#and I imagine that’s a disturbing prospect for him so he’d avoid it at all cost

[dannybobany]

Fnaf au where William figures out how to actually resurrect cc and then the aftons just have to live with that— not only is cc undead now but dad is freaking victor Frankenstein !! (like, literally, I imagine William discovered how to harvest remnant from recently deceased corpses rather then killing anyone himself, thus the mci doesn’t happen and Charlie doesn’t die either)

They just have to pretend this is normal and fine

#I imagine it’s especially awful for cc and Micheal I mean #think about how odd that is for cc #most of him are the original parts but many internal organs had to be replaced #the parts that become unusable quicker.. #he looks the same on the outside but he knows the difference. he knows something is very different #furthermore he wouldn’t age normally #if he ever wanted to look older he’d have to add new parts.. new bones and skin #and I imagine that’s a disturbing prospect for him so he’d avoid it at all cost #trapped in an unageing body for presumably eternity #and then theirs Micheal #while the whole family grieved Michael’s grief was in tandem with guilt #he killed his brother- it’s his fault this happened #but then he just.. came back.. as if it didn’t happen? how is Micheal supposed to be ok with that #how can you ever reverse the death of someone in your mind when you’ve already lived the grief? #I wonder how this would effect Williams relationship with his family #Clara I’m sure would be upset with him for not telling her #like he was digging up corpses and experimenting with forces beyond human comprehension #and he didn’t think for even a second “maybe I should tell my wife??” #she’s worried she’s not getting the full story- that’s it’s worse then he’s telling her #and I think Williams relationship with his kids would change too #Elizabeth could go either way but maybe she’d side with him #she in her naivety would believe that it’s a good thing #cc is alive! isn’t that what matters? didn’t you miss him? aren’t you happy he’s back? #I’m gonna cap this here #I’ve been going on too long

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

*These prompts are purely self-indulgent and can be canon/non-canon compliant as well as containing potential spoilers: continue at your own risk. Also, these prompts range from fix-its to full on AU - they’re not to be taken seriously. Feel free to submit your own via my ask box with the character name included. Lastly, everyone is welcome to use any of these but remember to credit @promptsforyourwhumpfic​,*

TW: Child abuse, Suicide, Alcohol abuse, 

He grew up living on the streets. In his adulthood, he has a tendency to hide food and has a hatred for the cold.

Upon returning to Whitechapel, he found his murdered wife and son, the latter of whom was shot in the head. He has frequent nightmares of this moment to the point that sometimes he doesn't want to sleep; he's so scared of seeing the same thing. The Legends notice this of course, and perhaps Sara offers to sit with him with the promise to wake him if he has a nightmare.

Somebody just give this man a hug. I good, proper hug.

Rip cannot forgive himself after what he had done whilst brainwashed by the Legion of Doom and tries to take his own life, believing himself to be too far from the prospect of redemption.

Rip is known to drink too much, too often... after a particularly difficult mission he drinks far more than he's used to and the Legends are left to pick up the pieces of their Captain.

Rip has a disturbing amount of scars for someone of his age.

The Legends realise they've never actually seen Rip eat of sleep when around them. When they question Gideon about this behaviour and are deeply disturbed by her answer.

Rip!Lives AU: When the time-drive overloaded, he didn’t die. Instead he was transported into a temporal realm that exists to hold various monsters, enemies. It’s nearly inescapable. The issue is, Mallus is there with him (and maybe some enemies he’d turned into the time masters years ago.) Immediately, Rip Hunter becomes the hunted as he races to avoid his enemy. When he’s finally alone, holed up in a cave bruised and exhausted, he breaks down. His mission should have killed him, he should have been with Miranda and Jonas... why was he still alive? Over time - weeks, months, maybe years - he fixes some tech enough to try and break the barrier between his world and the real one: he needs to get the message out that he is still alive and is attempting to kill Mallus once and for all. However, the tech taps into the magic realm which is inevitably picked up by one John Constantine. The Legends told him Rip was dead, so imagine his surprise when he begins having dreams/premonitions of Rip running for his life. In these flashes he looks terrible; malnourished and rugged. It takes a long taxing ritual for John to find out what Rip is running from and where he is. Instantly, the Legends begin to try and find him... but will they be too late to give the captain a second chance at life? (Bonus points if Rip and John were romantically involved in the past)

Rip is definitely the person to become a human shield if needs be.

Rip gets de-aged by a magical artefact. His body and mindset are returned to the age he is transformed to, and the Legends find out just how tragic his past was. How do they treat him when he is returned to the right age? After all Rip is a very private person, so how does he feel having his life on display for all to see?

After his family’s death, Rip stops looking after himself and it takes Gideon going behind his back to get him to a close friend in order to help him. 

“It’s okay, I’ve had worse.” Rip says standing up from the medical chair. “Rip you were dead for two minutes!”, Rip shrugs, “I once had to get back to the ship with a shattered leg, infected whip slashes and a severe concussion in order to stop a war in ancient Egypt.” Everyone is deeply concerned by the confession. 

Rip used to get bullied for his lisp.

As Arthur Darvill plays Mephistopheles in the Globe Theatre production of Doctor Faustus, imagine Rip Hunter having to save someone from being killed mid-performance by having to take the role of Mephistopheles to finish his mission. (“I must admit, Captain, I thought your portrayal of the demon was very convincing.” “Thank you, Gideon.”)

#this is a test run #what do we think? #fanfiction prompts #fanfiction ideas #writing #ideas #prompts #Rip Hunter #legends of tomorrow #rip hunter whump #angst #hurt #comfort #tw:suicide #tw:depression #tw:substanceabuse #tw: alcohol

[talas-starlight]

Scarred Spirit - Zuko x fem!reader (pt.4)

SUMMARY: *queue beebo* ladies and gents this is the moment you’ve waited for  

WORD COUNT: 2.8k

WARNINGS: swearing, australian spelling (not a warning just letting you know)

OTHER PARTS IN THE SERIES:  pt1   /   pt2   /   pt3   /   pt4   /  pt5   /   pt6

MASTERLIST: Here!

As the Cherry Blossom trees were in full bloom, Iroh was basking in the peace he hadn’t felt in weeks. Zuko on the other hand, sat next to the entryway sulking. Of course, Iroh, being the caring uncle he was, wished to relieve him of all the angst within him on this beautiful day and approached him with a solemn expression on his face. “I see, it’s the anniversary isn’t it.”

Beneath his straw hat, Zuko scowled agitated his uncle brought it up, as if it wasn’t the first thing he thought about when he woke up this morning. “Three years ago today, I was banished. I lost it all. I want it back. I want the avatar. I want my honour. My throne. I want my father, not to think I’m worthless.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t! Why would he banish you if he didn’t care?”

Wordlessly Zuko rose and walked away from his uncle, frustrated and terrified of what else his uncle might say. Finding a cherry blossom tree far, far, away from Iroh, he sat down beneath it angrily. He hated this day. He hated what it did to his life. He hated how the memories of you consumed his mind more prominently today than any other day of the year.

He never said it out loud, but he wanted you just as much as he wanted his honour. He wanted to see you alive. Breathing right in front of him. And he’d be damned if he admitted it to his uncle. Why, he wanted you? He wasn’t sure. You have always lingered in the back of his mind, not constantly, but every once in a while, it always seemed to come back to you. Or at least what was left of you in his mind.

This annoyed him endlessly. How could someone, who he barely spoke a word to, stay in his mind for so long? He didn’t even know what you looked like! He let out a groan of frustration. He wished he could remember what your voice sounded like. Then, at least he would have something to hold onto. He tried desperately to cling onto the memory of you. The way your baby hair stuck out of your top knot, your posture as you shielded him the best you could, the feeling of your robes on his fingertips. But it was no use. There was no point in it all. None of it would lead him to you. For all he knew, you were probably dead.

That prospect terrifies him so much that he refuses to utter a word about you into existence.

After countless days of following the giant fire nation ship from a considerable distance behind, you were grateful when they finally docked. You were beyond starved, stupidly underestimating how long Azula would be at sea. It seems you got a little too cocky in your abilities over the years. Shaking your head, you put yourself into a more focused mindset, now more than ever, you couldn’t afford to be sloppy. Tying your small boat to a dock which situated behind some rocky mountains and far away from any view from where their ship was, you began your search for robes to blend in.

Swiftly moving about in the shadows to avoid any interaction with people off Azula’s boat, you manage to ascend the stairs leading up to an Earth Kingdom village. Upon seeing the first clothesline with clothes that look like you could fit into, you grab the pink robes. Grabbing some extra cloth, you make a makeshift mask to shield your face and neck, and wind small pieces around your hands completely. Finally, and most importantly, you double checked to ensure that all of your weapons were strapped securely underneath.

Satisfied with your disguise, you decide to head near the dock to check if Azula’s made any advancements in her plan to get her brother and uncle back. However, you faltered, hearing a small argument break out a few huts away. Initially, you dismiss it, although just as you were about to journey back down the mountain, you felt something… like a crack of lighting waiting to go off.

Azula.

You follow the sounds of the argument and Azula’s inner fire. Hiding within a bush near an open window; you listen in on whatever was going on inside.

“What are you doing here?!”

“In my country, we exchange a pleasant hello before asking questions. Have you become uncivilised so soon, Zuzu?”

“Don’t call me that!”

Eyes widening at the realisation, wait… that’s Zuko?

“To what do we owe this honour?” You quickly assume that’s their uncle.

“Hmm, must be a family trait. Both of you so quick to get to the point.” Azula’s voice is harsh, almost as if she’s ready to strike.

Must she be so dramatic?

“I’ve come with a message from home. Fathers changed his mind, family is suddenly very important to him. He’s heard rumours of plans to overthrow him—treacherous plots. Family are the only ones you can really trust. Father regrets your banishment; he wants you home.”

At Zuko’s lack of response, you grew worried. No Zuko don’t-

“Did you hear me?! You should be happy. Excited. Grateful! I just gave you great news.”

You felt Zuko come closer to the window. He felt more muted… less angry.

“I’m sure your brother simply needs a moment…”

Azula snapped at Iroh. “Don’t interrupt uncle! I still haven’t heard my thank you. I’m not a messenger. I didn’t have to come all this way.”

“Father regrets? He… wants me back?”

Fuck! Don’t listen to her you coal brain!

“I can see you need time to take this in. I’ll come to call on you tomorrow. Good evening.”

As Azula left back to the ship, you cursed under your breath. Yes, you knew your job. And yes, you knew what would happen to Zuko and Iroh if they foolishly believed the princess. You needed a plan.

Maybe if I could just… steer him in another direction, help bring light to the situation. Maybe they’ll listen. Quietly retreating away from the hut, you walked into the town, looking for a way to talk to them without being obvious.

A few hours later, the best you could come up with was to deliver them some food for the evening, pretending you worked for the owner of all the huts. It wasn’t your best plan, but most people openly welcome free food, so it was good enough. But for the first time in your life, you felt nerves, unlike any other. Sure, you were nervous when you jumped to save Zuko, but this was different. Then, your nerves activated your fight responses, but today? These were the kind of nerves that made you want to run away because you’ve already gone over the multitude of possibilities that might occur. But of course, you dismissed the thoughts of running away, because once again, you were on a mission to save his life despite the threats Ozai made you.

Did he forget about me as I told him to, all those years ago? Hopefully, he did. After all, he is alive.

Just as you were about to enter, you heard his voice inside. “We’re going home! After three long years. It’s unbelievable!” Your eyes widened at the excitement in his tone. That wasn’t a good sign considering what you were about to do.

“It is unbelievable. I have never known my brother to regret anything.”

“Did you listen to Azula? Fathers realised how important family is to him. He cares about me!” Now you began to seriously contemplate on walking in there right now, and beating him until he came to his senses.

It seemed Iroh wasn’t having it either. “I care about you! And if Ozai wants you back well, I think it may not be for the reasons you imagine.”

“You don’t know how my father feels about me. You don’t know anything!”

“Zuko, I only meant that in our family things are not always what they seem.”

“I think you’re exactly what you seem. A lazy, mistrustful, shallow old man who’s always been jealous of his brother!”

Okay, I’ve heard enough coal brain.

You let out a deep, shaky breath. It seems no matter how hard you try to keep your cool, you’ll never be entirely ready for what you’re about to throw yourself into. Balancing the tray of food in your left arm, you round the corner to the front of the hut, emitting a firm knock onto the side of the entryway.

Zuko whips around at the sound. “Who are you? What do you want!”

As he looks at you with his harsh and angry glare, you feel like you’ve been smacked in the face multiple times. Ironically, you also knew it had been precisely three years since you jumped to save him, and now you finally get to witness the full extent of your failure. Heart tightening at the severe contrast to how he sounded all those years ago, you take in his pain. His anger.

Feeling the intense fire burning inside of him from his anger and rage, it almost takes you back. It seems that the years he spent away from his old home has damaged the afraid, innocent boy you once knew. As you wear your stolen robes and mask shielding your neck, a nasty feeling forms in your gut. You have always been able to cover your extensive scars with clothing, but him? His scar is almost too much of a visual representation for you to bear.

I should have moved to the left a bit more; then he wouldn’t have it. If I just aimed better when I jumped, he wouldn’t have to live like this. Maybe if I succeeded, he wouldn’t be so bitter.

Not letting how frustrated you feel towards yourself show, you bow to him and his uncle.

“My apologies, I did not mean to disturb you this evening. I am only here to deliver you some food, it’s on the house.”

This only fuels his anger, irritated that you weren’t anyone of great significance. “Fine. Just place it over there and leave us!”

Iroh sighs, walking towards you. “Zuko, that is no way to treat a young lady. My apologies for my nephew’s behaviour Miss, he has recently received some unexpected news today. Thank you for your services.”

You give a light smile, even though he can’t see it. “No, it’s alright. I understand how hard it may be to truly know what is the right choice when brought with unexpected circumstances.”

“I’m sorry who are you? Who do you think you are?! You know nothing, not even anything remotely similar to the situation I’m in. So don’t go around assuming you understand anything! You have no right coming in here and thinking you can help me in any way.”

His hostility begins to feel normal; you knew you should have expected him to be like this. “Of course my apologies sir, how could I be so senseless. I don’t mean to overstep. I only wish you relieve you of some of your stress. I meant no disrespect.”

At that moment, you almost slapped yourself. Idiot, why did I say that?

Zuko faltered, overwhelmed with the words you just slapped him with. And you said them on today of all days?

“What did you just say?”

Iroh who was intently watching you throughout the interaction snapped his attention towards his nephew, “Zuko, please, she only-“

“I’m sorry I meant no disrespect sir I-“

“Get out.”

Understanding that he wasn’t ready to take any guidance or advice from you, you silently bowed, turning to leave.

Just as you were about to walk out completely, you glanced back at him looking him in his golden, raged filled eyes, “pain doesn’t leave you forever Prince Zuko. It lingers. You should take the past and let it guide your future journey, not let it control you.”

As you stepped out into the unforgiving cold air, Zuko was frozen, gaping at the doorway where you once stood. How you knew of his true identity was beyond him, yet there was something hidden, masked beneath your final statement that didn’t sit right with him. The hair on his skin is standing at the entire interaction that just occurred. Of course, he had no idea who you were, so why did it feel like you knew more than you let on? Did you know anything about his past? Shaking it off, he continued to pack in silence. Even Iroh didn’t say a word.

Descending the mountain back towards your ship, words that you had memorised and locked away for years, suddenly resurfaced.

Maybe Azula was right after all.

Early the next morning, you rose with the sun. Soon after eating some breakfast made out of the fish you hunted last night, you decided to make your way near the massive ship. As per Ozai’s orders, you hid behind some greenery into a position that left you unseen to everyone.

Eventually, they showed up to the docks, and honestly, you were upset that Iroh was unable to get through to his nephew. But there was nothing you could do about it right now.

Due to the distance, you weren’t able to make out what they were saying, leaving you to have to read Azula’s lips, as she was the only one you could clearly see. Yet that didn’t seem to matter because soon enough, a fight broke out.

That’s not looking too good.

Knowing better than to expose yourself right away, you waited. Telling yourself that if they needed help, then and only then, would you help them.

After a few minutes, you watched lighting make impact with one of the rocky cliffs, sending rocks all around. With Zuko and Iroh running off the ship to escape, you knew it was time to run after them. Help them find a way to get away from Azula for good. Although, as you stood, you suddenly felt lightheaded and your vision got blurry, sending you straight to the ground.

What the heck?

Struggling to gain any body strength, you tried to get up again, but it was useless. The hair across your body stood up, but you weren’t cold, you were sweating. Looking down, you saw that your hands were alit in fire.

W-what?! What’s happening to me! Stop it y/n. Stop. Turn it off.

Panicking you tried to shake it away, but nothing was working, and your breath began to quicken.

What’s happening?! No. Stop. No!

Suddenly, you lost all sight of what was in front of you, and a blinding white light encompassed your mind. You closed your eyes, but it didn’t go away. When you reopened your eyes, you were faced with scenery you had never seen before. In the distance, high above you, there was an older man in what appeared to be old Fire Nation robes, and a young boy dressed as an Air Nomad on a dragon.

Is that the Avatar?

Due to the distance, you couldn’t make out what they were saying, and they seemed so engrossed in their conversation, they didn’t see you. This prompted you to do the only logical thing anyone could do; you screamed.

“HEYYY! DOWN HERE!! I COULD USE A LITTLE HELPPPPP!!!”

Instead of hearing you, your surroundings began to change. First, there was a lady dressed in Kyoshi attire. Then suddenly, you were in the middle of the ocean with a man from the Water Tribe about to send a massive wave towards you.

Holy shit.

Before you could react, your surroundings changed once again, and you were in the middle of a field with a female Airbender, soon switching to a Firebender erupting volcanoes around him.

Okay, what in Spirits name is happening to me.

You tried to scream again, but it was no use. It was like an awful dream, unable to move and watching events happen before you. No matter how much you screamed or flailed your arms around, neither person on the dragon seemed to be able to notice you. Letting out a final scream of desperation, you were ready to give up.

Where the hell am I? Is this a dream? Am I trapped here? WHAT EVEN IS HERE?!

Nothing made any sense anymore; you were almost ready to admit defeat. But then you saw it. It happened so fast, and you nearly missed it. Yet as your body became frigid in shock, you knew it happened.

The dragon looked at you.

Is… is that dragon fucking smirking?! Ohmyspirits it’s going to eat me. Who would have known, death by spirit dragon.

Enough with your blabbering y/n. I apologise, but it’s not time yet. You were taken aback, shocked that you received a response from the dragon.

How did you get in my head?! And time? Time for what! For you to eat me?!

Completely disregarding your concerns, the dragon’s eyes turned to stare back at you. Almost as if it were peering into your soul. The people upon him didn’t even notice the dragon’s current focus. Look at what they’ve done to you… if only they knew. We will meet again y/n, when it’s time.

The white light re-entered your mind, blinding you once again. Only this time, you were met with darkness.

A/N: Thank you for reading!! What did you think of the lil reunion??

GAHAHAHA we lowkey on some kdrama energy out here but anywaysss! please don’t be shy,, let me know what you think or send a message! i feel like this series is going downhill a lot faster than i expected :// idk anyway! even if its not related to my fics,, homie gets a lil lonely so id love to chat 😊

TAGLIST:

@slythergirlimagines​​ @mangoberry43​​ @eridanuswave​​ @whiskeywinter89​​​ @kaylove12​​ @simplyfandomish​​ @khaleesi-of-assassins​ @callums-keith​ @ilovespideyyy​ @calciumcow​ @blackhood5sos​ @nnon-it-up​ @lozzybowe​

#zuko #zuko x reader #zuko x y/n #zuko x you #prince zuko #prince zuko x reader #prince zuko x y/n #prince zuko x you #iroh #sokka #katara #toph #azula #atla zuko #atla #atla x reader #avatar #avatar: tla #avatar the last airbender #atla fanfic #zuko angst #zuko fluff #coal brain x reader #y/n #fanfic #fanfiction

[hypnomicimagines]

Hot Springs are for Lovers [Aimono Jyushi]

A/N: Reader is AFAB! also stan Jyushi he’s an angel

Jyushi had thought you inviting him on this trip with you was just a dream.

You’d texted him that day asking if he’d like to go on a hot springs vacation that you’d won at work, receiving it right after he’d woken up that morning, and he’d replied positively before immediately falling asleep. When he woke up again he went through the rest of the day without realizing he was about to be alone for several days with a person he was deeply in love with, reality crashing down upon him when you texted him again to let him know how excited you were to spend more time with him. He covered his mouth to stop his loud wail from disturbing his neighbors, not sure how in the hell he was supposed to emotionally handle being in such a close capacity with you for several days.

You were already dating but what if you thought he was boring? What if you changed your mind about wanting to be around him and you found another man to leave him for at the hot springs? The anxious thoughts plagued his mind as you drove up to the resort but you distracted him the best you could, hand patting his thigh affectionately and hands linked the entire ride up.

The trip quickly turned to a dream in a blur, with Jyushi feeling as though he blacked out until this very moment.

His eyes grew watery, the embarrassment at getting a boner while you had accidentally fallen on top of him with no chance of hiding it being almost too much for him to bear. You weren’t about to judge him for something that had riled you up too, hands cupping the side of his face and bringing his attention back to you. If you spoke you think you might snap the final thread and the waterworks would begin so you kept your comforting words to yourself, leaning down to press reassuring kisses to Jyushi’s face. The two of you had never done anything sexual before, you’d barely even breached the topic as he seemed to avoid it like the plague and you didn’t want to push him too far.

“…I’m still a man you know,” He finally muttered as you pulled away, looking at you with pure determination, a fire lit inside him, “Let me show you how good I can make you feel.”

