their usual gleam, still clothed in last night’s shirt and jeans. Warren catches the man’s hand as it retracts from his cheek, pressing his lips to the blue skin and smiling weakly. He still feels, to put it most simply, like absolute shit, but the sight of that tired face smiling back at him makes everything alright, if just for a moment before his throbbing head interrupts.

Hours pass in silence, slow and sluggish and sleepy. Kurt has found his place beside Warren, lying on his back, chest-to-chest with Warren. Idle fingers trace abstract shapes into the small of Warren’s back, while his tail curves up from beneath him, straightening the feathers of his wings one by one. It takes Kurt a moment to gather himself when Warren speaks, pulled out of his stagnant thoughts. “How did you… when I woke up,” he mumbles, unable to find the words to finish his question. Nonetheless, Kurt seems to get the message. “Knew you’d need to throw up sometime in the night,” Kurt answers simply. “Figured I should be ready for it. Save some awful cleanup.” “But you still had to—” “It was nothing. I couldn’t get all of it, but I think it’ll dry up okay.” He shifts his weight on the bed, groaning softly. “How are you feeling? Any better?” “I’ll be fine,” Warren dismisses. “Back to normal by tonight. You?” “Just tired more than anything. It was a late one.” Warren makes a noncommittal humming noise, letting his arms tighten around the man beneath him, comforted to find lean, supple muscle under his fingers.

“Shouldn’t’ve gone out,” he mutters, not to Kurt, nor to himself in particular. “Shouldn’t’ve dragged you with me. Shouldn’t’ve left the house at all…” “It’s alright,” Kurt soothes. “It wasn’t all bad. You weren’t feeling good last night, you just wanted a good time.” “I wanted a distraction,” comes Warren’s steadfast correction. “I wanted to forget.” A long pause, muscles instinctively tensing, holding Kurt even closer. “Wanted everything to go away.” “I know,” the voice below him whispers, chest rumbling with the words. Warren finds himself suspended in Kurt’s silence, leaning into his breath as it leaves his lungs. “I suppose I should have seen it, stopped you before it got too bad. I’m sorry I didn’t.” Warren shakes his head against the cloth of Kurt’s shirt. “Not your fault. You just thought we were going out for fun.” “…Some of it was fun, at least. We had some laughs.” “Yeah? Good. Glad my breakdown had an upside.” “I didn’t mean—” “I know. Came out harsher than I meant it. Sorry.”

*****

“Are you going to tell me what your dad said this time?” It’s dark outside now, crickets chirruping in the grassy fields outside the mansion. The air is fresher, feels better with the window open, a crisp evening breeze streaming in like light into a darkened room. The couple are working through a pizza, and Warren pauses mid-bite to contemplate Kurt’s question, finally nodding his head as he swallows. “Yeah, I guess. If you want to know.” “Of course I do. You know you feel better when you share.” He sighs heavily, reluctantly, but he can’t deny that Kurt is right. He hates it when Kurt is right, especially when it means having to spill his innermost thoughts and feelings like some corny after-school special. As much as he loves Kurt for helping him, for forcing him up and prying him out of bed and drawing blood from a stone by making Warren open up, it still doesn’t come as easy to him as he wished it would.

“The basic gist was the same as always,” he says, his tone almost bored but for the slightest hint of bitterness. “Nobody was ready to see a mutant Worthington, you should have just hid them forever and pretended to be a pretty little Homo Sapiens. And—” He freezes, lifting his eyes from his slice of pepperoni to meet Kurt’s gaze. “And there was some stuff about you.” “About me? But—” “Someone posted a photo of us online. Got back to him somehow.” “Oh…” The sound of Kurt’s voice, heavy with guilt and shame, fills Warren with a seething, white-hot rage. “Hey,” he says roughly. “Hey. Don’t you dare feel bad about this. He’s the only asshole here, okay? It’s all him. The homophobia, the mutophobia, all of it.” Kurt nods vaguely, stiffly, eyes glazed over. He knows he shouldn’t feel this way, feel responsible for the tumultuous and deeply unhealthy relationship Warren has with his family, but some small part of him always persists, whispers keenly to him that things might be easier for his Angel if he’d never come along to complicate matters even more than they already were. “Are you still working on trying to cut ties?” he asks, instead of dealing with his own roiling emotions. Warren senses the need to change the subject and obliges. “Yeah. It’s just… hard. Accepting that he’s never gonna be satisfied.” He sniffs derisively, eyes cloudy as he reaches for another slice from the box between them. Suddenly restless, he stands, shaking out his wings with a flutter like a peacock preening. In the back of Kurt’s mind echoes the same thought he has whenever he sees Warren’s wings in their full radiant, elegant beauty: how could anyone hate something so amazing? Warren’s feet move without a destination until he finds himself perching on the windowsill, drawing in a lungful of clean night air. “Part of you always hopes there’s something you can do to just… I dunno, ¬force him to change.” The formless colours in the distance out the window slowly shift to form a line of trees as his eyes adjust, then blur again just as quickly with an unexpected wave of tears. “I know he never will. It’s never going to make sense to him to just love me more than he fears what people think.”