You give up to Jyushi’s whims surprisingly easy, excited at the thought of him taking charge for your first time together; he had never struck you as the dominant type but you never thought he’d be completely submissive either since he always seemed eager to please you whenever he could. You laid on your back as Jyushi moved the robe you were wearing out of his way, placing gentle kisses along your collar bones while his eyes consistently darted up to your face, reassuring he was making all the right moves from the look you were wearing. He wanted to kiss, to worship, every piece of skin you bared to him, he wanted to take his time knowing that the two of you were finally alone without the threat of being interrupted.

Jyushi gives your breasts an experimental squish, not too hard as he can’t imagine that sensation is very pleasant, but just enough that he could truly enjoy how soft they were. He’s entirely focused on them now, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to the hardening buds, glancing up at you for permission before leaning down to take one in his mouth. His tongue gave an cautious swirl, his heart jumping as you moan softly at his actions. He wants to hear that noise again, louder, more often, and he puts his mouth to work, sucking harder on the nipple in his mouth while his finger pinches and rubs your other one. He pulled away with a sigh, feeling breathless at all of this happening so quickly but he couldn’t leave your other nipple unattended, mirroring his previous actions and soaking in all the pleasurable moans you’re letting out for him.

“You’re doing so good, Jyushi,” You moaned out, fingers running through his hair, “You gotta let me, mmm, let me do the same to you before we go farther.”

“Y-You want to…?”

“’Course I do, baby. You think I was just gonna let you do all the work to ‘prove you’re still a man’? We gotta make this enjoyable for both of us and I’ve been dying to see how sensitive you really are.”

Just like that the tables are turned as you pushed Jyushi on his back, the man letting out a surprised squeak as you undid his robe. He’s suddenly embarrassed at you seeing all of him, just like he had been when he’d first slipped in the hot springs; he tried to cover his body but you stopped him with a pout, forehead resting against his as you suggested he take a deep breath.

“You’re so pretty, Jyushi, can’t I look at you?”

“O-Of course.” He reluctantly removed his arms so you could further remove the robe, glancing down at his hard-on and licking your lips in excitement. “But you’re prettier… I want to look at you more.”

“You can look all you want.” You straddled his lap properly, rubbing yourself against his hard dick to elicit a cry of surprise from him. You leaned back and arched (pretending to stretch) so he could look at your boobs again, practically drooling as all he could think about was sucking on them. You were craving the feeling of his dick inside you and though you wanted to take some more time flustering your beloved, you knew you both wouldn’t last much longer. “Do you wanna be inside me baby?”

“I-I do…” Jyushi whimpered, his cock slick with your juices as you continued to grind against him, “I want to… I want to make love to you so please!”

“So polite~” You teased, eyes fluttering closed as you positioned his cock at your entrance, gently prodding at it and listening to the excited noises that Jyushi made at the prospective warmth that was about to envelop him.

He bites down hard on his bottom lip as dick fully slides inside you and you watch his reaction with great interest, the grip he has on your hips growing tighter as he tries to calm himself down. He would never forgive himself if he came before you’d even started moving, he might have to drown himself in the hot springs if that happened, but thankfully he’s got a few distractions in mind to stave off his inevitable climax. Jyushi leaned up to place one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking lightly as your hips began to move, your moans fueling him to stay focused. Your chest has hickeys of varying sizes splayed across it and you can’t wait to show them off to Kuko, who had regarded Jyushi like some type of innocent virgin.

“Y-You feel so good!” Jyushi whined out into your skin, unable to hold himself back anymore; emotion was beginning to pour over him, praise pouring out as he tried to release all the things he was feeling. “This is so much… I love you so much, please, please-!”

His hips are relentless and erratic as he continued to pound into you, feeling so painfully close to release and yet he didn’t want to come until he knew you were close. You looked up at him with a smile, legs wrapping tighter around his waist as you silently encouraged him to keep going, to last just a little longer. He nodded, leaning down to bury his face in your shoulder, peppering kisses along your skin as he tried to focus on anything else aside from how warm and tight you were, or how your happy moans went straight to his dick. He doesn’t notice he’s crying until he’s too far gone, your hands finding their way back into his hair as you whispered for him to let go.

Jyushi does so with a happy cry of your name, coming hard and gasping as he tries to keep his pace steady enough that you could come to. You reached down to rub at your clit but he noticed what you were doing, slapping your hand away so he could handle it himself. He had to be the reason you came, after all, he’d made a dramatic declaration from the start that he was gonna prove he was a man. His heart fluttered as you whimpered out his name and clenched around him, walls spasming and nearly becoming too much for his sensitive dick as your orgasm hit you. He kept rubbing your clit until you reached down to stop him, then reaching up to brush away the rest of the tears that were on his face.

“I hope I’m not the reason you cried…”

“It’s embarrassing but… It felt so good that I couldn’t help it,” Jyushi sniffled, nuzzling into your hands. “Was it good? Did I make you happy?”

“You always make me happy, sweet boy.” He couldn’t help but smile as you kissed his cheeks lovingly, slipping the robe back on. “We should go get ourselves cleaned up after all of that.”

“Everything should still be open for a few more hours… We should get something to eat while we’re out too!”

The trip was a rousing success in raising Jyushi’s confidence and there was far more fun to be had once you returned to the room later.

#Aimono Jyushi #Jyushi Aimono #Hypnosis Mic #Hypnosis Microphone #HYpnomic #HYpmic #hypnosis mic imagines #hypnosis microphone imagines #hypnomic imagines #hypmic imagines #hypnosis microphone x reader #hypnosis mic x reader #hypmic x reader #hypnomic x reader #scenario #smut

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Ten Sides (Part 20)

She finds that it is more or less a matter of sorting out her feelings. It is quieter in her mind now. Less chaotic. She has a lot to think about, a lot to process. But at least it is organized. At least it feels authentic.

This semi-clarity comes as a relief especially with the palace in view. She can’t imagine returning with anything less than a clear head. She sits cross legged on the deck and watches as it looms closer. Admittedly, even with a wholly unclouded mind, she is apprehensive about returning.

Fully aware or not, Zuko had left her to get re-shaped and reformed beyond recognition. Fully aware or not, he hadn’t bothered to check in on her. Perhaps if he had she wouldn’t have fallen so far.

Azula inhales deeply and looks at her palm. She hasn’t yet gotten around to firebending yet, hasn’t mustered up the willpower to do so. She braces herself to see lapping and licking orange, but doesn’t think that she will be ready at all if that is what she finds. She closes her eyes and closes her fist. With the opening of her hand, comes fire. She waits for just another moment or two before opening her eyes. She just about cries with relief when she sees a gentle dance of blue. It is her fire.

“You must feel a lot better now.” Aang remarks, taking a seat next to her.

She manages a nod. Truly she does; the sun on her skin feels that much warmer and the breeze keeping it’s head at bay feels kinder as it rushes around her. Her tummy flutters with a feeling of exhilaration that she hasn’t felt in a very long time. A feeling that is perhaps optimism. Hope.

She watches the flame dance on her palm for a very long while before finally letting it sputter out and putting her hand down.

“Feel more like yourself?”

Azula nods again. At the very least she feels strong again. At the very least, she is better able to start picking up the bits of her confidence and piecing them back together again.

“We should arrive at the palace a little after nightfall. That’s what the captain told me.”

“That will do just fine.”

She never actually turns to face him. At last he takes the hint and mumbles something akin to, “alright, great, glad you’re feeling better.”

.oOo.

She is in better spirts and yet he is still reluctant to approach the princess. She is still dwelling on the deck and he isn’t sure if it is because she simply enjoys the fresh air or because she is trying to avoid being below deck with him.

Based solely on the way she has herself laid out with the sun warming her back, he would guess that it is a pretty solid mix of both. She does seem rather relaxed for a change and he isn’t sure that he wants to ruin this for her. But at the same time he has to know…

He takes a deep breath and, once again, takes a seat next to her. He waits for her to crack an eyelid and acknowledge his presence before stating,  “you’re still mad at me, aren’t you?”

With a sigh, the princess sits up. “Not particularly.”

“You haven’t talked to me since we balanced your chakras.” Evidently, he feels used. And maybe he deserves it. “I guess I can’t blame you if you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Avatar.” She says softly. “I just can’t think about you right now.” She pauses. He isn’t exactly sure what emotion flickers across her face, but is something very close to desperation. Conflict, he realizes. Azula seems to wear the two emotions the same way. “I don’t want to...I don’t want to lose you. I don’t have many friends. But there are other things that I need to focus on.”

“Like your bending?”

“Correct.”

“And how you’re going to confront Zuko?”

Another affirmative nod.

“You do realize that you can do all of those things and be social, right?”

This time her nod is disagreeing. “Not with you.”

He leaves her to herself and she leaves him contemplating the implications of that. He thinks that at least a part of him knows exactly what she is trying to tell him. Another part crave denial and yearns for him to stop thinking about it. It could be that he has it all wrong anyhow. He isn’t sure if he’d prefer that he were wrong or if he is secretly thrilled at the prospect of being correct.

Somewhere, somehow, he has grown quite fond of Azula; she has an admirable amount of determination, a resilience that he doesn’t come by often. In her own stern and stand offish way she is good for conversation. And beneath all of that hurt and fear, he has felt nothing but love and a protectiveness. He knows that he would not have been able to coax those emotions from her were they not already there.

And yet, she so stubbornly refuses to truly let people in.

.oOo.

Zuko is waiting at the docks when the ship pulls into port. The stars have just risen, they reflect tantalizingly on the water’s surface. He hears the hasty clinging of hammers as dock workers make their final repairs for the night.

The sea splashes him with a light spray as the vessel in front of him drops its anchor. Late traders and buyers bid each other hurried goodbyes and scramble back to their dwellings. Every now and then he hears a coin ping against the wood and roll away.

He watches one gain momentum and come to settle at someone’s feet. Her hair is shorter now and she isn’t as well groomed and pampered as he remembers, but he recognizes her immediately.

He has an impulsive urge to rush over and embrace her the way an older brother ought to, but her temperament keeps him at bay. After days at sea and a significantly longer period cooped up in an institution, he isn’t sure what mood she is in. He imagines that it is somewhere between exhausted and furious. Certainly, he can’t imagine that Azula is in any manner of a pleasant mood.

He keeps his distance, only offering a small wave, until Aang comes to stand next to her. “Hi, Zuko!” He greets with a smile.

Zuko come closer and slings his arm over Aang’s shoulder, “good to see you again.”

“Yeah, I’ve missed talking with you and the others.” Aang agrees. “Has Appa been good?”

“You’ll have to ask Sokka and TyLee, they’ve been watching he and Momo.”

With Aang’s nod, Zuko turns to Azula. He grits his teeth and tries to come up with some sort of greeting. She offers him no help. He wonders how much energy she is investing into not frying him on the spot. But the more he looks, the less likely this seems to him. The more he looks, the more tired she seems. And for what it is worth, he can’t particularly sense any hostility.

At last she speaks, “aren’t you going to welcome me home?” Her tone is caught between a jest and a genuine inquiry. But she doesn’t seem particularly resentful.

Somehow this is more pertubing than the notion of having to fight her. His stomach grows queasy; have they successfully shaped her into someone else entirely. Is that why she is home?

He knew that they would be utilizing spirit energy as part of her recovery process, but would they really go so far as to have twisted her spirit into something it was never meant to be.

He forces a smile, “yeah. Welcome home, Azula. You’re probably looking forward to sleeping in your own bed again.”

“Among other things.” She confirms.

Some of his unease subsides; she, at the very least, still sounds and talks like Azula.

“Was Sangyul able to help you at all?”

Azula cuts Aang a glare, “just how vague was your letter?”

Aang shrugs, “I just told him that we were on our way back to the mainland and needed a boat.”

Azula sighs, “let’s head back, I’ll tell you along the way.”

The reach the palace before she finishes her recap. For a good while they linger on the steps as she covers the last stretch of her journey and boasts about how she has balanced her chakras so she can give him the ass kicking he deserves for leaving her in such a miserable facility.

And by the end of her story, Zuko still isn’t certain that he has all of the details. He has a sneaking suspicion that she has left a lot out; whether it is because she doesn’t want him to know or because she simply can’t bring herself to talk about it, he doesn’t know. But he is decently disturbed all the same.

He looks between Aang and Azula as it all settles in. “I...I didn't realize…”

“Why didn’t you come by to visit, Zuzu?” She asks, tone simmering in accusation. At last he feeling the resentment he had been expecting at the harbor.

“I thought that seeing me would upset you.”

Azula shakes her head. “It wouldn’t have. They would have had me nice and happy and sub…” she trails off, “relaxed, just for you.”

His stomach lurches.

.oOo.

Where Zuko’s stomach sinks, Aang feels bizarre pangs of relief. Azula is angry. She is all fire and icy fierceness. He hasn’t seen this from her in quite a while. Perhaps he should have just brought her right to Zuko; he seems to have a very special way of bringing out her lashing tongue and her merciless wit and sarcasm.

Aang puts a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” She snaps. She shakes his hand off before he can retract it on his own. “Sorry.” He grumbles. “I was just hoping that the two of you would give each other a chance.” Granted Zuko has given her a chance--he vocalizes as much--it is Azula who has thrown up her walls. Even so he doesn’t want to aggravate her more. “I think that it would make things easier if you two weren’t arguing.”

“He left me with him.” Azula snarls. “With you.”

Aang swallows, he thinks that Azula’s eyes betray at least a little regret.

“I’m due for a bath.” She grumbles, with an almost sheepish folding of her arms.

“Azula! Calm down.”

“Grab your spirit vines and make me.” She hisses. It is equally devastating and reassuring. Doubly so when she ignores his requests that she stays and finishes talking things out. He very nearly goes after her but Zuko holds him in place at the shoulder. “Let her have her bath, she might be less cranky after

Aang nods.

“And besides, I was hoping you could tell me things from your side. Without side commentary.”

Aang allows himself to chuckle.

.oOo.

Where Azula had left blank spaces, Aang fills him in. He goes quiet when she reappears, smelling freshly of jasmine shampoo. She spares him a glance before disappearing into her room. This time Aang lets her have her way quietly.

“She didn’t tell you, but she lost her fire for a while--I mean I did take it but even after I gave it back she was having trouble. Zuko, it was bad. Really bad.” He steals a glance at her bedroom door. “I’m still kind of worried about her.”

Zuko doesn’t particularly need him to elaborate. He has a hard time picturing his sister without her fire, even if it is only for a span of time.

“And then for a while, when it came back, it wasn’t even blue.”

And the implications of that are jarring. “Is there anything else I should know about.” Exactly what could break her to the point where her fire faded.

Aang grimaces and seems to contemplate whether or not he should share. “He--Sangyul made her cut her hair. She called him, ‘father’. And he...he did things to her. Humiliated her. He would make it seem like she had choices and then he would make these little remarks until she changed her mind.” He takes swallows hard. “And for a while after our escape she wasn’t making decisions on her own…”

“What the fuck, Aang!?” The Avatar flinches at his outburst. “How could you let that happen? I told you to work with her spirit energy to help her not...do that!”

“I know.” Aang replies quietly. “I don’t know how I let it happen. I guess...I guess that Sangyul is good at what he does. He convinced me that I was helping her and by the time I realized what was going on…” He makes a vague gesture. “She says that she isn’t angry with me but I think that she is.”

“I am.” Comes a declaration from behind a closed door. Zuko can vividly picture her laying on her side, arms folded, face fixed in a pout.

.oOo.

Quieter, Aang mutters, “I’m not sure if she’s angry that I just told you all of the details or because of everything that’s happened.  Happened.” He has a feeling that it is a blend of both, perhaps with a more heavy lean on him blabbing away.

He imagines that her resentment had been carefully put aside while he helped her through everything. And now that it has come up, it is coming out. And maybe that is a good thing, maybe he needs to let her work through it.

“Let her sleep it off.” Zuko confirms. “She hates long boat rides, she complained almost the whole time when we went on family trips to Ember Island.” He laughs to himself.

Aang nods. “I just don’t want to lose her as a friend. I know that you two don’t get along but she’s…”

“I know that she’s not a bad person. She sure as Roku’s beard isn’t friendly, but she’s not a bad person.”

Aang smiles. At least that’s some progress. “She’s actually kind of nice when she’s in a good mood.”

.oOo.

Azula stares up at the ceiling, head spinning with frustration and unease. Aang had told Zuzu much more than she wanted him to know and now she has an extra helping of shame and indignity to work around on top of all else. Likely he sees weakness where he used to see strength.

She inhales sharply. He’d already seen her thrashing about, tethered to a grate, he can’t possibly view her anymore pitifully than he does already. She inhales again and tries to focus on what she’d learned from her meditation.

There is depth in shame. Pride in shame. She rolls onto her side and rests her head on her hands. And maybe they see strength in her ability to overcome and carry on. Maybe they see dignity in the reclaiming of her autonomy.

At the very least, she can see the dignity and strength in it.

#Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula #Aang #Azulaang #Zuko #Fanfiction

[ibijau]

Worst engagement AU // on AO3

Lan Wangji gives friendship another try, and Lan Xichen has a pretty shitty day

warning for infidelity :D part of this chapter had been posted wayyyyy back (in fact, it was the very first thing I posted for this AU!) but it’s been touched up a lot

It is rare, this year, to find Nie Huaisang alone. So when Lan Wangji, one afternoon, sees the other boy walking alone in a garden with a stack of papers under his arm, he takes his chance and greets him. 

"Lan gongzi! I was thinking you'd taken a dislike to me," Nie Huaisang replies with a half smile. "May I help you with something?" 

A certain guilt makes its way in Lan Wangji's chest. He hasn't meant to avoid Nie Huaisang. If anything, he has wanted to check on the other boy for those past three months, at once still worried about his break down at the end of the previous year and quite stunned by the changes since his return. And he knows, of course, that Nie Huaisang would not have been opposed to a conversation, since the other boy often smiles at him when their eyes meet. 

Lan Wangji would have been happy to pursue the budding friendship they started last year, but Nie Huaisang’s entourage made it difficult. It is good that Nie Huaisang is not so alone this year, but did he really need to be friends with Wei Wuxian, who is the most irritating, and annoying, and clever, and gorgeous, and disrespectful person Lan Wangji has ever met?

"I was wondering if Nie gongzi would like to have tea."

"Really? I'd love that!" Nie Huaisang exclaims with a large smile that quickly dims a little. "Ah, sorry, that was probably too loud. I've gotten bad habits with the others, but don't worry Lan gongzi, I can still be quiet as well. When would you like to do that?" 

At the moment, Wei Wuxian is being punished for fighting with Jin Zixuan, while Jiang Wanyin is dutifully waiting for his father's arrival. Lan Wangji cannot be certain he'll get such a chance again. If he allows for this moment to pass, maybe when Nie Huaisang comes to have tea with him, Wei Wuxian will try to tag along. It would be absolutely awful. Lan Wangji doesn't want to have Wei Wuxian in his house, ever.

"If Nie gongzi is free now, I am as well." 

The older boy considers that for a moment.

"I had plans for later, but nothing too important. It’s fine if I miss out on that or if I’m late, especially if it’s to have some time with Lan gongzi. Let me just go drop those in my cabin," Nie Huaisang requests, patting his pile of papers. 

"Homework?" 

Nie Huaisang grimaces at the very idea. 

"No, I have been painting a bit. I'll just drop them and…" 

"I would like to see them," Lan Wangji cuts him. "Bring them." 

"Really ? Well, if Lan gongzi insists…" 

Lan Wangji nods, and Nie Huaisang easily gives in. With this matter settled, the two of them head toward the house Lan Wangji shares with his brother and uncle. When they reach the door, Nie Huaisang hesitates, his easy smile faltering a bit. 

"Is your brother likely to be there?" 

"Brother is helping Uncle deal with sect business, since Uncle is expecting visitors. Neither of them are likely to come." 

Nie Huaisang instantly relaxes at the news, which isn't a surprise. Lan Xichen has been complaining a great deal about the time he is forced to spend with Nie Huaisang, and how unpleasant it always is. Lan Wangji imagines the feeling is shared. It seems odd to him, because both his brother and Nie Huaisang are fine people with personalities mild enough that they’re easy to get along with. Still, if they’ve decided they can’t bear each other’s presence, it’s their problem, and he’s not getting involved in that.

That's why rather than to stay in the main room, as would probably be more proper, Lan Wangji prepares tea and then takes the other boy to his bedroom. That way, if Lan Xichen comes home, Nie Huaisang is less likely to have to deal with him. It also means that Nie Huaisang gets to see the painting he gifted Lan Wangji hanging on the wall. 

He looks absolutely stunned to see it there. 

"So you really displayed it?" he mumbles. "I thought your brother was poking fun at me because it's such a bad painting. I should have known better, it’s not like he has a sense of humour. Still, to put something so bad on the wall like this..."

"I like it," Lan Wangji protests. "Brother too likes it." 

Nie Huaisang snorts and crosses his arms on his chest, tilting his head to glare at his painting.

"I doubt that. He hates everything about me."

"Brother likes how you paint," Lan Wangji objects, inviting Nie Huaisang to sit at his desk, the only table available.

Nie Huaisang sits down. He accepts the cup of tea offered to him and glances at it, but quickly puts it down on the table, lips pinched. 

"Nie gongzi doesn't like this tea?" 

"I don't like any Lan tea, I think. You people always make it too light, it's just warm water.” Nie Huaisang presses a hand against his mouth. “Ah, sorry, that's rude! I'm so sorry, I'll make an effort to be more like before." 

"Like before?" 

Nie Huaisang nods and drinks some tea with a forced smile. 

"You like me quiet, right?" he asks. "I haven't had to be quiet in a while. I miss it a bit, actually. I like having friends, but it's so much effort sometimes, and it gets hard to keep up with people like Jiang-xiong and Wei-xiong. Thanks for the chance to… Ah, I probably speak too much as well?" 

"You speak less than Wei Wuxian, so it is fine,” Lan Wangji replies, unwilling to admit that he minds chatter a little less these days. After that month of overlooking Wei Wuxian’s punishment, he’s had to get used to it.

"Well, that's not hard,” Nie Huisang chuckles. “He even talks in his sleep sometimes." 

Against his better judgement, Lan Wangji finds that detail endearing. He adds it to the list of little things he keeps learning about Wei Wuxian, although he would rather die than confess such a list exists. 

"It is fine that Nie gongzi speaks more now," Lan Wangji states. "Nie gongzi said last year he was one to follow demands and not make them, I'm glad this is changing." 

"Oh, right, I never thanked you for that!” Nie Huaisang gasps, before breaking into a large smile. “But after what you said, I spoke with my brother when I went home, and he agreed to let me try different things. Lan gongzi, I'm very grateful for the kindness you showed me that day, and for your good advice. I don't know what I would have done without you."

Lan Wangji nods in acknowledgement.

In all honesty, and remembering the state Nie Huaisang was in after being told he failed his exams, Lan Wangji has some idea what the older boy might have done if not given some comfort and encouragement. Most of what he said was spoken out of fear that his brother might turn into a widower before even getting the chance to marry, and Lan Wangji was half certain that it was mostly nonsense but… if it helped Nie Huaisang, he’s glad.

“Since Nie gongzi no longer has to hide, will he show me his work?” Lan Wangji asks, glancing at the small pile of papers the other boy dropped on the floor.

“Only if you show me yours. Lan gongzi paints as well, right?”

Lan Wangji nods. He does, but only because it is what a young man of good birth must do. He doesn’t find in this the pleasure his brother and Nie Huaisang seem to take in it. Still, it is not unpleasant to have someone other than his brother appear excited about the prospect of seeing his work.

-

The day has been unpleasant so far for Lan Xichen, and he does not particularly expect it to improve. His uncle is in a terrible mood and making it felt around, all because of this business with Wei Wuxian, which is… 

If Lan Xichen could allow himself to be honest, he’d say the entire matter is ridiculous. Wei Wuxian isn’t an easy student, but he’s far from being the worst they’ve had either. As for this argument with Jin Zixuan, the fault is divided between the two of them, so it’s unfair that one gets punished more harshly. Certainly Wei Wuxian has misbehaved here and there, but he’s clever, and if Lan Qiren had just found the right way to get through to him, things would have gone better. 

Except his uncle isn't one to question his methods, and so Wei Wuxian must carry the blame alone. Much like last year when Nie Huaisang had to shoulder his failure alone, when surely, after how much effort the other Nie boys confirmed he put into studying, such bad results should have made any teacher question themselves. 

It is an unpleasant day, and Lan Xichen feels so rebellious that he asked to be excused when sect leader Jiang and sect leader Jin arrived, for fear he might say something he shouldn't. 

Leaving the adults to their gossips and complaining also means he is free to go inform his brother that Wei Wuxian will be leaving. This, too, Lan Xichen blames on his rebellious mood. He knows his uncle doesn't want Lan Wangji to have anything to do with Wei Wuxian, now that it is clear his upstanding nephew cannot influence the other boy and might instead be lead astray. Too bad for Lan Qiren. If there's finally someone who insistently wants to be Lan Wangji's friend, Lan Xichen wants to encourage that. 

And so as soon as his uncle allows him to leave his side, Lan Xichen heads straight for home. At this hour, his brother is likely to be there, either meditating or practicing the guqin.

When he enters the house, the faint aroma of tea in the air confirms that Lan Wangji must be there. The main room is empty, so he must be in his bedroom, most likely meditating. Lan Xichen is sorry to disturb him, but hopefully Lan Wangji will be grateful to be given a chance to rush and say a few last words to Wei Wuxian. 

As Lan Xichen walks toward his brother's room though, he is struck to hear voices coming from that direction. His brother is not one for guests and there is hardly anyone Lan Wangji is close enough to bring into not simply his house, but his bedroom. 

This mystery is quickly lifted when Lan Xichen reaches the door to his brother's room and finds him sitting at his desk, Nie Huaisang at his side. The two younger boys have spread a large quantity of papers on the table before them, paintings by the looks of it, and are so busy chatting about them that they haven't noticed Lan Xichen. 

It is so odd to see Nie Huaisang this relaxed. When Lan Xichen sees him in the distance with his friends, he is always jumping around, laughing and smiling and nearly as loud as Wei Wuxian. And of course during their weekly meetings, Nie Huaisang is sullen and closed off. Lan Xichen might be tempted to think that this is closer to how Nie Huaisang was last year, but even that would be inexact. Nie Huaisang never used to smile this much, and he always carried himself as if he were scared to take too much space. Nothing like this Nie Huaisang who is calm but clearly happy, and doesn't hesitate to reach across the table to take a painting. 

"Oh this one is so good!" 

Lan Wangji glances at the painting in question.

"Hm. It is brother's. He gave it to me to copy."

Nie Huaisang blushes slightly at the blunder. Lan Xichen expects him to drop the painting or make some disparaging comment, but instead the other boy inspects it carefully.

"Well, it figures,” Nie Huaisang sighs wistfully. “Your brother is a painter beyond compare… I could never even hope to paint with such controlled lines. Everything is just perfect, exactly as it should be… it must be amazing to be this good. I hope to be half as skilled someday." 

Lan Xichen’s heart races at the unexpected compliment. Considering how Nie Huaisang speaks to him when he is present, he would have expected him to say much worse things about him in his absence. Even if he didn’t want to offend Lan Wangji by insulting his brother, it would have been easy to say something more neutral, or nothing at all.

“Huaisang could ask brother to teach him,” Lan Wangji suggests.

“No,” Nie Huaisang huffs with a bitter chuckle. “Your brother has made it very clear to me that he thinks I should give up on painting to focus on studying. He’d never do anything to encourage me on that path. And even without that, he hates me too much to ever want to spend more time with me.”

It stings that Nie Huaisang would believe that, when Lan Xichen has repeatedly asked to see his paintings, only to be denied each time. It stings also that Lan Wangji just nods along and drops the matter, grabbing instead a different painting to inspect it.

"This one is nice." 

"You think?” Nie Huaisang pouts. “It could be better. I really like that view, but I can never do it justice." 

"It is nice," Lan Wangji insists. "I like it." 

"Really? You can have it if you want. Or… or if you'd like, I could paint something especially for you. As a thank you for your help." 

"There is no need." 

"There is much need,” Nie Huaisang grumbles. “You don't realise how much it changed for me. Ah! I know what to give you!” he exclaims, his smile turning devious. “I painted a portrait of Wei Wuxian a little while ago, do you want it?" 

At this most cruel attack, Lan Wangji looks away. In doing so, his eyes fall on the door of his room, only to find Lan Xichen standing there. Lan Wangji appears a little uncomfortable at this intrusion, but nods at him to acknowledge his presence. This, of course, attracts Nie Huaisang’s attention. 

The change is immediate. A moment ago, Nie Huaisang was relaxed and smiling easily, but as soon as he spots Lan Xichen he tenses and hurriedly grabs the paintings laid on the desk so he can hide them.

"I guess it’s getting late," he says stiffly. "I have other appointments today. I will go now." 

"You don't need to," Lan Xichen sighs. "I was just here to tell my brother that..." 

"Don't worry, I'm already gone," Nie Huaisang insists, dashing past Lan Xichen with a mess of papers held against his chest. "I know where the door is." 

Before either brother can stop him, Nie Huaisang is already gone. Lan Xichen isn't exactly surprised that things turned out like this, but he feels somewhat guilty for interrupting this conversation when the other two seemed to be having fun. Indeed, Lan Wangji looks mildly annoyed at him. 

"I just came here to give you some news regarding Wei Wuxian," Lan Xichen sighs. "I thought you'd want to know as soon as possible that uncle has decided to expel him." 

"Jin Zixuan provoked him," Lan Wangji protests. 

"I know, and I also think it's a little unfair, but uncle won't bulge. You know how he gets when he's sure he's right. At least you might have a chance to say goodbye, they're all discussing sect business now, and Wei Wuxian is in the courtyard for his penance." 

It says a lot about Lan Wangji's distress that for once, he doesn't even try to deny his interest in Wei Wuxian. Instead he hurriedly tidies his desk so he can head outside. Eager to help, Lan Xichen gathers the remnants of their tea (Nie Huaisang’s cup is still full, he can't help but notice) and brings them back to the main room so the servants can wash everything. He is then quickly joined by Lan Wangji who holds a few sheets of paper and appears uncertain what to do with them.

“Nie gongzi forgot those,” he explains.

Lan Xichen glances at the papers. They can’t be what Nie Huaisang offered to give to his brother, they’re only studies (excellent studies; it seems Nie Huaisang’s skill has grown even greater since the rabbits) which means he must have simply missed them in his haste to go away. Judging by his expression, it’s clear Lan Wangji feels he should return those without delay, but also that he’d much rather go check on Wei Wuxian.

“Give them to me,” Lan Xichen asks. “I have nothing to do right now, I can drop by the Nie cabin.”

Lan Wangji all but shoves the studies into his hands and hurriedly leaves the house. When he’s gone, Lan Xichen allows himself to chuckle. His brother’s crush is really adorable. It’s a shame that Wei Wuxian is leaving so soon, these two might have gotten somewhere with a little more time. And if it had turned into something serious, Yunmeng Jiang isn’t a bad ally to have. Marrying Lan Wangji to a servant’s son isn’t ideal, but everyone knows how much Jiang Fengmian favours his ward, so they could have gotten a real alliance out of it. Perhaps if Lan Wangji gets a little bold and offers a correspondence to Wei Wuxian, if they get to meet again… Lan Xichen wouldn’t mind having a brother-in-law like that to shake up things in the Cloud Recesses.

That’s a consideration for later, though. First, Lan Xichen has his own fiancé to think of. He takes his time heading for the Nie cabin, feeling no hurry to face Nie Huaisang’s bad mood for the second time in a single day. A shame because these studies are so good that Lan Xichen can’t stop glancing at them as he walks, half certain that he can recognise the exact view of them mountains they depict, and he would love to talk about that. Still, he’s half hoping that his fiancé won’t have returned to the cabin directly, and that he can drop the studies to one of the other Nie disciples. 

On a day like this, of course he shouldn’t have hoped to be lucky. As he gets close to the cabin, Lan Xichen sees Nie Huaisang in front of the door, having a conversation with a Lan disciple whose face is not visible from where he stands. Nie Huaisang does not seem particularly enthusiastic about the company, but still ends up following the other boy behind the cabin.

Lan Xichen goes after them. He tells himself that it is only because he needs to return the paintings, but there might be a hint of curiosity as well. The two boys are so taken by whatever they're planning that they don't even notice he's getting close behind them.

“I’m just saying you could have warned me,” he hears the Lan disciple complain when he’s almost caught up to them. “I waited a long time, I thought maybe something had happened.”

“Listen, if I wanted to be scolded, I’d go hang out with Lan Xichen,” Nie Huaisang retorts. “I got busy, that’s all. I’m barely in the mood at all, so count yourself lucky I’m not sending you away.”

The Lan disciple, whose face Lan Xichen still can’t see, shrugs. He then steps closer to Nie Huaisang who throws his arms around his neck as they lean closer to each other and…

Lan Xichen feels punched. His hand clenches on the paintings he’s holding, tight enough to probably rip the paper, but right now he can’t care about that because… because…

“What are you two doing?” he hisses.

It all goes very fast. Nie Huaisang pushes away the Lan disciple with enough force that the boy cries out and falls to the ground. The boy glances up and, realising who found them in this compromising situation, he scampers off hastily, trying to hide his face. Lan Xichen should stop him, because what just happened broke so many rules, enough that this boy could probably be sent away from Gusu Lan, but he’s too stunned to react.

Nie Huaisang remains where he is, looking rather annoyed as he crosses his arms and glares at his fiancé.

“Do you really have to ruin everything for me?” Nie Huaisang asks. “How annoying.”

“I don’t think you’re the one who should be upset,” Lan Xichen replies, rather more weakly than he would have liked. “I’m the one who caught my fiancé kissing someone else, aren’t I?”

Nie Huaisang smirks and shrugs in that cocky way he does now.

“And what are you going to do about it? Have the engagement cancelled?” he taunts.

“Is that why you did this?” Lan Xichen asks.

He knows that Nie Huaisang hates their engagement, far more than Lan Xichen himself does at this point. But he had assumed that Nie Huaisang understood how important the alliance between their sect is, how much Gusu Lan and Qinghe Nie need to count on each other. Every day that passes gives more proof that Qishan Wen is preparing for war, this alliance is so important, regardless of personal feelings, surely Nie Huaisang is clever enough to understand...

“I know we can’t avoid getting married,” Nie Huaisang retorts with another insolent shrug. “But we’re not married yet, and I know you don’t want me, so… can’t you at least let me have fun with someone who does?”

“Do you like him?”

Just saying the words hurts because suddenly, Lan Xichen realises that he might end up living the same life as his father, with a spouse who only reluctantly tolerates his company and would rather be anywhere else. He remembers how wistful his mother looked sometimes, especially toward the end. He doesn’t want to see that expression on Nie Huaisang. He certainly doesn’t want either the lonely life his father condemned himself to.

Nie Huaisang laughs to his face.

“You Lans, it’s always about love and all,” he mocks. “I don’t care about that. I just want to have a little fun with someone before I’m forced to be faithful to you. Kissing people’s nice, you know?”

Lan Xichen flinches. Nie Huaisang smirks, walking closer, leaning toward him, his head cocked to the side.

“Ah, but actually… I guess you wouldn’t know, right? Bet you’ve never kissed anyone, eh?” He steps closer still, slowly, like a wolf stalking its prey. “Lan gongzi… want me to be your first kiss? I’ll make it good, I swear.”

It’s a shameless proposition, one that Lan Xichen should immediately refuse. Instead, his eyes fall on Nie Huaisang’s lips and he aches to feel them against his, to hold the other boy close, to touch him, to...

Nie Huaisang laughs again.

“Right, of course not. Well, I can’t make you want me, can I?” he snickers. “Whatever. I’ll go now. But please, next time… don’t interrupt, okay? It’s rude to bother people when they’re having fun.”

He saunters away as if he doesn’t have a worry in the world. Lan Xichen watches him go, once more filled with hatred for this fiancé he didn’t choose.

It has to be hatred.

He refuses to give another name to the gnawing coldness inside his chest.

#xisang #worst engagement au #jau writes #ooof that was a hard one to write for some reason it just didn't want to happen! #but welp now lxc knows #and jzx is about to become free real estate

[shireness-says]

Wherever You’re Going (I’m Going Your Way) [1/6]