A heaving breath shudders past his lips. He tries to piece together another sentence, but the knot in his throat has choked him off. Mercifully, Kurt’s voice rises to fill the cavernous silence. “I know how you feel,” he murmurs. “I know what that’s like. Wanting so desperately for everything to be like it should be. Wishing you could even be what they wanted. Even though you know what they want is wrong.” He speaks like a prayer, intoning each word carefully and deliberately. Warren sees the glint in his eye, knows just what the distinctive quirk in Kurt’s lips and catch in his throat means. “Mystique,” Warren breathes, not a question and not an accusation, but Kurt nods his confirmation all the same. “…Family sucks ass, huh?” And suddenly, there it is. The high, twinkling laugh that erases the hurt in Warren’s chest, fills him with warm, soft relief. Kurt’s eyes wrinkle when he shuts them, tears pushed from the corners of his eyes down his cheek. He sniffles, raises his head. His tail sweeps across the carpet and catches the side of Warren’s leg, snaking under the cuff of his sweatpants and gliding up and down the skin of his calf. The smile that graces his lips reaches all the way to his eyes, weak as it is. “Not the family you choose.”

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sabraeal · 6 years

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The Great Chain, Chapter 3

The Hierarchy of Beings | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

ANS Week, Day 2: Metal Focus | Insecurity | Strength | Independence

In Wati, she had been a treasure -- the last of His Most High’s full siblings, a sacred vessel of the god’s breath, the only woman of his line left to house the sacred feminine within her. Her feet had not been allowed to touch the earth, her air of her lungs not wasted on those not worthy of it, her grace hidden behind veils and screens so as to not blind those with her glory.

Strange, how easily that was forgotten, when her brother sold her to the heathens. Now she is given free reign of the castle, so long as she stays in sight of her guard. She may show herself anywhere, to anyone of her choosing. She may even raise her voice and speak as she may.

Stranger still is how in so few days, she has come to -- to --

Enjoy it.

Still, she tries to live in her modest way, sitting behind her screen when there are maids or visitors in her chambers, rarely speaking unless it is necessary. Even now she looks to her left first, expecting to see a daughter of Visoth at her shoulder, waiting to be her voice. She wonders if there will ever be a day she does not, where she has grown so accustomed to blasphemy that she forgets herself.

She should not be so eager to find out.

It is one of the Clarinese maids that comes to her when she is playing her koto, letting the room air through the insufficient doors of the balcony. She has no daughters of Rith to serve her, had not been allow to take any -- not that they would have come to the heathen lands, save by force -- and the sons at the door know better than to enter the sanctum of the sacred feminine, even if they have been raised with blasphemy.

So it is the Clarinese that violate it, that send a girl to scratch at the paper and say, “The pharmacy is ready for you, Your Highness.”

Her mouth pulls thin at the flimsy honorific; here they think her a -- a princess, a lesser next to their king, next to their queen. But her brother is an Emperor, a man who holds the god’s breath in his lungs and his will in his hands. She is not an ornament, not a highness, not even a majesty.

She breathes out, letting the anger sink deep, settle beneath skin and sinew. It lives in the marrow of her bones, as it should. A way to heat the blood, a way to strengthen sons.

She lays her koto aside, and stands.

The palace in Wati sat on the city’s highest peak, the floors of the court and harem private but open to the god. Seven airy spires had stretched higher, cast in gold; a fitting tribute to His glory.

But beneath, it was a labyrinth, a warren of alchemists that stretched for what seemed like miles beneath the earth, spiraling ever deeper. It was safest for them there; seeking the order of Atar Wat’s universe was not a business for the faint of heart, and more than a few wings were always closed for repair, following an apprentice’s -- or even, sometimes, a master’s -- misunderstanding. It was not infrequent, her brother assured her once, that these misunderstandings were fatal.

So to see that the King of Clarines allows his own above ground, allows them to mix with his own court --

It’s madness. She’d always heard it ran strong in this country’s line.

And still, her brother had sent her.

They take her to a room in this warren -- this wing, as they tell her, though the building is separate from that of the palace, though on the same land -- its windows wide and open to the garden outside, though set high enough to afford some measure of privacy. A screen sits half-unfolded between her and the tables of instruments -- wise, she thinks, that they do not allow laymen to see their alchemy.

Though, she must admit, she is curious. Samay had told her such things of Clarinese alchemy --

Sorry to keep you waiting.

She startles, hands clutching the edge of the strange bed they’ve sat her on, too high to be reached saved with a stool.

Oh! A young woman edges around the bed, eyes wide with worry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Shirayuki.

She nods, slow, hands clutching tighter with anger. Does this girl think she doesn’t know who she is? Did she think she came here blind, to not know of the prince’s red-haired concubine, the one secreted away among the alchemists so as to not arouse suspicion.

Perhaps there were warrens still, in this place. Perhaps one snaking tunnel led straight to --

She bites her cheek. She must be calm, must make this girl think she is no threat.