Summary: 1952. A lost boy without a home, Killian Jones rides America's back roads on his motorcycle, searching for a purpose that's just out of reach. This pit stop was only supposed to be a few days, a couple of weeks at most, but a pretty blonde waitress just might be his salvation. Is he brave enough to let her? Rated T for language. Also on AO3.

~~~~~

A/N: I’m pleased to present my contribution to the CS Rewrite-a-thon! Big thanks to the organizers at the @captainswanbigbang​ for organizing this. This is an expansion of a oneshot I wrote a couple of years back called A Sunlit Night, and I loved the chance to get back into the feel of that piece. The fic title is from “Moon River”, which didn’t exist in 1952, but some things are about the aesthetic and it fit too well to resist.

Special thanks to my beta, @thejollyroger-writer​, and to @snidgetsafan​ and @profdanglaisstuff​ for the extra eyes and helping me work through some hurdles along the way. 

Tagging the usuals. Let me know if you want to be added to or removed from the list! 

@kmomof4​, @aerica13​, @thisonesatellite​, @searchingwardrobes​, @let-it-raines​, @teamhook​, @ohmightydevviepuu​, @optomisticgirl​, @winterbaby89​, @spartanguard​, @scientificapricot​

Enjoy - and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

Storybrooke, Maine could be any town in America — just as picturesque as the name suggests in a way that doesn’t seem quite real. The houses have picket fences and boats bob in the harbor and there's an honest-to-god Main Street, lined with a diner and a general store and a pharmacy with advertisements for Ovaltine in the window. It's every picture of America that's ever made its way across the pond, every stereotype of small town life made real. It makes his presence all the more jarring; loners on motorcycles don’t belong in this picture-perfect magazine print town. 

He never meant to stop here — in fact, it’s the kind of little hamlet Killian doubts anyone ever means to find themselves in. Though he may not have planned on stopping — not here, not anywhere, not for anything — he also hadn’t planned on the noise his bike’s engine had started making as he cruised down backroads under the emerald canopy that is rural Maine in June. Killian is used to making minor repairs to the machine — it’s inevitable with the miles he’s putting on the motorcycle, and besides, there’s things you pick up in a war, especially when he spend much of World War II criss-crossing Europe in his plane — but for all of his handy skills, he still can’t make parts materialize out of thin air.

And so, he finds himself in Storybrooke — the nearest town, according to the road map he’d picked up at a welcome center on his way into the state. He’ll find a garage, he’ll work for parts, he’ll be on his way. It should be simple; a few days, a week at most, and then he’s gone again.

(The sooner, the better, in his opinion; a woman wiping down tables outside of the diner shoots him a dirty look, and Killian can’t help but feel like he deserves it for disrupting this idyll they’re living in.)

Blessedly, there is a garage attached to the town’s service station — NOLAN'S REPAIR, a large painted sign advertises across the top of the panelled door — but there's no sign of life inside. A quick glance at his watch, one of the few relics of the war that Killian willingly carries with him, reveals that it's already past seven. That's fine; he doesn’t mind waiting until the morning. 

It's easy enough to find space to park his motorcycle, conveniently alongside a park bench Killian suspects that he'll be spending the night on. As uncomfortable as it might sound to others, he barely thinks twice about the prospect anymore; he's spent plenty of nights on worse, both during the war and after it. His bedroll does more to counter the hard ground than anyone would expect. 

(Sleep is hard to come by these days anyways, and when it does, it only brings nightmares — visions of falling and flames, reminders that there’s no real good reason why he was pulled out of the Atlantic when so many others weren’t.)

(It should have been Liam who was saved, not you, a terrible voice in his mind whispers. It’s easier to drown out during the daytime; at night he’s too tired to deny the truth of it.)

Satisfied that he's got a plan until tomorrow, Killian unbuckles the satchel containing his few important belongings from the body of his bike and sets out to locate the diner. He remembers the sign promising the establishment was open 24 hours a day, and he intends to take advantage of at least a few of them.

Sure enough, the lights of the diner still shine brightly as Killian approaches. Granny's, the neon letters out front read. By all appearances, it's typical of family-type joints across the nation (or at least the parts of the nation he's seen so far). A bell jingles merrily as he pulls open the door; inside, the diner is adorned with a busily patterned wallpaper that somehow avoids looking suffocatingly dark like he would have expected when paired with the red vinyl upholstery of the booths, chairs, and barstools. The jukebox plays faintly at the edge of his hearing, just low enough for him to ignore the sound. Not that he could place the song anyways. Even if there is something of a feeling that the establishment could have been located anywhere and he wouldn't have known the difference, there's a comfortable aura in the air as well. 

"Seat yourself," an older woman calls from behind the counter without looking his way, apparently apprised of his entrance by the aforementioned bell. Considering the diner’s moniker, Killian can’t help but wonder if this is the eponymous Granny. It’s probably for the best that she hasn’t turned to face him; he can’t imagine the woman would be as welcoming had she seen his face. He’s a bad influence, they say wherever he goes in voices too loud to be a whisper, too loud to ignore. On a Tuesday night, the crowds here are minimal, a small blessing; after surveying his options, Killian chooses a booth in the back corner where he can watch everyone but hopefully not be disturbed. Already, his unfamiliar face is drawing attention from the few other diners. They’re not used to outsiders, he can tell, and he’s not surprised about it in a town this small. Already, he can feel an unnatural hush in the air as suspicious and in some cases curious faces follow him as he makes his way across the room.

Maybe, in another life, Killian might have stared back, daring his spectators with a look to do something about their staring. That life slipped away when he crossed the ocean in search of anonymity, however, and he makes a show of ignoring the stares, rustling in his satchel instead. From the cluttered depths, he extracts two books; one for his own reading, picked up from the last used bookshop he ran across, and one blank for his own use. Once upon a time, the sights he’s seen and the faces he’s met would have inspired verses, the words tripping over his fingers and across the page in a quest for life, but it’s been a long while since that’s been the case. There are many reasons Killian forges ahead on his endless, aimless ride — some of them tangible, some of them unknown even to him — but his pursuit of his words is part of it. The closest he comes these days is behind the controls of his bike, once more racing through the open sky; it’s only then that the guilt quiets somewhat and he feels like inspiration could be dancing along the breeze, like a bit of dandelion fluff. 

This diner, however, is not the open air or the world rushing past him without a care, and his notebook will once again go to waste.

"Can I get you something?" a different voice asks — feminine, but a little deep and throaty. Killian glances up, expecting to order tea and a ham sandwich and turn back to his own distractions. He expects a passing, forgettable interaction.

He does not expect to look up and find himself faced with an angel.

It's far too fanciful to call her that, especially when she stands in front of him, flesh and blood and bone, but it's all he can come up with when faced with such perfection. Her hair is a shade of gold that painters and pirates must have coveted in times long past, shining and catching in the light with every movement. Though her tresses are pinned back, a few tendrils have still worked themselves loose to frame her face and model the slight curl to the lustrous strands. The way it's swept and pinned makes her eyes shine brighter than any he's ever seen, highlighting their green in a way she can't possibly be oblivious to. There's an aura about her that he can sense but not quite see that practically makes her glow, even in a blue uniform dress and stained apron that's less than flattering. She's somehow entirely separate from the drab surroundings of this small town diner, yet simultaneously he knows she must be an integral part — like the purest diamond embedded in the dingiest mine.

(Maybe there's a verse in there, somewhere. It's been too long for him to even tell anymore.)

He must be gaping like a fish, because she arches an elegant eyebrow at whatever expression graces his face, the barest hint of a smile pulling at her own mouth. It ruins the goddess effect a little bit, but makes her look more human instead — someone with a sense of humor, perhaps even a bit mischievous. "Sorry?" he finally manages to stutter out, though whether that's an apology or a request for clarification is anyone's guess. 

"Would you like to order?" she repeats. "Or would you like some more time to look at the menu?"

"Just some tea, please." It's some kind of miracle that he doesn't trip over his own tongue, though not enough of one to remember that ordering tea in this country is a fool’s errand. "And a ham and cheese sandwich."

"Earl Grey alright?" she asks, surprising him, quickly scratching his order down on her notepad. From Killian's vantage point, he can just see her handwriting — a messy kind of script that fits his impression of her, casual and hurried and somehow still elegant. 

"That's fine." Better than, really; he’d expected that terrible facsimile Americans insist on calling tea. He keeps drinking it anyways, for some indiscernible reason, like a last-ditch grab to hang onto a piece of who he used to be.

The waitress must see some of his surprise on his face, as she smiles knowingly. “Granny spent some time in England in her youth, and came back with very specific opinions about tea. None of the Lipton stuff here.” That would explain it — though it’s still unexpected in a tiny Maine hamlet. “Now, do you want that sandwich grilled or cold?"

"Grilled, please." The mere act of ordering a meal constitutes the most decisions he's had to make in a long time, and certainly the most he's spoken to anyone; his voice feels scratchy with disuse, which can't make the good impression his ego desperately needs. He was considered quite the catch once, if anyone could believe it; Killian wouldn't blame those who called him a liar, to see him now. 

As he grimaces at his own ineptitude, the waitress finishes scribbling out his preferences and tucks her order pad back away in the pocket of that awful apron again. "We'll get that going for you then," she smiles. "Let me know if you need anything else."

(A name would be nice, for one, but it feels like overstepping to demand that particular snippet of information. He'd caught an E at the corner of her breast pocket, but that could be so many things. Eleanor? Elizabeth? Etta?)

"Wait, lass," he cuts in as she turns to disappear back behind the counter. Her head tilts in a sign of her attention — an adorable one at that. If he were a braver man, he might ask her a bit about herself. Unfortunately, he is not a braver man. "Is there a telephone somewhere I could use?"

"All the way down the hall," she nods. "Can't miss it."

"Thank you, lass," he murmurs as Ella-Ernestine-Elsie walks away again. There's no telling if she heard him or not, but Killian is almost afraid to bring any more attention to himself. 

Sure enough, the payphone is just down the hallway. It's far enough away to offer Killian a modicum of privacy, which is more than he's come to expect in many places. It's dimly lit, and right next to the bathrooms, but he's not here for the ambiance anyways. 

There’s a calming ritual to making the phone calls to New York, even if they’re only sporadic. He’s accustomed by now to speaking with the operator, inserting the change when directed, waiting for the shrill ring as the call connects across hundreds of miles. He doesn't make these calls very often, but it's been several weeks — somewhere in upstate New York was his last call, he thinks — and this unexpected pit stop is as good an excuse as any.

It doesn't take long for the other end to pick up. "Scarlet residence," declares the softly accented voice on the other end of the line, familiar and comforting even across such a distance. 

"Hello, Belle, it's me." Killian leans into the corner formed by the wall and phone as he settles in for the conversation, propping his forearm on the top of the telephone's boxy structure. Belle just might be the last family he has left — certainly the last family he’s aware of — some sort of distant cousin on his late mother’s side. The details of it don’t particularly matter; what does matter is that she’d opened her heart and home when Killian had left, nay, fled England without any plan to speak of. London had still been in shambles, even after hostilities had long since ceased; Killian had found it impossible to live every day surrounded by ghosts and memories, all decaying and obliterated. Belle had offered to let him stay, too, help him get back on his feet again, but the itch to keep moving had been too strong under his skin.

(One thing they don’t tell you when you enlist in the Air Force is this: the solid ground will lose its appeal in a way you can’t imagine, and the world will start to move too slow everywhere else when you’ve spent enough time in a cockpit.)

Besides, Belle has a family of her own, a husband who loves her and two small boys; as kind as she is to offer, and as hard as she has tried to include him, Killian would inevitably always be an outsider in that tableau. It was for the best that he left, to try and settle his demons and rediscover who he can be on his own. 

"Killian!" It's easy to hear the warmth and excitement in his cousin's voice. "How are you? I was just thinking about you today." Just worrying about you is what she means, but Belle's always been too much of a lady to say it out loud. Besides, she understands why he's doing what he's doing; as settled as she is, he hadn't expected her to understand the itch to move that's settled beneath his skin, impossible to ever truly alleviate, but she'd just smiled and asked what she could do when he'd told her his plans. It's how she wound up the custodian not only of Killian's scant belongings, but also his savings account in his absence. 

"I'm fine," he assures her as best he can. "I'm in Maine. I'll be here a few days, I think."

"A few days?" The worry isn't back in her voice yet, but he knows it's coming, just as soon as he shares his reason for stopping. 

"Aye. There’s a nail in my tire. I’ll get it checked out at the shop tomorrow, but I assume they’ll need to order in the new tire. I doubt they’ve got the right ones for the bike on hand."

"But you're alright?" Ah, there's the worry. "You don't need anything? I can wire you money, if you like —"

"I'm fine, Belle, truly," he hastens to assure her. "I'm hoping to trade my labor for parts, help out around the shop if the owner will let me. I'll need something to do around here anyways, it's a pretty small town. I'll let you know if you need to wire me money, don't worry."

"If you're sure..." Belle tries to start, but Killian cuts her off. 

"I'm sure."

"I suppose I'll have to be fine with that. But now, Killian, how are you? Not your motorcycle or the roads — how are you?"

"I'm okay," he says truthfully. It's the best he can give most days; he hasn't quite found what he's looking for, can't even put his finger on what that might be, but he knows it's still out there, still out of reach. Still, it feels better than being cooped up in some office job, forcing himself into the boxes polite society wants him to inhabit that are slowly smothering him. It lets him try to figure out who he is now without Liam and without a clear purpose.

"But are you happy?" It's not the same thing, she doesn't say, but Killian hears it anyways. 

"Enough." It's the best he can give her. "Listen, I just wanted to call and let you know where I am. If it seems like I'll be here more than a few days, I'll give you a number you can reach me at. Tell Will and the boys hello for me."

"I will," Belle promises. "If you need anything at all, if there’s anything I can do, promise you'll call me, Killian. Promise."

"I promise. Love you."

"We love you too, Killian. You can always come here, even if it's not home."

She says that every time, and every time, Killian hangs up to avoid responding. The truth is, he still doesn't have a good answer, and as much as he loves his cousin and her family, their apartment just isn't home. That's something he's not yet sure he'll find again. 

He's barely returned to his seat before a steaming pot of tea is placed before him, the cup following in its wake. "Your sandwich will be ready shortly," the blonde angel assures him. "Let me know if you need anything else."

"Thank you, lass," he tries to smile. At least his voice is audible this time after his conversation with Belle. 

As Killian lifts the pot to pour himself a cup, he’s thrilled to see the genuine article trickle out. Even with the waitress’ explanation, his expectations of the promised tea had been low. This, though, is steaming and hot and just the right strength. It tastes like a little cup of the home he’d left behind, and infuses him with a warmth and comfort that he hasn’t felt in… years. Not since before the war, just he and Liam sitting at the kitchen table with a cuppa and the radio. 

(It’s a feeling he’s long since lost, and one he didn’t expect to find again in the middle of nowhere, Maine. Everyday miracles can still sprout anywhere, he’s learning, as long as you’re looking for them.)

His dinner arrives as quickly as promised, and time begins to blur together in between warm bites and crisp pages and his thoughts. At some point, the empty plate is whisked away and another cup of tea is brought for him to enjoy. Killian is so used to entertaining himself that he doesn't truly notice any movement around him — that is, until a new plate is placed on his table and nudged into his hand. Glancing at the clock, Killian is surprised to find that the time is now just before ten; he'd been at the diner over two hours, far longer than he’d intended. Blame it on a good book and intriguing, if passing, company, he supposes.

Another quick glance reveals the small plate that the waitress had deposited to display a slice of pie — blueberry, if he's not mistaken. The thing is, he’s certain that he’d never ordered it.

"Excuse me, miss," he calls before she can walk away, "I believe you delivered this to the wrong table."

"No, I didn't," she smiles back, before glancing towards the door. It must be time for her to go home; Killian will regret her absence once she departs, though he knows he doesn't have any true right to do so.

Still, he must insist. Good form and all that. "I didn't order this, I'm afraid." I'm not sure I can afford it, he doesn't say, though that's what he means.

"I know," she replies. "You like pie?"

"I do," he assures her, still confused.

"Then it's on the house. Granny's got a soft spot for the lonely ones." As she tears his ticket off from her order pad, Killian wonders if the woman in front of him might have a soft spot, too. Maybe she was a lonely one herself, once; something in her eyes speaks to the kind of understanding you just can't fake. "If you'd like some more tea, Ruby will be happy to help you," she nods towards a smiling brunette behind the counter. "Have a good night."

"You as well, lass." 

The pie is delicious; he should have expected such just from the look of that flaky crust, but the confirmation is its own revelation. He can't say any of this was what he expected when he set out for dinner — not the blonde angel, and certainly not her unexpected kindness towards him. The more he thinks about it around bites of pie, the more he thinks the diner's proprietress had nothing to do with the sweet treat in front of him — especially since he hasn't even seen her on the premises since his server made that claim. No, he thinks that the pie must have come from the waitress herself, though he can't fathom for what reason.

He finally pays his bill and leaves, letting the diner's bell ring behind him as he exits, but it's not until he's nearly halfway back to the garage and the bench out front that he realizes:

He never actually learned her name.

#csrt #cs ff #captain swan #my writing #Wherever You're Going (I'm Going Your Way) #A Sunlit Night #1950s au

[thedreammweaver]

With Drooping Wings Ye Cupids Come (Burton-Schumacherverse Riddlebird, Victorian AU, angst, Doctor!Ed, Patient!Oswald)

(A/N: Fuck historical/medical accuracy, this is a vehicle for angst and mutual yearning only)

Warnings: emetophobia tw, respiratory issues, sick pengu, talk of plague, talk of death, survivor’s guilt

“Mr. Cobblepot, please.” The exasperation was apparent in Ed’s voice. That morning Oswald had suffered an intense spell of vomiting up the greenish black bile that seemed to never stop spawning from the recesses of his being. Fortunately after some trial and error Ed had managed to mix up a solution that at least calmed Oswald’s insides enough so that he wouldn’t spend the rest of the day vomiting. The only issue was Oswald absolutely despised the taste.

 “I feel fine now..”

“Last time you said that you were ill for hours. I doubt the taste is so terrible you’d prefer that again.”

“It’s disgusting!”

“Sir, I find the prospect that you love the taste of raw fish yet cringe at citrus, peppermint, and ginger amusing.”

Oswald folded his arms stubbornly “That isn’t all that’s in there..”

Edward rolled his eyes “Ah, yes, there’s also valerian and juice from an apple. Flowers and fruit, how very terrifying. Now are you going to open your mouth or continue acting like a stubborn infant.”

Oswald glared at his live-in physician and finally relented. Ed felt a great deal of satisfaction at winning this battle as he maneuvered the spoonful of solution into the other man’s mouth. Oswald, as expected, recoiled at the taste “It isn’t that bad, sir.” Ed teased as he began clearing his medical things from Oswald’s night table so they could start their day, which usually started with Ed helping his employer dress. Before Ed had moved in this job was left to one of Oswald’s maids but after one occasion where Ed had done it to save time Oswald found he was much more comfortable with the man. It wasn’t that Oswald didn’t enjoy the sight of a woman between his legs lacing up his boots, but rather that he enjoyed the sight of Ed and the feel of his hands quite a bit more. It was more due to Oswald’s impatience at the difficulty his fused fingers caused than the deformed appendages themselves that rendered him unable to dress without his growing frustration interfering with his progress. After he’d procured enough wealth to always have someone there to do up all the buttons and intricate bits for him he definitely took advantage of it. Ed didn’t mind doing it, though he did have to control his blushing as he did up the buttons of Oswald’s trousers, hands brushing against his corpulent form. He struggled to focus as he moved to fastening the buttons of Oswald’s coat. Oswald himself was getting distracted at how the light coming in from the window practically lit up Ed’s ginger locks. He blushed as he caught himself imagining running his hands through them.

Oswald had been reluctant to go on a walk with Ed around the grounds after the heavy breakfast he’d had. As a doctor Ed knew he should probably be making a million changes to Oswald’s diet but as someone who had become completely bewitched by the man he had a conflicting want to see him happy. He supplemented putting a stop to Oswald’s tendency to indulge with making sure the man got exercise. “You know, I think I’d much rather have the plague than whatever this is.” Oswald joked hoarsely, as he stuffed handkerchief he’d just had a coughing fit into back into his pocket. He’d only really started going for walks when Ed showed up and being unused to it was putting strain on his delicate respiratory system. “You shouldn’t joke about that, sir.” Ed scolded as they continued walking, arms linked together, though they’d both insist it was only to keep Oswald steady if his enervated lungs acted up or in general with how unbalanced his walking could be.

“Why? Are you afraid I’ll summon it?” Oswald laughed. “Oh, of course. you had quite the run in with it I imagine, being a doctor and all.”

The plague had made it’s way into Gotham quite late, for a time there was a running joke among citizens that the city was so vile the plague was avoiding it. If only that had been the case. “You don’t want to hear that stor-“

“Who are you to tell me what I do and do not want to hear, Edward?”

“Of course, sir, forgive me.” Ed adjusted his spectacles as he began his tale. “I had just joined the practice when it hit. I couldn’t have been more than nineteen, practically still a child. That was such a hellish time...so much death, especially in a hospital.”

“How did you manage to avoid falling ill yourself?” Oswald inquired curiously, despite being so close with the man, he knew nearly nothing about his life before they’d met.

Ed found a chuckle escaping him despite himself “Oh, I didn’t. Manage to avoid it, I mean.”

That definitely captured Oswald’s attention fully, whether he meant to or not he’d wrapped his arm tighter around Edward’s “My god, however did you survive?”

Ed shrugged “I’m quite certain I have no idea.. The doctor that was meant to be telling me what to do dropped dead  himself, most of the nurses too. Soon it was just me, two other inexperienced doctors, and the one nurse who could still stand so I just..kept working.”

“What was it like...having it?”

“You want a review, do you?” Ed quipped.

Oswald rolled his eyes “Don’t be smart, I’m only curious.”

“..It was hell. For a time even after I recovered I was quite afraid I’d actually died and somehow was unaware.” Ed said grimly before clearing his throat “I still get those worries every now and then, sometimes I even feel as though I should’ve perished with my patients.. Luckily tending to you keeps me sane.” Ed said fondly. Oswald sighed “That’s one good thing to come out of me being ill at least.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Ed smiled “Tending to patients kept me sane then too. I was moved to the children’s ward after one patient complained that my ‘incessant rambling’ would kill her quicker than the plague could. Anyways, I recall everytime I felt the temptation to find some hole or corner to die in I’d force myself to look at those children and know that if I stopped breathing they most certainly would as well. That made me carry on, they were the only ones who appreciated my riddles anyways I supposed I owed them for that.” He chuckled, a sad note to the noise “There were about twenty or thirty children in that ward, perhaps even forty. I-I’m not certain, it was hard to keep count, it was as many as we could fit I do know that. Only two ever walked out...you’d think that’d be devastating but it was still worth it, even just for those two....” He trailed off, absently fiddling with the buttons on Oswald’s sleeve.

“Hmm..” Oswald hummed thoughtfully “I never figured you for the type to be good with little ones.”