For now.

You are... The girl -- Shirayuki -- flips through her papers. There is no way to judge Clarinese beauty, but this girl does not seem...unappealing. Pale skin, though blemished; eyes a more vibrant shade than jade; hair as bright and red as chilies. It would be easy for a man to think such a concubine could bring him prestige, could bring him --

“Munkhtsetseg.”

Her knuckles blanch where they grip the bed. How is it that this girl dares -- that she thinks herself worthy --

You’ll need to take off your robe, the concubine continues, so simply, as if she were not -- not speaking blasphemy with each breath. And your veil as well.

She does not realize her hands have moved, not until she feels gauze bunched beneath her fingers, the silk against her other palm. She clutches the veil to her, protective, her voice tangled in her throat. She should call for the guards, she should fly from this room, from this insult --

By all the faces of the god, this girl’s tongue should be cut from her mouth.

Oh my! The girl’s eyes go wide, her hands held up in supplication. I’m sorry, I didn’t -- I don’t want to give offense.

That boat has already left its landing, but the only words she can manage are, You are an actual physician?

She doesn’t know how to read these Clarinese faces, but even so -- the concubine’s goes on a journey.

Yes, she says finally. I’m an actual -- I’m a pharmacist.

Samay had told her that the concubine was more than she seemed. That Shirayuki was as clever as they said she was, that she was skilled in spades, that she could turn hearts with little more than words --

She thought he meant it as a warning.

Shirayuki sets down her papers, sitting on the small stool close to the bed. They are of a height, but the white coat makes her look taller, look older. Makes her so tempted to trust the woman who should be her enemy --

I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, the concubine says, so softly, as if she’s a small child. She should be offended, but her hands shake, and -- and -- no one has spoken to her so kindly since she’s been here. So bluntly. Did you have exams in Wati?

She nods.

Shirayuki watches her, gaze searching. Can you explain them to me?

A physician would sit behind the screen, she tells her, nodding her head toward the one haphazardly placed in the corner. And then he would ask questions. A daughter of Visoth would give him my answers.

Her eyes pulse wide, shocked. But he never looked at your body? Or touched you?

She can barely speak past the insult, the -- the -- presumption.

Never! Her breath comes out in a wheeze. No one may look upon a body sacred to the god!

Shirayuki bites her lip, thoughtful. Here it’s -- very different. I have to -- to see your body. To check for ailments.

My health is unimpeachable, she snaps, heart wild in her chest. I breathe with the breath of the god!

The girl hesitates, but not with fear or awe -- no, she is thoughtful, weighing her words before she speaks.

Some illnesses are invisible. Her hand gestures to where her legs dangle off the bed. I heard that you’ve been walking slowly, with a limp. There’s a lot that can cause that, but I won’t know until I examine the muscles of your legs, or the structure of your bones. It could be something easy, or it could need, um -- more rigorous treatment. But I have to see to help you.

Her shins ache at their mention, throbbing when she even thinks of them being touched.

I will endure, she tells the concubine. It is what she always has done

The girl breathes in, breathes out. There’s no reason to live in pain. If I take a look now, you could be feeling better by the time you leave my office.

Her feet remind her of their blisters, of the way they are healing painfully, raggedly. Of how there are no palanquins in this barbaric place.

I cannot -- the promise of relief makes her faint. The veil --

You don’t have to take it off, the girl concedes. We can do that when you feel more comfortable. Just your clothes. You can keep your underthings on too, if that makes you feel better.

Something happens to her face in that moment, something that makes it strong, unyielding. It’s no one’s business, what’s under those. Not unless something bothers you. I’ve already...filled in that part. No one will bother you about it.

Her hands hesitate on the folds of her clothes, trying to parse the words. She wouldn’t -- there would be no need --

Ah. No matter what Ambassador Prak had promised, someone had thought to ask about the...wholeness of her person. Someone had requested it be part of this examination. And the concubine -- this Shirayuki --

She had already decided to lie for her. It made no sense, not for a rival.

I can remove my clothing, a voice, so unlike hers, says. Her fingers, stranger to her now, work at the ties holding together the cloth, pull it away from skin that has never seen the sun --

Oh, Miss, hums a voice, here you are.

Her hands seize tight around her clothes, clutching them to her body as a -- a --

A man crawls in through the window, all long-limbs and bronze skin. She may not be able to judge Clarinese by their features, but a Wati? She could tell all too well.

He is handsome. Even with the ragged scar that cuts beneath the bristle of his hairline

“Obi!” Shirayuki yelps, scrambling to stand in front of her, to give her some privacy, and oh, that interests her further, this man who sneaks into the concubine’s office, tempts her into taking another look --

Only to meet gold. Her heard freezes solid in her chest.

“Guards!” she screams. “Unclean!”

#answeek2018 #day 2 #akagami no shirayukihime #my fic #ans #Hierarchy of Beings #there was actually like 1K+ more #and then i realized it was like 2x longer than the other chapters #and i was like #WELL GETTING A HEAD START ON CHAPTER 4 I GUESS

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