“Neither did I!” Ed laughed “I found them to be great fun actual-“

He was interrupted by Oswald going into another coughing fit, making both of them stop as he once again pressed the handkerchief to his mouth. This time when he withdrew it the all too familiar greenish black was splattered across the white surface of the cloth “Oh dear,” Ed muttered as he looked it over “I’d say it’d be best if you had another dose when we get back, sir.” Oswald whined but before he could protest Ed spoke again “I didn’t survive the plague only to argue with you about taking your medicine.” He joked. Oswald relented “Fine. You’re a real bastard, you know that?”

“Yes, I do, sir.” Ed said cheekily as he and the shorter man began walking back to Cobblepot manor.

   Though Oswald was still dreading his medication, he was much more relaxed this time. When they’d reached the house Oswald felt quite like having a warm milk bath to nurse the pain in his overworked ankles. There were rose petals in the bath as well, Oswald’s fanciful tastes permeating every aspect of his life. Ed came over to the tub, spoonful of medicine in hand once again. Oswald didn’t put up a fuss this time though he still cringed at the taste. Before Ed could finish putting away his medical things Oswald interrupted “Edward?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I have such a terrible ache in my shoulders, I don’t suppose you’d be any good at massaging?”

Ed could feel the blush spreading across his face “I-I could give it a go, I suppose.”

Ed walked back over and knelt at the head of the tub and gingerly placed his hands on Oswald’s shoulders. “Get on with it then.” The shorter man instructed. Ed began slowly massaging Oswald’s shoulders, trying not to think about how soft the man’s bare skin felt, he could feel Oswald almost immediately relax under him. Desperate to distract himself from his own yearning Ed turned to a riddle “I am alive without breath and cold as death. I am never thirsty but always drinking. What am I?”

Oswald scoffed before answering “A fish.”

“Right as always, sir.” Ed didn’t mean to let the disappointment seep into his voice but it must have. “If you don’t want me to solve them you’ll have to stop catering them to me.” Oswald huffed. Ed blushed, he hadn’t realized he’d been choosing ones with answers of things Oswald was fond of. “It’s almost always spirits, birds, or something else you know I love. You really must bring me a stimulating one next time.” Oswald sighed. Ed nodded “I will certainly try.”

     “Edward?” Oswald called out when he heard the floorboards in the hallway creaking. Ed stepped into the doorway and for a moment all Oswald could focus on was how beautiful he looked in the moonlight. “Yes, sir?”

“Why are you stalking about my house in the dead of night like a specter?”

“It’s cold, I was only going to sleep in the sitting room if that’s alright. I’m sorry if I disturbed you, sir.” Ed’s drafty attic room was currently to frigid to sleep in due to the early spring weather. “Oh...alright, carry on then.” Oswald said. Ed was about to do just that when something occurred to Oswald and he found words tumbling from his mouth despite himself “Actually, Edward?” the taller man turned around and tilted his head, waiting for Oswald to continue speaking. Oswald hoped Ed couldn’t see him blushing “It..it’s quite warm over here.” He patted the bed sincerely hoping his boldness wouldn’t put Ed off. Ed looked down at the floor “Would-wouldn’t that be improper?”

Oswald fumbled for an excuse “There’s nothing improper about self preservation. My health depends on you preforming your job well and your performance depends on you getting an adequate amount of rest.” Ed, satisfied with the excuse, walked over to crawl into bed next to Oswald while trying very hard to not appear as giddy as he felt. A few moments passed before Oswald spoke again “You- erm...I figure you would warm up quicker if you were closer to me.” Ed tried to slow his breathing as he shuffled closer to Oswald, pressing his thin lanky frame to his employer’s weighty soft one. “It’s the damndest thing,” Ed whispered “My lips are still quite freezing-“ he was interrupted by a frustrated groan from Oswald.

“To hell with these circumlocutions, you wish for me to kiss you, yes?”

“Uh-..y-yes, sir, I do.” With that confirmation Oswald closed the small distance between them, pressing his lips to Ed’s and finally letting himself bring one of his flippers up to stroke those ginger locks he’d admired for so long. Ed found himself wrapping his arms around Oswald’s ample waist. He was afraid he’d offended the other man as he broke their kiss but his fears were almost immediately put to rest. “If we’re going to be so intimate you really must stop calling me ‘sir’ all the time.” Oswald said, pulling Ed even closer. “Of course, s- I-I mean Oswald.” Ed fumbled. Oswald chuckled at the other man’s stuttering before meeting lips with him once more.

#oswald cobblepot #edward nygma #riddlebird #riddlebird au #the penguin #the riddler

[it-stheaulifeforme]

You were sitting in the library, just trying to focus on your reading when it happened. You weren’t one to be exactly noticed by others and frankly you preferred to keep it that way. The library was a form of solace that you never hoped to have disturbed, but it was quite the horror to have it be one person in particular.

Edgar wasn’t exactly one to exude the most pleasant of presences, I mean, his look felt enough of a giveaway by itself. He was a royal and most definitely taller than you, keeping out of his way all the time lest he catch onto how intimidated you were by how he looked and who he was. Revealing your vulnerabilities was too much, and certainly not something to let him know whatsoever. His reputation was well enough known for you not to add to it.

Although frankly, you had the almost undeniable feeling that you were being watched, hairs pricking up on the back of your neck as if someone was there. But you shrugged it off, getting on with things and not wanting to add to your paranoia. After all, didn’t it help not really being noticed by people? Why would you of all people stand out to a royal, of all people, let alone anyone else?

You were focused on a book on the table, trying not to fall asleep when you heard the wooden library doors open in front of you. You looked up wearily from the pages, doing a double take with wide eyes as you caught sight of him in those red and black robes and a self-satisifed grin you swore was his default expression 90% of the time.

“Ah,” he said, his regal voice deliberating over even the simplest of words as he considered you, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about...something important.”

He approached you slowly, strolling over by the side of the long table covered with books, face not budging from a considerably disturbing expression of malice he didn’t even try to hide. Your body responded by shooting upwards from your chair that screeched backwards on the stone floor, your heart thudding against your chest to the point it made you feel sick.

There seemed to be an audible clanging of metal on metal further up ahead and your head snapped towards the doors, mouth open. I mean, did you just imagine that? Sure, magic was real, but you refused to consider anything about it in this moment in time.

Words were failing you, but to the contrary, your body (specifically your legs) were not. You were running on panic, and despite him being there did not stop you. To be fair, you weren’t even thinking, just fuelled by your desire to remove yourself from his presence as soon as possible.

You slammed right into the wooden doors, a lump catching in your throat as they refused to yield. You blinked, a tight feeling sitting in your chest. Metal clanged together in response, giving a look of confusion as the door didn’t budge. You tried again and even a third time, but anything you did, did nothing. You heard a low, amused laugh from behind you and you froze, swallowing, staring wide eyed at the doors that didn’t move in front of you. Oh god, you didn’t want to believe this. You didn’t want to believe that somehow this man had managed to lock the only way out of this place.

“As I was saying,” he said, sighing, his voice chillingly replaced by his more conversational tone that was still nonetheless intimidating, “I said I had something important to talk to you about.”

You cursed internally, feeling that prickle on the back of your neck as you heard him make a few steps forward behind you. This is why you avoided him, why you kept to yourself. You convinced yourself you wouldn’t be of note to be approached by a royal of all people for anything, and now you were locked in with him against your will. You were angry, you were scared, and you dreaded the fact that he was knowing exactly how intimidated you could be by him when you were around him.

You felt a sudden compulsion to turn around, too quick for you to be confused about your lack of intention to do so. He was standing a few feet from you now, your body frozen in fear and pressed against the wooden doors as you couldn’t help but look up at his piercing blue eyes, a malicious gleam that seemed to strike you at the very heart of yourself.

“What could possibly be so important to talk to me of all people by locking me in a room with you??” you stuttered, fire in your veins, fists balled by your sides and yet fear was something you couldn’t keep out of your voice especially when you couldn’t resist looking into those eyes. It was very clear he was noticing this reaction in you, his grin taking on a more condescending look, eyes raised in amusement at your attempt to be angry.

“I assure you, it’s very important,” he replied, lingering on his words as he took a couple more steps towards you, his eyes burning into yours, “that’s how I had to make sure that we wouldn’t be...disturbed.”

That last word sent an icy chill through your veins and it was enough that he was towering over you, a step or two away from blocking your escape entirely. The tightness in your chest increased and you felt suffocated, still unable to look away from his eyes as you felt an undeniable sickness grow in your stomach.

It was easy to say words were failing you and so was your body as you couldn’t understand your inability to stop looking in his eyes. Normally you’d be looking away and avoiding eye contact, but this new compulsion was...puzzling to say the least. Especially since he’d been able to shut the door of his own accord; but even with the use of magic that you knew was possible, you refused to deal with the possibility that Edgar of all people used it for controlling people, of all things.

His grin faded a bit, but a more conversational tone took over in his voice. “The very important thing I want you to do is,” he finally said, and your eyes caught the glimpse of a sharp blade he had produced in front of you, you yourself feeling like a deer caught in the headlights at this no uncertain possibility presented to you, “is simple. Just kill my nephew, Charmont...with this.” His grin grew wider and so many of his teeth were showing, almost as if he was a shark. “Just right through the heart. It’s all I ask.”

The prospect of murder ran through your head and you felt sick, frozen for what felt like eternity. Your heart was thudding way too hard against your chest and you refused to comprehend, refused to listen to what he asked in the most disturbingly civil tone possible. Your body seemed to yield against your will, about to reach up and take the damned weapon of choice, but you dug your fingers painfully into the door before somehow resisting enough to pull away and take several steps away, breathing heavily.

You could tell you were shaking but you proceeded to talk regardless. He had done enough trapping you in here, but it was horrifying enough that he was asking for you to outright murder. You should’ve expected this, but frankly you never pictured the prospect of him ever approaching you to do this. You were in the background, always trying not to catch anyone’s attention. Why you of all people?

“I’m not murdering someone for you! I won’t have someone else’s blood on my hands!”

You sounded surprisingly coherent and indignant despite your nerves, having turned from him to avoid that undeniably magnetic gaze. Though you could feel his calm demeanour behind you, clearly not roused by your cries of resistance. You felt tears prick your eyes and it became even more evident just how scared you were not only of him, but the fact that he could see you like this.

He took a step or so towards you from behind, and you instantaneously froze. Emotions were bubbling underneath but you couldn’t get yourself to do anything else as you heard his cruel laugh run down your spine before he spoke again.

“Well, I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but...it appears you don’t have a choice in this.”

You could feel your body begin to move without you willing it, turning around and raising a hand to take that Edgar was still holding, forcing yourself to pull back and turn away because you couldn’t understand how your body was doing this, as if it didn’t belong to you anymore. You did try and hold yourself back, trying to grab your arm and pull it back as he looked on, amused, as if this was simply some sick puppet show that he was watching. Your own mind seemed to not feel like your own, head swimming at the prospect of simply trying to resist.

You could feel your body fail as you took the dagger from his hands as he looked very much pleased with himself and you gazed at the weapon in your hand. You didn’t understand...he couldn’t...possibly do this? The possibility that he was able to get your body to betray itself like this was feeling like its own dagger through your heart, and you felt a sudden burning sensation of anger across your face and through your veins as you manage to use the semblance of control you had to throw the thing as far as you could across the library with a clang at the other end.

It was then seeing his face drop momentarily to one of displeasure and even surprise before malice dripped from his signature, sinister grin that replaced it. “If that’s how it’s going to be,” he exclaimed, as if disciplining a rowdy child, “then so be it!”

The once angry emotion that you temporarily embodied had faded, taken over by wide eyed fear and panic and sudden unbearable agony that ran from your head and down your spine. One second you could breathe and now it felt like your chest was on fire and everything was burning---

You didn’t comprehend that your body had hit the floor in front of him, the impact of such mental and physical agony making you collapse almost completely and you felt the disgusting feeling as tears uncontrollably sprung from your eyes. Was he expecting you to beg at his feet? The entitlement could not be more obvious as you tried to hold yourself up, making every inch the effort to resist his gaze and ever so much, his obedience.

You felt his shoe press against the underside of your chin, clearly not content with simply demanding your attention. You couldn’t help but turn your head to look up at him, your focus on resistance draining as his piercing blue eyes now felt icy with his more than contemptuous gaze down at your figure on the floor.

“Oh, really, what did you expect?” he condescendingly remarked, pressing his shoe now against your throat and you sharply inhaled as if it wasn’t already hard enough to breathe, “Maybe you should’ve known what I do to people who don’t give me what I want.”

He removed his shoe from your throat and you forced yourself to look at the floor with whatever resistance you had left, but it was evident from your head that was throbbing and the rest of your body that was aching to hell and back that you seemed to be fighting a losing battle. You could feel and taste a metallic liquid drip from your nose and you became all too aware that this man could very much kill you like this if he didn’t need you alive.

“Please...” you could hear yourself say, hear yourself sob, and the fact that you had been reduced to pleading at this man’s feet hurt more than what you were being put through, “...don’t do this.”

He laughed, darkly amused at your attempts to beg in your condition. There wasn’t much else you could do, wasn’t much else you could say to him. “It’s a bit late for that now,” he said, feeling his blue eyes burn into the back of your head, “It’s not like anyone’s going to believe you over me, especially someone that always likes to avoid the attention of everyone else.”

There was the sick feeling in the pit of your stomach that had every right to confirm your paranoia. It seemed you had nonetheless caught his eye and your attempts to avoid attention still put you very much in his regard. Someone people didn’t really know much about. Of course it didn’t come to your mind that keeping to yourself would attract certain attention, and frankly you were kicking yourself that it had led you to this.

“Now, if you don’t mind, why don’t you go over and pick up that dagger of mine that you so carelessly threw and do exactly as I say?” he demanded, at first in a civil tone before it became laced with spite. He spat enough poison as much as what you felt was running in your veins and your head felt dull, vision swimming with both pain and tears, feeling yourself stumble to your feet and over to the dagger, shaking.

You were aware that this wasn’t you doing this, something in the back of your mind feeling like it was telling you to stop but it was drowned out by the mental invasion; you picked the dagger up and it seemed to have a different gleam to it. This wasn’t you, was it?

You heard Edgar’s footsteps behind you until he was standing next to you; you looked up, his blue eyes appearing more soft and his grin appearing more genial, albeit with a hint of menace. He reached a hand out to gently cup the side of your face in what felt like an almost loving gesture, gingerly wiping away the blood under your nose with his thumb. You didn’t even flinch.

“That’s it,” he said affectionately, nevertheless with sinister undertones, pretending nothing had just happened, “that’s better now, isn’t it?”

#whumptober2020 #no. 15 #possession #no. 26 #migraine #ella enchanted #fic #mind rape tw #abuse tw #blood tw #violence tw #manipulation tw #sir edgar #reader insert #writing #dagger tw #au i give edgar magic to manipulate others with #this man is dangerous enough without it #god i've finally finished this #i've had this in my drafts for two weeks i swear

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 51: Getting to Know You

Chapters: 51/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: none Relationships: Loki x Reader (Getting There) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Here Have Some More Weird Foreshadowing, Mynos Is Friend Shaped, Oh Shit Who Could Have Ever Guessed This Might Happen

Summary:  You and Loki share some quality time, and make a new friend. 

You huddled next to Loki on his black sheepskin rug, in front of his fireplace. The warm light of the flames-actually a fake fire, as the 'logs' were made of iron-spangled off his deep eyes, as he excitedly explained his new ideas to you.

He'd been side-eying you for two days. Not avoiding you or anything, and not distant at all; if anything, he was more attentive than ever. Something had clearly disturbed him, but you had no idea what it was. Ever since he had rushed you off to the healing wing after that weird candle dinner, he refused to tell you what you had said or done that had startled him so badly, he just told you not to worry about it.

He was definitely still worried about it. He acted as if you were still convalescing: trying to do everything for you, hovering, asking you over and over again if you were all right, how you were feeling, if you needed anything.

What you needed was for him to lighten up and back off a bit. You might have liked the attention under other circumstances, but like this it was just feeding into your paranoia. What was it you had done to make him act like this? Why wouldn't he tell you?

When he'd asked you to have dinner with him again, you'd hoped he was ready to discuss it, so you could finally get it off your mind. Otherwise, you would pick and pick at it forever.

But no, instead it was another weird dinner. Firelight this time, and trays full of finger food, on a sheepskin rug, on the floor of his bedroom, where you had never been before.

You would really have to ask Saldis if this kind of thing was normal. Because from your perspective, this screamed 'date', but he hadn't actually made his intentions clear, and you weren't sure you wanted to date right now, no matter how much you liked him. There was just so much on your mind.

He was in those damnably tight velvet trousers again though.

“So, you drew these?” You said, munching on some fruit. “They look nice. Very precise.”

They were. Every line was absolutely straight and perfect, just like his writing.

“They are longhouses. A little stylized, admittedly, but basically just longhouses. I saw buildings like this when I visited, centuries ago. They have a certain charm to them, don't they?”

“I see you've put your horns on them.” You said, pointing to the curved carvings on the apex of the roof at both the front and back entrances.

“Stylized, as I said.” He shrugged. “Besides, as the patron, I do reserve the right to put my signatures on the buildings. The inhabitants should know under whose auspices they live.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I intend to have these built. For the camp. Before Buridag. As a sort of symbolic gift, in the spirit of Buridag.”

“What?”

“They had difficulties last winter. It is hard to live in a tent when the snow can rise higher than your door. With these, they can climb out the roof if the snow gets high, and they can also keep warm, and safe from winds. We can build them with modern amenities as well. Electricity, plumbing, all of that.”

“You want to build them houses? Houses for the campers?” You asked, incredulous.

“I am Aesir. I was a god once, on this world. Even as a child, a youth, people of this world worshiped me. I never stopped being that, only now I have the power to do something for them.”

You set your fruit down and threw your arms around his torso. “They're gonna build you so many shrines!”

His bright smile betrayed his delight. “You approve then?”

“Of course I do! I was out there once, I saw what it was like. And that was in the spring! I can't imagine what winter is like here. Loki, are you really going to do this?”

“Yes. I'm going to build something for this world.” He blew out a breath, staring into the fire. “We are at the beginning of something, I can feel it. And while I may never get to make any kind of reparations for what I have done here, for the lives lost-” He cut himself off sharply, glancing down at you, as if waiting for something.

“What?” You wondered. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” He said after a moment of just staring.

“Is it because of what happened before? What did I do, Loki?”

“It doesn't matter, really.” He deflected.

“You say that, but it's bothering us both!” From your position snuggled into his side, you gazed up at him with a pleading expression. “It's freaking me out, Loki. Please, just tell me what it was?”

You had put on your best puppy-dog face, the one you always used on your father, and Nanna Beth. It almost always worked on them, but for Loki, who could say?

He gritted his teeth in a tiny grimace as you stared up at him, and you saw him break.

Well. Wasn't that interesting?

“It's...you said that you were waiting for the people I killed to return. As if there was a direct link between them returning, and the people Thanos killed returning. And then you instantly forgot that you had said anything at all.”

“Woah.” You breathed. “Okay, yeah, that's pretty freaky.”

“Yes. I thought perhaps there was some deeper damage to your brain, something we just hadn't picked up yet, or...” He clutched you a little tighter. “Your father told me about your families health issues, and I've promised to keep you-and specifically your head-safe. I am not going to allow some malevolent lump of flesh to harm you, but I was worried it might be something related to that.”

“Oh. Yeah. That's been looming over me for my whole life. You know, I didn't go to college, partly because I didn't have the money, but I didn't even try to get scholarships or financial aid. Mostly because I kinda thought it wouldn't matter. I figured I would die young, like my mom, and Nanna Beth, so it was no use. It wasn't like I'd have time to make anything of myself.”

His grip on you tightened.

“But I'm still here. I'm older now than either of them ever got to be.” You looked at the brand on your hand. “I got to grow up. I got to see things neither of them could have ever imagined. I'm going to become royalty. I'm going to be a sorceress. I'm going to be an advisor to a god. I'm gonna be...I am someone.”

He released you with one arm, only to stroke your hair with his free hand. You leaned into the touch. It was always nice to have your head tended to.

“You certainly are.” He murmured. “Please tell me something, _____. It's very important.”

“Yes?” You gazed back up at him, finding him staring earnestly back down at you. So beautiful. So close.

“What is your favorite color?”

“Huh?” And just like that, the somber mood was broken, sending you reeling into the mundane, but wholly unexpected question.

“Your favorite color. What is it? You have been by my side for months, yet I don't know what it is. I have seen many sides of you, shared things as intimate as dreams with you, but I don't know something as simple as what kind of music you like, or if you know how to dance. What is your favorite dish? Your favorite game? What is a Bulbasaur, and why do you like it? I would like for you to tell me about yourself. Please. Teach me about you.”

He held you in front of the fire for the rest of the evening, as you traded stories back and forth, questions, musings, and little tidbits of information. You put out of your head that you were in a mans bedroom, in his arms; Loki had shown himself too old-fashioned for you to fear his intentions. Finally, that fear had passed.

You were at that point where you wished he would kiss you, but were afraid for him to do so. Though it had been some time since you had been in anything resembling a romantic relationship, the last person you had been with was Todd, and that experience had made you wary, knotted up inside over the prospect. You were over Todd, but you weren't over it. Loki wouldn't do those things to you, you thought. But you weren't sure. How could you be?

Besides, desiring him wouldn't get you anywhere. You could not have him. Even though you were going to be declared royalty, the regal god-prince would always be way out of your league. What did a royal title mean, when you knew what you were? It didn't matter what title stood next to your name, you were a peasant. You had been raised a peasant, and though you now had the chance to make something of yourself, your roots would always be in the Iowa cornfields.

And for most things in your life, that was just fine. You weren't ashamed of it. But you knew it drove a great wedge between you two.

Perhaps Loki understood that too, if the thought of it ever even crossed his mind. He probably never even thought about it, never thought about you that way, because of that very wedge, even if he seemed to be constantly trying to shave away at it.

Eventually, you both grew quiet, and the food disappeared into one mouth or another. Allowing yourself a sliver of the comfort being in his arms should have brought you, you dozed off against his chest.

   *****

Flying through space was just as beautiful as always; the stars, the blue light, the rapidly approaching planet.

You'd been here before, to this hazy, orange world, the home of the supposedly extinct Titans. You and Loki landed once again at the edge of the sickly fields, Loki gazing around in concern.

“Here again?” He wondered. “Why?”

“The fields look better this time.” You observed. “The leaves don't look as crunchy.”

“That is because we have developed more effective water filters.”

Both you and Loki whirled to face the Titan behind you, knives in hands.

“I dare say, those are unnecessary.” The titan said, sitting on an hill, overlooking the fields. It looked like you had interrupted his lunch. “I pose no threat you you. I am merely a scientist.”

You weren't sure if he was the same Titan you had seen the last time you were here, but he was wearing similar clothing.

“Are you Mynos?” You asked.

“I am.” He replied. “And you travel with an Asgardian. Are you an invader?”

“No.” Loki replied. “We are travelers of fortune.”

“Ah. Well, you will find little of that here. I should have thought you'd have realized that the first time you came.”

“You saw us?” You asked.

“Yes, just as you disappeared into the storm. After it passed, I sought you out, but could find no trace of you. It was dismissed as yet another of my odd visions.”

“You happen to be known for such things?” Loki asked.

“Oh yes. Old Mynos is a capable chemist and engineer, and that's why he is kept around, despite all his oddness. Such as seeing Asgardians and...Asgardian-adjacents come floating out of the sky on a silent blue beam, rather than a roaring rainbow. Perhaps you are not actually real either.”

“We might not be.” You agreed. This had to be another dream, but the awareness of that didn't seem to change anything. “You're not worried about that?”

“I am not.” He said, taking a swig of water from a bottle with a large filter attached to the top. “I have seen things more terrifying than you, strange creature, and they were not real either, thankfully.”

Something clicked.

“These things...Did they have anything to do with someone called Thanos? Another Titan, from this world?”

Mynos slowly set his water bottle aside.

“So...You are either some waking dream, or all of that was real. I would much rather you be a dream. I wonder why you and I remember, but no one else does?”

“Thanos is not remembered here?” Loki asked. “Not at all, not even before he came to power?”

Mynos patted the dirt next to him.

“Sit.” He said. “It appears we have some things to share.”

Loki remained where he was, you took a seat next to Mynos. Though sitting himself, he towered over you, like a mauve boulder jutting out of the orange soil.

He might be like you; remembering things that technically never happened. That meant he might have magic, like you did.

“Will you tell me how an Asgardian and a...”

“Human.” You provided.

“...A Human know Thanos?”

“I don't know him.” You said. “Never even seen the guy. But I remember living through the results of something he did. That's been fixed now.”

“I knew him. He was as pathetic and perverse as he was powerful.” Loki said bitterly.

“Yes, that all matches up to my experience as well. The Thanos I knew was a farmer who became a military leader during the overthrow of our old government. When he was young, most of his family died of starvation, as the land began to die. During the Revolution, he took up a leadership role, and organized the remaining local people into a militant force, one of many that rose up at that time. As the Revolution wore on, he gained more and more influence. It seemed he was naturally gifted in charisma, but it was discovered later that he was actually very efficient at manipulation, intimidation, and the radicalization of his soldiers. After the Revolution, he made a bid for control of the new government, but it was discovered that he planned to cull half the population, and he was rejected. We had already lost so many, and the planet was still dying. He spoke of conserving resources, but his plan would have killed indiscriminately: scientists, who were needed to research and create plans to heal the planet, workers, who were needed to implement those plans. We couldn't afford to lose even one more mind, one more pair of hands.

He wanted all of the factories and infrastructure shut down before we had alternate plans in place. To force us all back into an agrarian society before most of us had been taught the necessary skills. In short, he wanted as many of us to die as possible. He was obsessed with death, seemed to nearly worship it, and his soldiers viewed him as a kind of prophet. The plants grew better on the battlefields and mass graves, and, to a generation of soldiers who had been raised on war and dead lands, that must have seemed like a miracle.

We built a tiny fleet of starships in the hope of harvesting resources from other parts of the system, to give our planet a rest. That seemed to be the last straw for him. He had his forces plant explosives in factories, city centers, bridges. Then he seized the entire fleet, and escaped the planet.

His madness, and the madness he cast over his soldiers became crystal clear at that point. He'd convinced his soldiers that not all of them could survive the coming journey, and had them plant explosives on each other's ships, all the ships save his own, promising each group that they would be the ones to accompany him on his new quest. Then, when he was far enough away, he detonated all of the explosives.”

“How do you know what he did?” Loki asked.

“Because after the initial waves of explosions, we located one of the soldiers who had been left behind, and interrogated her. She told us that he had discovered some great power source, and was going to use it to fix the universe. She had been laying explosives on one of the ships, but had been left behind when she went to get more. She and I were killed when debris from the ships crushed our shelter.. I remember this happening. And yet...”

“And yet here you are.” Loki finished.

“And no one else remembers.” You offered.

“Yes. You know of this.”

“Yeah. The universe spent a whole year with all life halved. People, plants, animals...even microbes, I guess. And then, it was reversed.”

“Can you tell me how?”

You glanced at Loki.

“Only the briefest summary.” He admitted. “I was barely there. Thanos continued in that form for many years, decimating planets and seeking this power source. He succeeded. But a group of survivors wrested that power from him, used it to reverse his work, and ended his life. It was thought that he was the last of you, but it appears that we were mistaken.”

“You may have been right. I remember not even two years since that time. Nobody else seems to perceive this gap. No body else remembers him, not even the people who were once his fanatical soldiers. They do not even recognize his name.”

“That wasn't part of the spell...Wait, did you feel that?” Loki asked. You had felt a jolt, and now the world was narrowing around you.

“I'm sorry Mynos, but I think we have to go.” You said, urgently running up to one of the plants, and snatching a leaf. “I don't know if and when we'll be back, but if it's possible to send you help, we'll try.”

“Idle promises have little worth.” He said. “But I appreciate the sympathy, Human.”

You wanted to say more, but the orange world blipped out, replaced by warm firelight, a sheepskin rug, and the arms of a prince, who was being shaken awake by a troubled Andsvarr.

“Your Highness!” He cried. “Your highness, please wake up!”

“Give me one good reason not to banish you, Alarrson!” He snapped grumpily.

“One of the camps has attacked the others! They created a distraction for the gate guards, then set the other two camps on fire!”

You were both suddenly very awake.

“Sofie!” You cried, leaping to your feet.

“No you do not! You stay here, you are in no way combat ready!” Loki commanded.

“But-”

“No! I will see to the humans, you stay here. I swear on my father's name, if you follow me out there, I will lock you in your room and throw away the key!”

You crossed your arms in anger. You knew he wouldn't do that, but you also knew that he was right about not being ready for a battlefield. Oh, you hated it.

“Then go!” You snapped. “Don't hang around here arguing with me. Get out there! Andsvarr, help my friends!”

“Yes, my Seidkona!” He declared.

#lasabrjotr #loki x reader #loki (marvel)

[ancientbooshartifacts]

Sex And Xooberon

Author: Kahvi

Year: 2008

Rating: PG-13

Characters: Naboo, Bollo, Vince, Howard, The Moon, Venus

“Whoa there; where'd you think you're going, little man?” Howard's voice rang out from the kitchen of Naboo's little flat, his hand outstretched like he was Diana Ross, or possibly one of the Supremes. Already clutching the doorknob, Vince stopped to roll his eyes in irritation. “What d'you think I'm doing? I need the loo!” “Well, that's just going to have to wait. Naboo's in there, taking a shower.” Vince shrugged. “That's his own lookout; I'm not pissing in the sink again.” “You can't just...” Howard narrowed his eyes, catching the tail-end of the sentence. “What do you mean, 'again'?” “Right; the water stopped running. I'm going in.” “I do the dishes in there!” “No you don't; Bollo does. I'm going in, Howard.” Vince pulled the door open, and Howard winced in horror. “Vince! It's not right – a man shouldn't see another man's...” But Howard got no further, as there came a piercing scream, followed by a Vince-shaped blur zooming right out the door again and into his and Howard's shared bedroom. Shortly afterwards a puzzled Naboo emerged, hair wrapped in a towel turban, unlike his body, which was wrapped in nothing at all. Howard's eyes ran, entirely without his consent, down the tiny shaman's body, screeching to a halt when they reached his groinal area. “Well,” Howard conceded. “I suppose that's all right then.” Rapping his knuckles against the bedroom door, Howard paused to roll his eyes. Sometimes life with Vince was a bit like looking after a hormonal teenager. Something about that idea disturbed him on levels he couldn't quite grasp, so rather than dwell on it, he cleared his throat. “Vince... this is ridiculous. You've missed your tea.” “I'm not going out there.” The door muffled Vince's voice, but could not hide the rise in pitch that made him sound even more like he was fourteen. Howard started tapping his foot nervously. “Vince, you've got to come out. You can't stay in there forever.” There was a pause as Vince seemed to consider this. Then; “I'm not coming out. You can come in, though.” Howard's eye twitched. “Oh, for... All right.” There was a shuffling sound from inside, and then the minutest of clicks as the door was unlocked. Then there came a rushed slicking of heels and a muffled thump. It was with some apprehension Howard stepped inside. It felt sort of wrong to be in Vince's bedroom like this, which was absurd, because it was Howard's bedroom too, and they were alone in there together every night. “Close the door behind you,” Vince commanded, from the safety of his guitar-shaped waterbed. The sequined curtain normally surrounding it had been drawn back sloppily; part of it was now partially draped over Howard's tweed bedspread. “What's gotten into you?” Howard demanded, pulling the door shut in irritation. Vince bit his lip, clutching a heart-shaped pillow. The pillow, Howard noted, had little arms like it wanted to hug you back. “You saw him! He's a freak!” “What; 'cause he's got no...” “All right! I don't need reminding, do I?” Vince shuddered, hugging the pillow tighter. Frowning, Howard stepped a bit closer, contemplating sitting down on the guitar's squashy edge. Worried that the resulting waves might knock Vince's slight frame off the bed, he decided against it. “I don't see why that bothers you so much. You've got a friend with a cube for a head, and you're none too bothered about creatures made entirely out of chewing gum coming into our room at night and watching us sleep.” The heart-shaped pillow narrowly avoided Howard's head. Vince had never been a good throw. “You leave Charlie out of this! He's just looking out for us.” “Yeah, well, the point is, Vince, you're not exactly A4 yourself, are you?” For one thing Vince still had his boots on while in bed, but that seemed a minor point at this time, and Howard hesitated bringing it up. “If stuff like that doesn't bother you, how come Naboo's...” “I don't want to hear it.” “How come this is such a big deal?” Sighing, Vince began to examine his nails. As he did that all the time, Howard didn't realize he'd been mulling things over until he heard a soft “Howard...” And looked up sharply. Vince was looking at him askew, patting the mattress beside him. “Come sit down.” The prospect of sitting next to Vince in Vince's bed made Howard's stomach do little nervous twitches. Either that, or his heart. He had a hard time telling the organs apart much of the time. Then again, sitting next to anyone made him nervous nowadays, after what had happened with Old Gregg at his birthday party. He kept expecting them to tear their faces off and try to rape him. Adjusting his hat, and drawing courage from the action, Howard crawled onto the bed, and maneuvered himself close to Vince. “You know me, right?” Vince was smiling at him oddly. “I'm the confuser. Confuse myself now and again. I look in the mirror sometimes, and I see a girl, and that's fine, fun even, 'cause inside, you know, I know I'm a guy. Plus, I can always do this,” with unexpected force, Vince put his hand on his crotch, cupping himself firmly. Howard jumped. “And there's no question is there? So I see something like that, and I'm thinking, how does he know? 'Cause if he doesn't know, maybe I can't know either, or, you know, maybe my knob might fall off, or something.” Forcing his eyes away from Vince's hand, Howard started again. “What?” He wasn't supposed to look at Vince like that, he chided himself. They were done with that sort of thing; they'd both made that abundantly clear. “How does Naboo know?” “How does Naboo know you're a guy?” “No, you nonce,” Vince cuffed Howard on the side of his face, lightly. The bed wobbled. “How does he know he's a guy?” Trying very hard to keep his eyes somewhere in the vicinity of Vince's face, Howard shrugged. “I think you'd better ask him, really.” When Howard made his exit a few minutes later, Bollo nodded to him from across the room. The ape was monopolizing the hookah-pipe in Naboo's absence, and was clearly making the most of it. “Vince coming out?” Howard nearly did a double take before he grasped the question. “Oh. Right. No. Not yet.” Bollo nodded. “Him still worried about seeing Naboo naked. Bollo knows. It traumatic experience.” After a brief internal debate, Howard decided it was probably best not to ask. “It is a bit... unusual.” Shrugging, Bollo took another long drag of the pipe. “They all like that 'round Xooberon way.” “Yeah?” Howard tried to imagine all of the frankly disturbing people he had met on the planet naked, and gave a shudder. It was not a pleasant lot of mental imagery. “That what Naboo say.” “All right, Howard? Move over, would you, Bollo?” The shaman himself appeared in a cloud of purple smoke, strolling over to the sofa like nothing untoward had happened. (Though to be fair, that sort of thing did seem to happen fairly often in this household.) Bollo grunted, and passed the pipe to Naboo, who sucked the smoke in eagerly. Howard scratched his head. “Hey, Naboo...” It was something of a delicate subject to broach, wasn't it? “You wouldn't mind sorting Vince out, would you?” Naboo raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? You want me to sort him out after he sneaks up on me in the shower?” Vince, Naboo, shower... Howard's head was starting to spin. “He's not coming out!” This time, Bollo snickered, turning his head and pretending like nothing when Howard shot him an angry glare. “He's not coming out of his room.” Naboo shrugged. “He can't stay in there forever.” “That's what I told him, but he missed his tea.” This seemed to catch Naboo's attention. “What did you make? Not egg in soup again?” “No,” Howard grumbled – what was wrong with egg in soup? It was a perfectly nutritious and aesthetically pleasing meal. “I made pancakes. I even made his into little funny shapes.” Not animal ones, because Vince refused to eat those. Never mind that he would scarfer down sausages without a second's thought; he didn't like eating something that 'looked like it was supposed to be alive.' Come to think of it, that had been his problem with egg in soup. “With the pink food-coloring in?” “Pink and blue. I even tried mixing them up to make purple. And I put little sprinkles on. The pastel ones, without the brown in.” “Right.” Naboo rose, dusting his robes off unnecessarily. “I'll see what I can do.” He turned to Bollo, whispering just loud enough that Howard would overhear. “Work, work, work.” Bollo grunted in reply, taking the pipe from his hands. “It won't be easy. He only just let me in there.” Howard shifted his weight, glancing back at the bedroom. He didn't like the idea that Naboo would be able to get to Vince when he – Howard Moon – had not been able to. What sort of a man of action would that make him? Naboo grinned. “I have my ways.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small leather pouch, which, when opened, appeared to be full of purple-colored sugar. “Travel dust,” he explained, seeing Howard craning his neck towards it. “Lets you go anywhere, this stuff. I'm beta-testing it. Works a charm, near as I can tell.” Howard regarded the dust doubtfully. “It's a bit Harry Potter, isn't it?” Naboo rolled his eyes. “Think you're the first one to point that out, do you? You want me to help or not?” When Howard nodded, Naboo threw a pinch of the stuff in the air, and soon, purple smoke enveloped the two of them. Howard was suddenly overcome by a sensation of drowning in fairy floss, but it passed in an instant, as the smoke disappeared, and they reappeared sitting on Vince's bed. Howard, to his acute embarrassment, found himself sitting more or less on Vince's lap. “Howard!!” Vince squealed, grabbing Howard by the waist, and trying to hide behind him, then half-turned to Naboo. “How'd you get in here?” “Magic dust,” Naboo replied, nonplussed as ever. “That's a bit Harry Potter, don't you think?” Howard could hardly hear what Vince was saying. There were too many other sensory impressions to contend with. There was Vince's smell, which was like licorice bootlaces and hairspray, and the warmth of his skin against his back, and the feel of his leather jacket rubbing against Howard's shirt; the tickle of his breath against his neck... “I'm a shaman, all right? I work with what I've got.” “Yeah, well, the trouble ain't what you've got, mate; it's what you haven't!” Vince gripped Howard's waist a bit tighter, and Howard found he couldn't breathe. Not because the grip was too tight, it was just... “Vince...” Howard croaked. “Oh, right. Sorry.” The grip relaxed a bit, and Howard inhaled, deeply. “If you two have quite finished showing off your unresolved sexual tension...” Naboo crossed his arms, looking like a stern teacher. “I don't know what you mean,” Howard mumbled, defensively. “Never mind. You wanted to know how my anatomy works, is that it? Should I draw you up a diagram?” Naboo fixed his eyes on Vince, who shifted a bit behind Howard. “Well, no... just... How do you know?” Uncertain, Vince absent-mindedly began to stroke up and down Howard's arm. Howard really wished he wouldn't do that. Then he stopped, and Howard really wished he hadn't. “How do you know... you're a guy?” Naboo shook his head. “Christ; you lot! You're so stuck up on silly little ideas. 'Am I a boy, am I a girl; who do I shag, should they have tits'.” He threw his arms wide. “I don't get it. Why complicate things?” Howard cleared his throat. “So it's not like that on Xooberon, then?” He liked rules; rules and neat categories. Otherwise, how would you know where you fit? You'd just be drifting randomly. Like Vince. Who was currently pressing up against his back like a frightened woodland animal. “Of course not! It's not like that anywhere else in the universe. I mean, 'gender'; what is that? You've got lumps on the front of your chest, so you're allowed to wear skirts and make cupcakes, but if you've got hair on your face, you've got to like football and get off your face on beer. How does that make sense?” “Well, it doesn't,” Vince began, but...” “And then there's sex – it's not enough to want to shag someone; no, you've got to figure out why. And if you suddenly want to shag someone who's not shaped the same way as the type you wanted to shag before, you have a mental breakdown trying to figure out what's going on.” Naboo took a deep breath, almost panting with exasperation. Howard had hardly ever seen him so agitated before. “Why bother? Why do you care so much?” Vince was breathing more calmly now; Howard could feel it. He was just leaning against him now, like... well, like he enjoyed doing it. “I don't, really,” Vince said, and Howard's heart caught in his throat. Or possibly his stomach. Again, it was hard to tell. “Right,” Naboo agreed, patting Vince on the shoulder, “'cause you're sensible.” “Sensible??” Howard spluttered. Vince still had his boots on; couldn't Naboo see that? Boots! In bed!! “Shut it, Howard,” Naboo and Vince said in unison. The sheer force of it was enough to trigger Howard's over-developed respect for authority. “Right, sirs. Shutting up, sirs.” “So that's why you don't, like, have a... penis?” Vince inched out the word like he was afraid it, having escaped, was going slap him in the face. And you wouldn't want a word like that slapping you in the face. Naboo seemed almost insulted. “Of course I've got a penis! Why wouldn't I?” Vince and Howard exchanged glances. “Then why...” “I don't want to go around waving it about, do I? You know the crowd I hang with. You saw what Dennis was like at Howard's party. Saboo had to tranquilize him with a blowpipe from across the room. And with Kirk around, frankly, none of your extremities are safe, so it's best to have as few of them as possible, really.” Howard swallowed. He was getting warm in all sorts of places, and not all of it was to do with the stupid level of heat Vince insisted they keep in the bedroom. His head was full of angry head shamen and rooftops and stray penises, and he couldn't think straight. “I don't get it,” he mumbled. “It's very simple,” Naboo explained patiently, sliding off the bed. “It doesn't matter what shape your genitals are, and you don't need them at all to know what you are, right?” “Right,” said Vince, nodding vigorously, and grinning from ear to ear. Howard was glad one of them had gotten something out of the conversation. “You're not going to freak out on me again then, are you?” Naboo waved an admonishing finger. “'Course not.” “And don't go sneaking into my shower again.” “I won't. Cheers, Naboo!” Vince gave a little wave, and Naboo threw his powder in the air again. Once the smoke cleared, Vince shook his head at Howard. “Could have used the door, couldn't he? The little show-off.” Howard watched him carefully. He was playing with his hair, and the long fingers of his other hand were running along the seams of Howard's shirt, as if trying to figure out how he could alter it to fit current fashion. “So you're all right now, then?” “'Course I am. Makes sense, doesn't it? It's like you said; it's what's inside that counts, yeah?” Howard nodded. He didn't know what else to do. He was still in Vince's lap, and part of him worried that he was crushing his legs. “Yeah. I'll just get going then...” Vince caught his arm. “Howard?” Vince's bright blue eyes shone with question, and not a little bit of mischief. “What?” “I'm not entirely sure I'm a man.” Spinning. The world was spinning. Forget fairy floss; looking into Vince's eyes was like drowning in that syrup they used to make blue raspberry slushies. “Oh, no?” “No. I think I need to make sure. D'you think you could help me out with that?” Through the oceans of illogically colored raspberry, Howard felt a hand reach out and grab his own, pressing it to a warm, bulging... oh god... After a while, neither of them really cared what they were or what they were doing, beyond the fact that it felt bloody fantastic, and right. “All right then; you ready?” Appearing in the lounge again, Naboo adjusted his turban, nodding at Bollo. “Where we going?” The ape looked quite comfortable where he was. Typical, Naboo sighed to himself. He really should think about getting a familiar upgrade. “Clubbing. Like I told you. Now get a move on, I'm not waiting around all night for you to get your face on.” Bollo gave him a pleading look. “Not Xooberon again? I never know what I'm getting when I pull over there.” Stupid bloody Earth creatures, Naboo thought. Repressed, the lot of them. “Don't get your crotch-fur in a twist. We're going to the Velvet Onion.” “Oh. Velvet Onion,” Bollo echoed, immediately cheering up. “Right. I go get ready.” “Don't bother. We're late as it is. You can fix yourself up in the club.” As Bollo followed him, grunting half-hearted complaints, Naboo concentrated, and something around groin-level shifted almost imperceptibly beneath the cloth between his legs. He grimaced, reaching down to adjust himself. “Should have done that before I put my trousers on that tightly, really.” And without further incident, shaman and familiar left the shop, vanishing in unnecessarily sparkly purple smoke shortly after walking out the door. Above them, the moon shone, smilingly. “When you are the moon, it don't matter if you're male or female. 'Cause you're just a face. A big white face. Yeah. Don't got no genitals or nothing. Got nowhere to put them. Mars, he keeps saying he's all that, but I don't see where he gets off. Ain't nothing more between his legs than mine. He don't have no legs either. Always hanging around that Venus. Venus, she don't care. She's after better things, ain't that right, Venus?” “Shut your face, you pasty bastard!!” “Yeah... she loves me. I'm the moon.”

#the mighty boosh #mighty boosh #boosh #naboo #naboo the enigma #bollo #vince noir #howard moon #howince #vince noir/howard moon #vince/howard #howard moon/vince noir #the moon (mighty boosh) #the moon #the moon/venus #venus #mars

[emilightniing]

You Can Fix This (Part 2)

(Finally finished the second chapter; I really hope it was worth the wait! I was so happy to see that people seemed to enjoy chapter 1 so much, and I can’t wait to continue.

I’ve had a couple requests to tag people for new chapters, so @fleecal and @am-i-heaven-or-am-i-hell (as well as that one awesome anon; you know who you are!), here’s part 2! And if anybody else wants to be added to the tag list, please do send me an ask and let me know.)

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He looks like shit.

You’re surprised you didn’t notice it the first time around, but Mark really does look like… well, death. Standing much closer to him now than you did before, and knowing what you know, it’s blatantly obvious that he’s not okay. His eyes are hollow but manic, with deep bruise-colored bags underneath, prominent against his ashen skin. And that’s just the face— you don’t want to think about what you’d find underneath his robe. 

Thirty-seven times. Goddamn. You don’t know if it’s more disturbing that he’d choose such a brutal and painful method, or that somehow it still didn’t work. Now that you think about it, in fact, it makes sense that he’d want everyone to be drunk for this final attempt— drunken eyes miss things, and sure enough, nobody suspected a thing that night. It worked out far too well, and part of you feels a tug of doubt; maybe you’re already too late. Maybe none of you should have come at all.

You take a sip of your champagne, partly to calm your nerves and partly to hide any expression that might potentially give you away as you listen to Mark’s soliloquy. 

“… Who knows?” he’s saying with a smirk. “I could be dead tomorrow.”

A shudder runs through you and the drink turns sour in your mouth. You don’t want to listen anymore, and you certainly don’t want to talk to him alone. The way he laughs sounds so bitter and cold; maybe it’s just your imagination, but it sounds like he’s enjoying this.

It shouldn’t really surprise you, you realize. He does know exactly what he’s doing; this was all done as some sort of twisted revenge on the Colonel and Celine, and maybe even Damien— who, as far as you know, did his best to stay out of the messy affair between his sister and his closest friends, but you suppose that through Mark’s eyes, anyone who wasn’t on his side was against him. Neutrality wasn’t an option. 

Part of you wonders how much of that was really Mark, your friend, and how much came from the house’s influence… but regardless, he did steal Damien’s body. That’s something you still can’t really fathom, and you want answers. You need to know why he felt the need to drag everyone else into this. He may have been selfish, but he was still your friend. At least, that’s what you thought. The time you’ve spent in this house has certainly done well to challenge everything you thought you knew.

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

Everyone’s mingling still, but you know the first round of poker will be starting soon. Now’s your chance.

“Mark,” you say, catching him just as he’s slipping out of the parlor, obviously trying to go unnoticed.

He turns around, clearly not expecting to see anybody following him. 

“Ah, Y/N! Glad you could make it tonight, what with your new job keeping you so busy.”

“I— of course I came,” you say, wanting first to try and lead him into trusting you. Then you’ll go from there. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you. I’d like to ask, though… how have you been?” You look at him with a slight amount of sympathy, but not enough to give yourself away.

“Well, I’ve been excellent, thank you,” he replies, a little too quickly. Very, very casually, he picks up another glass of champagne off the butler’s tray and hands it to you. You accept but don’t drink it yet. It’s painfully obvious to you that he wants you to pay as little attention to him as possible. 

(This, you note with some amusement, should be your first clue that something is out of the ordinary with him.)

Cautiously, you press on. “Well, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you properly. I’ve been really anticipating talking with you.” Not entirely a lie, you tell yourself.

His smooth smile doesn’t falter, but you can see in his eyes that he knows he’s trapped for the moment and he’s looking for a way to divert your attention. Well, two can play at that game, you think. “I was actually hoping I’d finally be able to meet Celine tonight.”

There. It works as expected; he’s caught completely off guard. Of course he’s kept the affair a secret to avoid public scandal, and as far as everyone not directly involved knows, he and Celine are still happily married. But it’s been so long since he’s left his house that he hasn’t had to pretend for anyone for awhile. It’s clear from the look on his face that you’ve opened a fresh wound. Guilt tugs at you briefly, but you know you need to stand your ground now.

After taking a long sip of his drink— which is another thing, you’ve really only just realized; you haven’t seen him drink socially in years— he looks at you and responds noncommittally, “She won’t be joining us this evening, I’m afraid. She has other… affairs to attend to.” 

Your eyes widen; you can’t help it. The way he says is is so casual, so blasé, that it’s almost a little funny. But you realize immediately that it’s too late to cover your surprise. Mark’s seen your reaction, and it tells him more than enough. He just raises one eyebrow and smirks. 

“Aha. I knew Damien couldn’t keep himself from telling you. He swore up and down he wouldn’t, but I’m not stupid, Y/N. I know he tells you everything.”

You shake your head, perhaps a little too emphatically. “No. He didn’t tell me, I promise. He doesn’t even know that I know.”

He scoffs, clearly not convinced, but the two of you are interrupted by the detective as he comes over to introduce himself to you (so his name is Abe; why didn’t you bother to learn that before?) and chat with Mark. You excuse yourself after a moment, glad to have more time to prepare for the confrontation that will almost certainly have to continue later.

Not too long after that, a game begins at the round table in the corner. The butler— whose name, you learn, is Benjamin— continues to serve more drinks than necessary, clearly under Mark’s instructions. Unsurprisingly, it’s hard for you to focus on playing poker, and you end up losing a lot more often than you did the first time around. The others poke fun at you for it, and you take it in stride. What else can you do?

“Well, let’s see,” Mark muses as the third round begins (or is it the fourth? You can’t really tell; unfortunately, in your desperation to calm your panic, you’ve probably drunk more than you should in this situation). “Y/N, surely you can do better than that. Maybe you something to motivate you to play to your full potential.”

You stiffen slightly, now on your guard. This didn’t happen before, you’re sure of that. “Oh?” is all you manage to say. Clever.

Mark is shuffling the cards with impressive dexterity, not breaking eye contact with you as he starts to offer his wager. “If you lose this round…” He smiles mischievously; you can see his eyes light up as he settles on the stakes. “You’ll have to kiss Damien.”

The Colonel and Abe both laugh out loud; the former especially sounds particularly giddy at the prospect.

You’re less amused, however. “What? I— you’re joking.” It’s more of the unexpected nature of the dare than any unwillingness on your part, but you’re suddenly terrified. “Come on, be serious.”

“Oh come now, Y/N,” Mark says jovially, “you know I’m dead serious.”

Nobody else notices, of course, but you do, and your flushed face drains of color slightly. He’s trapped you. You have to play this off as embarrassment, or else everything will be ruined. “Well… fine then, but if you lose the round, then you have to kiss Damien.”

The words leave your mouth easily, and you’re thankful for that. To any uninformed observer, this looks like just some teasing banter between friends. William laughs even harder (you get the impression that he’s fairly intoxicated already, but still, part of you is glad to have made him laugh), and Damien raises his eyebrows as high as they can go. 

“Why is it me?” he protests indignantly, trying to play it off cooly, but you can see how deeply he’s blushing. For a second, you consider taking it back so as not to embarrass him, but then he shakes his head and lets out a resigned laugh. “All right, well then. I suppose this is a challenge for me to lose this round.” 

This makes everyone chuckle. The game begins.

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

You try. 

At least you’d like to convince yourself that you’re trying your hardest, but you’ve never been very good at keeping a neutral face anyway, and your diminished concentration (and all right, perhaps some subconscious, well… curiosity) essentially guarantees that you lose the round in less than fifteen minutes. If you’re being honest with yourself, you never stood a chance. Your beloved host is clearly trying to distract you by any means possible, and it’s working.

Mark shakes his head in mock disappointment at you. “Well, well, seems like you’re not exactly on the top of your game tonight. One might almost think you’ve had something else on your mind entirely this whole time.”

Bastard. “Well, I don’t play well under pressure,” you mumble, taking another sip of the cocktail you’ve been holding onto for a bit.

Damien looks at you, sensing your embarrassment; you try to avoid his eyes. “It’s fine, Y/N, you don’t really have to—”

“Oh yes, you do!” Mark and William say in unison, cutting him off a little too enthusiastically. They exchange surprised looks followed by slightly warmer smiles, which you take as a good sign.

“Be nice to them,” Damien chides his friends, but you can see that even he’s suppressing a grin. Whether it’s due to the drinks and lively atmosphere, the fact that the Colonel and Mark finally seem to be reconciling their differences, or— do you even dare to think that he might be smiling at the thought of you having to kiss him? Surely, you think, it’s laughter that he’s holding back more than anything.

“It’s— it’s not really any trouble,” you rush to say before your nerve leaves you. “I mean, I don’t mind. I agreed to it, after all. If, well, if you don’t mind, that is.” 

You wince slightly at how much you’re stammering, but Damien looks… pleased?

“Not at all. It’s certainly not the worst possible outcome of that wager, anyway.” He gives Mark a pointed look, earning another round of laughter from the table.

Your seats are technically next to each other, but you still have to stand up and take a step over to him in order to be close enough to reach him. He stands as well, a few inches taller than you but not so tall that you can’t lean up a little and press your lips to his. 

So that’s what you do. 

It’s not as awkward as you thought it would be; in fact, it feels pretty natural. And warm. You can’t deny that.

It doesn’t last very long; only a few seconds pass before you both lean back, not daring to make eye contact. You know you’re already a little flushed from the alcohol, but your face is burning now. A side glance confirms that Damien is just as red as you are. But he’s smiling.

The Colonel, Abe, and Mark raise their glasses in mock toast. They spend the next hour or so grinning cheekily and making the occasional comment that makes you either shoot them a death glare or stare down at the table, feigning deep interest in your hand of cards. 

At some point, you feel a brief reassuring squeeze on your shoulder from Damien, and it helps you relax a little.

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

The game is abandoned eventually, as you knew would happen, and the group splits off to begin some absurd drinking challenges. You politely decline this time; your head isn’t completely clear, but you still haven’t forgotten what you need to do here, even if the answer to why you’re here at all still eludes you.

Your watch reads 10:24 when Mark pulls you down into the wine cellar, requesting to speak with you alone.

#markiplier #who killed markiplier #my writing #wkm damien #wkm mark #wkm district attorney

[arabidzombiewrites-archive]

Housecall

Summary: A continuation of Special Delivery. Dwight gets sick. David wants to know where his delivery guy is. Also David is an accidental kidnapper, because that’s how helping works sometimes.

Word count: 1957 <<First <<Previous Next>>

After Saturday with the party and the kiss and the awkwardly rushing back to his car so he could collect himself and maybe not die of social awkwardness in the arms of a drunk and very handsome stranger he’d delivered pizzas to every week for months Dwight’s week went as normal. Mostly normal. From the outside it appeared normal. Dwight went to his classes, sat through lectures and worked on papers. He went to work, delivered pizzas. David ordered in from them a few times that week, and every time Dwight made some excuse to get someone else to handle the delivery.

He did not know what he was going to do when he saw David again. The guy had been drunk and Dwight was pretty sure it was a spur of the moment thing. Maybe David regretted it and was ordering pizza so Dwight could deliver it and David could punch him. Maybe this was part of some bigger joke that Dwight was the butt of. Just thinking about it had his heart racing. At the same time, he kept thinking about how it felt when David kissed him. It felt good, a dizzying rush that had left Dwight light headed and really happy. He didn’t have any other kisses to compare it to, so he had no way of knowing if that was normal. Just how things worked when people kissed. Either way, the prospect of seeing David again was mostly terrifying and only a little exciting in a good way. Dwight thought it would be better to just not.

Maybe it was luck, or it could have just been the stress that Dwight felt from the situation, or a mixture of both, but when Saturday came the delivery boy was too sick to work. He called in, curled up on the old couch in his apartment with a blanket and a cup ramen, and prepared himself for a night of watching cat videos until he passed out with the hope of waking up and feeling not as awful the next morning. The couch was probably older than Dwight himself, but he had gotten it for free when a neighbor wanted to throw it away and it was comfortable enough to sleep on in his cold apartment. Much more comfortable than his bed, which sat in his room, which was the coldest space in his apartment every winter.

--

America was fun. David couldn’t imagine himself living there, but as far as places to visit and have some fun in went, it was good. He hadn’t planned on staying too long, just enough for him beating the piss out of a referee to blow over so he could go to the pub without having to deal with anyone’s shit over it. He wasn’t trying to avoid a fight, David King never avoided a fight, but he was kicked out of a sport he loved, lost any chance at a future that sounded worthwhile, and just wanted some time to deal with things. Deal with things, of course, mean drinking and partying and blowing off steam in peace. In another country.

Things were going pretty damn well. David had booze, he had an easy time picking fights when he wanted one, he had someone in his bed every time he wanted them. Turns out people went crazy for the rich foreigner, especially one as handsome as David if he did say so himself. In fact the only complaints David had about his vacation to America were that his usual delivery guy was not showing up-- The cute one with the glasses and the blush that had been a surprisingly good kisser. At least, from what David remembered of that night he was. It had been a really good party and some of the details had been a little fuzzy the day after.-- and that Americans didn’t know what a decent pub was.

The pub problem just meant that David would have to throw parties and settle for a more American drinking experience. The delivery boy, well that was something else to deal with. Several times throughout the week he tried to get Dwight back out; had a plan all laid out. Dwight would show up with the pizza, David would actually talk to him or maybe floor someone again to show Dwight how impressive he was. Maybe they’d get to talking and David could spend time with someone who didn’t seem to know shit about him and hardly seemed after his money; both were very rare traits for David to encounter, but not bad.

Except every time he ordered pizza it was a different person bringing it. David would thank them, give them a tip, and end up with more pizza than he actually wanted. By the time Saturday rolled around he was in no mood for any more. Instead of ordering and hoping his usual guy showed up, David decided a more direct approach. He went to the pizza place--

--only to find that Dwight wasn’t in that day. Out sick, they said. David’s first instinct was to deck the guy who’d told him, but what would that get him? Banned from the place and it would make seeing Dwight again harder than it had to be. David was not afraid of hard work, but he didn’t see the point in making a problem where there didn’t need to be one. Besides, he’d have other fights, there were always other fights. So David decided to inquire about Dwight’s address.

Some people might have been told that they couldn’t have that kind of personal information and backed down. David was too stubborn for that.

--

Dwight groaned in his sleep. His limbs twitched as he dreamed about running away. His emptied ramen cup was on the floor, forgotten in his apartment. Dwight was not in his apartment; he was in some kind of forest running for his life from-- from. He was not really sure, he did not see what it was. He could hear it behind him and somehow he just knew that he’d die if it caught him, so he ran without looking back. Sometimes it sounded like his father. Sometimes it sounded like bullies from his childhood up through high school. Sometimes it didn’t sound human at all.

The otherwise quiet apartment was disturbed by his panicked whimpers and groans. Dwight was pretty sure he can’t outrun the thing forever. He knew he had to hide, but every time he tried the thing found him and he ended up running again. He was sure the thing was right behind him and that he was about to die. He’s about to die. He could hear his father’s angry voice. Dwight flinched, expecting at any second to feel the sharp, stinging pain of his father’s worn leather belt.

It never came.

Instead he heard someone calling his name, far away at first. Then he heard it again, louder as if someone was right by his ear. Dwight’s eyes snapped open and he nearly fell off the couch in surprise at seeing crazy British guy standing over him. For a moment, Dwight was pretty sure he.was still dreaming. Then a moment of trying to wake up went by and realized he was not. Then he panicked again.

“ ‘eard you was sick,” David started talking casually, as though it were completely normal that he’d found where Dwight lived and managed to get in somehow, “So I brought soup. You look awful, mate.” A take-away thing of soup was placed on the small coffee table that sits in front of Dwight’s couch before David walked away, towards the door.

Dwight tried to watch and pull his blanket around himself at the same time. He still felt sick. His body ached and felt too cold. It didn't help that the heater was off; it was expressive to run. Turning his head made him feel dizzy. He gave up and settled for listening to David do whatever it was he was doing to the door.

“You're in my apartment,” Dwight said, as though that might change things. Maybe David would realize that he had shown up uninvited amd leave before Dwight did anything embarrassing.

David seemed unconcerned. He finished with the door and made sure it closed, locked, unlocked, then opened again. Then, he sauntered back over to Dwight. “It weren't ‘ard to find, this place. A bribe here, some questions there. Christ, mate, this place looks like shit. D’you actually pay to live ‘ere?” Even with Dwight’s disapproval hanging in the air David looked relaxed, as if he owned the place.

“Maybe he really is royalty,” Dwight huffed. Then he realized he said that outloud. His brain chose that moment to remember every time he saw David punch a guy and Dwight quickly added, “That's what they say. Anyways. Why are you here?”

David seemed more amused that upset, which Dwight was thankful for. “Close enough to royal any’ow. I'm a King.” Dwight was not sure what that meant, but was not given time to ask. David continued, “An’ I came to apologize.”

“For breaking into my apartment?” Dwight was not sure he was following the conversation. He was not sure he could stay awake much longer.

David laughed, “Nah. That was just to get in. For scarin’ you last week, then kissin’ you an’ scarin’ you again. I was tryin’ta make you feel better, an’ you just looked so cute there.”

Dwight yawned, “So you broke into my house?”

“I tried gettin’ ya to deliver, but it was always someone else. When you didn' turn up t’work when I went lookin’ I paid your manager a visit an’ asked. When I ‘eard you was sick I thought to m’self that you might like a bit of soup. Always makes me feel better when I'm sick. I gave your boss a ten’er, an’ ‘e gave me directions.”

Dwight nodded lazily. “That was thoughtful. Absolutely crazy, but thoughtful.” He had a hard time keeping his eyes open. “You didn't have to.” Most people didn't notice or care when he was sick. It was a nice change of pace, if not very strange.

David was talking again, but his words all bled together as Dwight fell asleep.

“--an’ that’s why I decided,” David stopped when he realized his entire speech was falling on deaf ears. He sighed and shook his head as he finished his thought, “That we should be friends.”

He considered leaving Dwight bundled up where he was to get better. David looked down at the smaller, bundled man on the couch. If it weren’t for the shivering, he looked very comfortable. Dwight hadn’t really been too happy to see David, despite the gift of soup. David looked towards the door; maybe he should try again when Dwight was feeling better. Then again, how could anyone feel better sleeping in a freezing shoebox like the one Dwight called home?

It was the pathetic whimper Dwight gave that made David’s decision. He couldn’t just leave Dwight to freeze in his sleep sounding terrified of whatever it was he was dreaming about. That just didn’t feel right. Besides, the place David was renting while he was in the US had more than enough space and he was pretty sure Dwight wouldn’t mind. David nodded to himself and set to work. He had to go through Dwight’s belongings to pack the delivery boy some clothes and the laptop that had been plugged in and playing videos the whole time David had been there into a backpack that he’d found. It fit around the books that the bag already held, which was good. David shouldered the backpack and lifted Dwight as carefully as possible.

#Dead by Daylight #dwight fairfield #david king #kingfield #still hate writing accents btw

[leonawriter]

To Change A Sombre Morrow (chapter ten)

Read it on AO3

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

Characters: Genesis, Sephiroth, Angeal, others.

Summary: Various people get to play the asshole. Some more intentionally than others. Genesis is vaguely ignorant - and unaware - and is starting to realise as much.

...

Genesis' mind turns into white static at the sudden addition of a familiar long blade unexpectedly appearing to clash against his own in the middle of his training.

His body responded automatically, patterns coming back by reflex while his mind is still struggling to catch up - not even Jenova cells at their strongest could recover that fast from a flash of fire to the face, a kick to the stomach area, his sword brought around to-

Nothing.

Adrenaline buzzes in his ears, a warning that something is wrong. The feeling that any moment now, there will be black feathers and silver hair. The conflict between the need to bring out his own wing for the ability to fly and to utilise the advanced combat capabilities it gave him and the agitated feeling that he was forgetting something, with how the wind didn't sting and the dust didn't dry his eyes or burn his skin-

There's a slight breeze as he turns around, only to see Sephiroth regarding him quite calmly from several feet away. Masamune is still drawn, but not attack-ready. He tilts his head, and the slight wind picks up his hair, obscuring his face even further. 

A Behemoth lay, sliced apart and completely motionless, on the ground between them, before disintegrating into pixels. The landscape stayed the same, although now that he was reminded that it was merely a digital representation of the Midgar wastes, a lot of things made much more sense.

"So. It seems your reaction to my presence wasn't merely a one off occurrence. I had wondered."

"If you wanted to spar, you could have just asked," Genesis bit back, nerves still on edge.

"That," Sephiroth said deliberately, "would have defeated the point entirely. And besides," he added, matter of fact, "you've been avoiding me again." 

Genesis' mouth opened to retort that no, he had not, but his hand tightened around Rapier's hilt. Remembered how his regained memories that had given him the unwanted gift of nightmares had left him unsure of how to handle his interactions for a time. He looked away, grimacing as he realised that they had noticed.

Avoidance hadn't been an issue in the past. His issues hadn't been the kind he'd felt the need to avoid people over, and in the few cases where they had been, it had been easy enough just to not bring up the problem, pretend it didn't exist. 

Being a deserter and fugitive had meant that the only times people had wanted to find him were when they wanted to hunt him down - and not usually to have a friendly discussion. As though he would have encouraged that sort of idea in the first place, at the time.

Waking up to a world post-Meteor had meant that he had been left to himself for the most part again. It was taken as a given that if you'd been part of SOLDIER, if anyone had worked for Shinra, then you'd need time to sort your head out.

Here and now... there was none of that. It seemed that he would constantly be discovering new ways in which his temporal displacement made life harder for him.

"...Honestly, I can't imagine what could have happened to you, to cause my presence to be that distressing." Sephiroth sounded... disturbed. Frustrated. Of course you wouldn't, was Genesis' immediate reaction, but that wouldn't do anything for either of them. "But if that is the case, then I will... remove myself."

Genesis closed his eyes, unsure who or what the surge of disgust and hatred brought about by those words was caused by or aimed at, as Sephiroth straightened, suddenly cold - no, withdrawn, that's what Cloud looks like whenever he's in one of his moods - and walked past him, dismissing his sword and terminating the program as he went, so that the environment around them dissolved into digital data as it turned back into the training room.

This is what I'm good at, isn't it? I push people away, and then I wonder why none of us can handle the pressure. Cloud's group had never been like this. Cloud's group had stuck together for as long as he'd known them. And before they'd been Cloud's group, Zack had done the same. I wonder if that's why all of this happened in the first place. 

They would probably know what to do, he thought bitterly. But the Goddess sent me.

"My friend, your desire is the giver of life, the Gift of the Goddess..."

Sephiroth paused, at the door.

"LOVELESS, again? You've moved to Act Three," he said, the words halting rather than the easy ribbing they'd once been.

"What else? But... no. I think we're still in the prologue."

Remembering what he'd said to Vincent, back in Nibelheim. Remembering how he looked at the calendars and found himself flicking through diaries and organisers, irritated at how slowly time passed, how much was still yet to happen, to be changed, to be stopped, and he felt like he had hardly moved, despite everything that he had accomplished.

"What an odd thing to say."

"Well, we still have a long way to go." He turned on his heel, to talk to Sephiroth's back rather than the wall. "I mean what I said before. If you want to spar, ask me. No one likes the ass who pokes at a person's issues just to see how they'll react," he said wryly.

"Oh? It almost sounds like you're speaking from experience."

Even knowing he was probably just referring to something relatively harmless, Genesis still flinched.

"I can't say I'm not fool enough anymore to say that's wrong," he mused, half in answer and half to himself.

Sephiroth huffed, head tilting forward slightly as he made the amused sound, before picking up his feet again and moving out of the training room altogether, but not before Genesis noticed that despite not knowing what he had been doing, some of the tension in Sephiroth's shoulders had loosened.

"Ha..."

Somehow, he didn't think that it could possibly be as simple as that.

...

"If it weren't for how you seem to have become allergic to doctors recently, I'd warn you away from the science department's floors," Angeal started saying the moment Genesis got in through the door of his office. "Actually, I'm still going to warn you to be careful."

He rolled his eyes, swept his hair away from his face, and leaned Rapier up against the wall before sitting heavily into his chair, and reaching for a pen, which he immediately started to tap onto the desk, taking some small pleasure in the fact that he knew it irritated his friend.

"I know that that already. They've been buzzing around like irritable wasps in white coats for a while now." Tap tap tap. He knew why, too, of course. Not that he was going to admit that any time soon. "The more pressing matter is why you're here. Don't you have an overexcitable puppy to be training?"

Angeal's brows raised, making Genesis wonder if he'd said something wrong, or if something had happened. 

"Lazard wanted you to look over these," Angeal said, waving a hand at a pile of files on his desk that he hadn't even noticed until then, "and I figured I'd stay to make sure you actually did."

Genesis flipped open the top file, only to find a nondescript, unfamiliar face staring back at him. A glance at the rest of the page showed him a name, some basic details, and notes from the Instructors that tested the cadets.

He opened up a few others, creating a small pile of chaos on his desk. Once or twice, a name or face stirred faint recollections in the back of his mind - years old, dusty memories - and even rarer, was the one time when he knew he remembered the prospective cadet, but that wasn't necessarily a good thing.

"Lazard seems to have mixed up which department he's running, then. This is SOLDIER, not human resources. Or-" He cut himself off. There was no way that saying that SOLDIER were the human resource would be taken well. 

Angeal rolled his eyes, smiling even though Genesis could tell that there was at least some annoyance in his friend, too.

"That's more or less what Sephiroth said, but at least he's able to get out of it with the excuse that they're sending him back off to the frontlines in the next day or so. And supposedly, according to Lazard at least, they seem to think that if they play things right, the war will be over soon, so they'll be able to be more picky when it comes to new recruits."

Genesis bit back a snort at the poor excuse the science department had come up with; if Shinra had the resources, then they would continue creating SOLDIERs, and if they had the SOLDIERs, then they would create their own wars. The one they'd had with Wutai had been that way.

His amusement bled out at the reminder of how little time he had left.

"And they expect us to be able to tell just by looking at paperwork?" he asked. Typical Shinra.

Not for the first time, he was struck by how strange it was that he was working for them again. 

"Maybe they just didn't want to terrorise the cadets so early into their training."

His hand stilled as his eyes passed over a photo of a cadet with blond hair, but it was too curly, too dark, the face wrong, and when he looked closer, the eyes were still a light brown. Had to remind himself that no, Cloud would not be here yet, because if nothing else Genesis had flown back, and Hojo had probably used a company helicopter to get as close as he could. Cloud, having none of that, would take longer. Far longer.

He had to assume that in the original timeline he'd come from, none of this had happened. He certainly couldn't remember being asked to do such a thing before, no matter how distant or close he'd ever been with any of the cadets. Shinra had vetted the SOLDIER intake on basic merits and a psychological assessment to ensure they'd make it through the mako injections, and any that hadn't made it past that, they didn't hear anything further of, and that didn't always mean they'd just gotten shunted into the infantry. 

Which meant that he might even recognise some of these names and faces, which should in theory give him an edge - in theory, at least.

In practice, all looking at the files was doing for him was piling frustration onto more frustration - the overwhelming realisation that despite having lured at least a good number of these men and women - teenagers still, here, the birth dates couldn't lie unless the candidates had, and the faces looked young sometimes - he hardly remembered who they were. Who they'd been.

He almost let out a shaky laugh, holding his face in the hand that wasn't turning the pages of the files.

I used them. 

He'd known before. He'd had plenty of time to come to terms with the fact, even before Zack had reminded him of what having SOLDIER pride even meant. He'd been reminded, oh so politely, when Deepground had 'requested' his aid, and made him aware of what else had been done with his genetic information.

They thought I cared. Perhaps I had, before. They were wrong. I only cared about myself.

"I worry about you, sometimes."

Genesis tensed, abruptly reminded of Angeal's presence, having become so immersed in himself and his memories that he'd forgotten he wasn't alone. 

"Perhaps you're right to," he muttered under his breath, not looking away from a face that he knew that if he stared at it long enough, he would remember something he wished best left forgotten.

"What was that?"

His eyes finally closed. "When the war of the beast's brings about the world's end, the goddess descends from the sky, wings of light and dark spread afar..."

They're sending us all off to die valiantly for their cause. They think that Sephiroth will continue to be the perfect toy soldier they modelled him into  being, never once thinking that he might become bigger than any of this, or realise that the chains that bind him are as flimsy as cardboard, like I did. 

His pen began to tap again, a smile, not entirely pleasant, playing on his lips.

"Genesis..."

Angeal's tone was worried again, but a different sort of worry. It was almost nostalgic, the way it reminded him of how Angeal always had worried too much when he'd been planning something reckless. It was too bad he wasn't going to be able to share those ideas of his this time around.

 "You're planning something again, aren't you," Angeal carried on. "And you aren't going to tell anyone what you're doing again either, are you?" His friend looked away, and sighed. "When you went off last time, we had no idea where you'd gone until Lazard told us. We had to ask. And when you came back..."

Angeal trailed off. For the first time perhaps, Genesis noticed how tired his friend was. 

...Honestly, I can't imagine what could have happened to you, to cause my presence to be that distressing. But if that is the case, then I will... remove myself.

"Angeal, I..."

He wanted, more than anything in that moment, to explain everything, let the words fall from his mouth like dumbapples over the fences and walls that he seemed to have put up without even having realised that he had been putting down the wood and bricks between them. A peace offering.

He closed his eyes for just one moment, and saw Banora burning in front of him as he watched - an empty town with nothing left to destroy, as the Turks had merely been destroying the evidence of his own crimes.

"Zack's been complaining that he was actually starting to get somewhere with you, you know. Keeps saying you look at him like you can see his potential."

He could almost laugh. 

How could he say that he sometimes had that look in his eye because he had seen their future - a future where Zack had achieved that potential, carried Angeal's Buster Sword, because Angeal was dead?

He could just imagine the arguments, the accusations, the dismissals, the weapons drawn...

Genesis shook his head.

"I'll see what I can do," he said instead. 

His mind wandered toward the date. It was late September, now. He felt like he was lying.

...

He'd left Edge and Midgar behind without having told anyone, not long after regaining his energy, and being able to move around without someone looking like they were going to hold him at sword point simply for stepping out of line.

It's a familiar route, to Banora. He could probably fly there in his sleep, like how a chocobo knew its way home.

The journey had still taken a while, though, but that'd mostly been because he'd made an effort not to fly near too many people, and in the past three years, people had been rebuilding, and creating entirely new towns. It had changed the landscape, and the world had seemed a different place.

He's sure there's a an old children's story along those lines. From before Shinra, but sanitised so that anything the company had been displeased with had been removed - about a man who slept for a hundred years inside a crystal, and who had woken up to find that nothing was familiar, and all his friends were old.

Banora itself, he'd found as he'd approached on the back of a truck, had not changed all that much, though. 

If anything, the Lifestream must have found it easier to burst forth here, coming up through ways that were already open. A few places seemed a little more worn away than before, but in general...

What was new, was the few huts that had sprung up near the orchards, people picking the apples, which had made his fingers twitch for his materia, because some of those were his trees - his, damn it - but he had forced himself to look away, to focus on what he'd come here for.

The caves were colder than he remembered, but the routes hadn't changed. 

Rapier had been right where he'd left it, where it had fallen after his fight with Zack. The once beautiful sword had been caked with dirt, with a few patches of rust in places that had become damp, but none of that had mattered. It was and had been an old friend, a constant he had been glad to see once more.

He could still remember wiping it down briefly before wrapping it up to clean it properly later, and leaving.

"Wha- hey! Be careful in here, these caves can be dangerous!"

He'd laughed, at the voice that had echoed in toward him. It must have been late on the surface, and the sun had always set away from the entrance, but it had never been all that dark inside, and he'd known the way like any child did their own playground. Their home.

"You don't need to worry about me," he'd said, bemused, as he'd come out.

The man, who had been hauling a heavy crate of apples, had turned. Backed away, first one step, then another. 

"You..." Fear had laced the man's voice. His eyes, glowing, were wide. "They said you were dead," he said. "What do you want with us? Shinra's gone!"

"Even if the morrow is barren of promises, nothing shall forestall my return..." He'd shaken his head. "Death and rumours of my demise have hardly held me back before. I fail to see why I should have adhered to them." He'd taken an apple, a single Banora White, while his other hand still held his old sword still in its wrappings. "As for your questions... nothing. I don't want anything from you."

He could still remember the terror in  the eyes of the former SOLDIER even weeks later, when he finally told Cloud, which had been while he was maintaining the sword back to perfect condition after its long disuse.

"I didn't merely recognise him," he'd said, in a light tone as though it wasn't important. As though it was simply some trivial matter, another item on the delivery list. "He served under me during the war. I'm fairly sure the only reason he didn't follow me when I encouraged desertion was something to do with not wanting to disappoint his family - saying that he'd attempt to work on Shinra from the inside."

Cloud hadn't said anything, although by the frown on his face he wasn't entirely unaffected. 

"The next time we saw each other," Genesis had carried on, harsh cracks in the edges of his carefree attitude appearing in both his voice and the more jagged movements he was making while cleaning, "I only saw him as an obstacle in my way. Honestly, he's lucky to be alive."

He'd told himself that was at least one positive in the entire situation. At least if you met the people you'd wronged, they were still alive to meet. You couldn't meet the ghosts you'd left behind.

After a while, he had resigned himself to the fact that he more than likely wasn't going to get any sort of reply. But then, Cloud was hardly the talkative type. Zack had been, would have said something already, but no matter how many of Zack's mannerisms he could see coming to the surface from time, Cloud wasn't Zack.

Then-

"I think... I think I know what you mean," Cloud had said. He'd looked over. Bright blue eyes had looked troubled, the same way that Genesis had started to recognise in any of them when they began to think too much of the past. "When we were fighting Shinra, I... for a long time, I didn't even really know who I was. But then when I did, when I remembered... I realised I'd probably been killing a lot of the people I once fought beside. Some of them... even recognised me. And I still had to keep fighting. It isn't the same, but..."

Understanding.

They were both traitors to their own people, just on different sides of history. One remembered with fear and the other looked up to. 

He'd nodded, and the subject had turned toward lighter subjects the next time anyone spoke.

...

Genesis walks out of Lazard's office and doesn't realise that he has his hand at his shoulder until Angeal asks him if it's giving him grief again. He shakes his head, and shrugs it off, because it hadn't been. 

Old habits were hard to kill, and it's easy to get lost in memories when events play out a little too similarly.

He'd been given his marching orders once again. To Wutai, and Fort Tamblin. He could still remember the way that Lazard had danced around the subject of what he would actually be doing the first time around; the way that they had both treated the briefing almost as a scene in some gaudy theatre production full of intrigue and betrayal.

One of the more dry derivative works of LOVELESS had focused on the politics of the countries at war, and the effect the heroes' actions had on the world. It had been both similar to, and nothing at all like, that.

This time, Lazard had glanced at him aside several times, words prodding lightly at prospective openings. Genesis had made a few pointed remarks, implications, loopholes in supposedly simple things.

Genesis Rhapsodos holds no love for Shinra, he had communicated with everything unsaid and implied. But he is a hero, no matter what manner of monster Shinra has made him, and Goddess help you if you try to make him anything less.

He knew the difference now. At least, wanted to think that.

But now - he brushed the hair from his face to keep his hand from going back to his shoulder, put on a smile, and kept walking.

...

He slips out of the Shinra building as it starts to grow dark, not bothering to change his clothes but walking with that exact sort of confidence that made people question what they were seeing, made them assume that he clearly had business being where he was.

It wasn't hard. It was something he'd had practice in since his childhood, after all, and had even encouraged Angeal to it when his friend had looked panicked enough that he would have been caught if he hadn't calmed down one time; Genesis would have been annoyed if he had been, given how Angeal, despite the difference in status, had been his friend. One of his only friends back then, at that. He'd preferred Angeal out of trouble, if possible.

The theatre he found wasn't in LOVELESS Avenue. Instead, his feet had taken him to somewhere between the slums and the lower class parts of the entertainment district. 

"When the war of the beasts brings about the world's end, the goddess descends from the sky," the man on the stage was saying. Genesis mouthed the words of the introduction to the act along with him - the bare bones of the story, the only thing that anyone could ever agree on, considering how many versions and derivative works there had been even at the time when it had been new. Now, even a slight change in wording could completely alter the tone of a scene.

It wasn't one of the expensive, extravagant productions to be found in one of the more upper class regions. Nor was it one of the philosophical, meaningful productions to be found in Junon, where the university students there used it as their outlet for exploration of the meaning of life.

The sets were shaky. The lines, often far more colloquial than Genesis was used to. Costumes were haphazard.

But the performance, despite everything else, had heart. For that, he could appreciate it, well worth his time far more than the easy viewing that he had been anticipating. A pleasant surprise.

Lost amid his own thoughts - about the play, their interpretation of it, the war, among other things - he knocks into someone on his way to the train that leads back to Sector Eight, and from there, the Shinra Building. He almost wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't heard the cut off cry as they fell.

He watches as she - and he even thinks he recognises her, auburn hair in a braid and light blue clothes - picks herself up again before he could even offer to help, if he had chosen to.

"Oh! I remember you," she said, "From the church, right?" She smiled. "Just passing through again, are you?"

Genesis raised his eyebrows at her. 

"Do you have a habit of remembering everyone who passes through that church?"

"No. Just the-" her face twisted for a moment, as though she were trying to figure out the right words to use. As though she's forgotten her script, said the part of him that was still riding the high of having come out of a halfway decent performance. "Interesting ones," she finished.

"Fascinating," Genesis drawled out. "Unfortunately, I don't have time to ask just how you find me interesting."

"That's all right. I'm sure we'll meet again."

The words followed him all the way back to his rooms in Shinra. She'd probably meant that given how they'd met by chance twice already in spite of Midgar being the sprawling metropolis it was, the probability was high that it would happen again.

A shiver ran down his spine, however, remembering the exact way that something about her had tugged on the edges of his perception - not quite there, but almost, like a word on the tip of his tongue. 

From the church, right?

It was her church. Or at least, we all think of it as hers. It's where Cloud found her...

He shrugged off his coat, and began to lay out his things so that they would be ready for the morning. They wouldn't leave until mid-morning, but it was still better to be prepared for every eventuality.

Some of the stitching was beginning to pull apart on the repair job he'd done when he'd arrived back that day; he would have to fix it again. 

But not tonight.

The goddess is laughing at me, he thought, just as he drifted off. There's something I'm not seeing.

#ff7 #final fantasy vii #ff7 stuff #Leona fic #to change a sombre morrow verse #oh hi there #and yes the fic was being worked on for a while :)

[pertinax--loculos]

Character Study: Jay (2.1)

[Breaking the second part into two parts of its own, cuz I kinda wanna rework what I wrote for the last two. Additonally, small tweak to the Plan: I’m thinking I’ll probably drop one of the nine prompts I had for each character, to make it an even 4/4 split over the two parts (plus as I’ve been mulling it over it’s basically happened that way naturally anyway lol). CW for swearing, as ever.]

4. Rivals Jay’s position within the Association meant that he was indispensable enough to be able to freelance, at least to an extent. Of course there were jobs he’d never be able to accept – mostly those involving direct competitors – but it was a good enough side hustle, especially because the jobs rarely required more than his equivalent of a mean look. Easy money.

Of course, he was far from the only freelancer in town.

Which resulted in situations like these.

He’d slipped silently into the living room of the guy he was supposed to shake down – some argument, or maybe a debt, Jay was long past asking too many questions – and found a figure poised by the side of the front window. He was well enough concealed that Jay might not have noticed him if it wasn’t for the serendipitous passing of a car, headlights sweeping across the room and throwing the silhouette into sharp relief.

Jay stopped, arranged his face into an easy smirk. “Becker.”

The figure spun around and cursed, colourfully and at length. “Fucking hell,” he finished in a mutter. “How the hell do you always manage to get inside without using a fucking door?”

Jay shrugged as he slinked forward a step. “Trade secret.”

“Right.” Becker had mirrored his forward movement, sliding back a step to maintain the distance between them. He stopped in the slanting light from the street outside; it illuminated him well enough that Jay could see that while his body language remained relaxed, his pale eyes were alert. “So you wanna toss for it?”

Jay’s smirk widened.

He lost the coin toss, which wasn’t great for his reputation, but at least meant that his night was freed up. Plus he got to exit, loudly, through the front door, which was novel in and of itself.

Becker knew as well as he did that it wasn’t the end of it – Becker’s employer would run out of either money or caution sooner rather than later – but neither of them were invested in the tasks beyond the payout. And both of them knew Jay wasn’t one to leave a job unfinished.

But for tonight he’d just revel in the unexpected free time. He ducked into an alley a couple of blocks away, walking around halfway down before he leaned against the wall and fished out his cigarettes. This was territory disputed enough for it to be practically neutral; he wasn’t going to be disturbed by some random dealers.

He was on his third cigarette when he heard footsteps approach. Jay slitted his eyes open just far enough to confirm his suspicion before he tipped his head back against the wall.

Becker drew up a good ten feet away, propping his hip against the skeleton of a long burned-out car. “Got a spare?”

Jay tossed the cigarettes towards him without opening his eyes. “Lemme guess. Appropriately lauded, you truly do live up to your reputation, thank you so much for protecting me, I’m gonna pass your name around to all my friends?”

Becker chuckled around his cigarette. “Usual song and dance.” He made a slight clucking sound, and Jay glanced over to catch the packet as he threw it back. “How pissed d’you reckon they’d be if they found out their safety was predicated on a coin toss?”

“Probably not as pissed as the ones whose delivery of a message is predicated on the same,” Jay said, grinning at him.

Becker ashed his cigarette off to the side, his gaze turning shrewd. “How the hell do you explain to them that you couldn’t do what they asked?”

“What do you mean?”

“Johns.” Becker’s voice was dry. “You gotta know the kinda reputation you have. With a rep like that, I’d imagine all your prospective employers expect you to get the job done.”

Jay raised an eyebrow, letting his smile sharpen into more of a smirk. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Oh, shut up.” Becker rolled his eyes. “You’re a fucking ghost, Johns. No signs of entry or exit, nothing broken, not so much as a hair out of place unless you want it that way. How do you do all that and then sell a failure to someone who’s paying you?”

“Ah, you gotta factor in failures,” Jay said, glancing down as he tapped the end of his cigarette. “It’s the only way to stop them from asking you to do the impossible. Plus,” – he looked back up to smirk at Becker again – “I gotta leave some work for the rest of you guys.”

Becker’s mouth quirked as he took a drag. “Naw, c’mon. I can get work on my own merits.”

“Only because I’m modulating my reputation,” Jay said gravely.

Becker snorted. “Maybe we should test your theory then. I could totally take you.”

“You fucking wish,” Jay retorted. “Apparently your recollection of our initial encounter has been altered by time. Do we need to refresh your memory?” He flicked his cigarette away and straightened; he didn’t miss the corresponding tension that lanced through Becker’s frame.

“Yeah, no,” he said, eyeing Jay carefully. “Two weeks in the hospital is not something I wanna repeat.”

“See? Not just a pretty face.” Jay flashed his teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I’d better get going. Got some stupid fucking rendezvous I gotta chaperone.”

Becker raised his eyebrows. “Off of Murphy’s? Two am?”

Jay huffed some air out his nose in a half-laugh as he started to turn away. “Guess I’ll see you there.”

“Better me than Wyatt.”

Jay glanced over his shoulder as he walked, his smile more genuine than he normally allowed. “Better you than anybody, really.”

“Don’t forget you still owe me a drink,” Becker called after him.

Jay laughed, loud and deliberate and a little too sincere. “Don’t forget you still owe me your life.”

Becker’s answering laugh trailed him out of the alley.

5. Skills Grant very nearly startled when Johns sauntered through the door less than an hour after he'd left. He just managed to conceal the reaction, spoke without looking up. "That was fast."

Johns's reply was haughty. "I told you it was a simple job."

Grant didn't bother hiding his response to that; he leaned back in his chair, twirling his pen between his fingers, and gave Johns an incredulous stare.

Johns met his gaze as he sauntered another couple of steps into the room, and Grant had to fight not to wince. The man carried himself with an arrogance that bordered on sickening, made worse by the fact it was entirely justified.

"The other... contractors I approached didn't seem to think it was so simple," Grant said, when Johns showed no signs of elaborating.

The corner of his mouth quirked up, the beginning of that signature smirk. "Should've approached me first."

"You're fucking expensive, Johns. I'm not gonna pay your rates if I can avoid it." Grant tried not acknowledge the fact he was lying; if half the stuff he'd heard about Jay Johns was true, he'd notice any deception. The only thing Grant really had going for him was that there was no reason for Johns to think he was anything but another client.

And that seemed to be working in his favour; Johns raised one shoulder, let it drop. "You get what you pay for."

"I can assume then that you have the item?"

Johns's eyes rolled upwards momentarily, before he stalked far enough forward to place a small box at the end of the table. Grant couldn't help himself tensing, and judging from the shape of Johns's smile, he didn't miss it.

"As promised," he drawled, entirely at ease. He twisted one hand almost idly, and a phone shimmered into being between his fingers. "Payment?"

"Will be wired when I confirm the authenticity," Grant said, pulling off a passably indifferent air.

The phone was replaced by a knife with incredible swiftness. Grant shifted just enough that he could stand without being impeded by the table.

"What." Johns's gaze was as flat as his voice.

"This is not some drug dealer spat," Grant said as evenly as he could. "An item like this requires verification. Surely you know that."

Somehow Johns managed to give the impression he was abruptly closer than he had been, even though Grant was certain he hadn't seen him move. He tried not to acknowledge the sudden thrum of his pulse in his ears.

"You'd better not try to screw me," Johns said, his voice dangerously pleasant.

"Please." Grant realised his pen had stilled; he resumed twirling it as he continued. "We're both professionals. You'll get your payment."

"Good." Johns stared at him for a long moment, and then turned and started for the door. He hesitated in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. "Cuz I know where you live."

Grant had relaxed enough that he was able to snort dismissively. "I don't live here, Johns."

"Oh, I know." That damned smirk was back, wide enough to show a flash of teeth. "You live over on Monaro Drive. Lovely little bungalow. Your roses are doing real well this year."

Well that was fucking unnerving. Grant didn't have the presence of mind to hide his shock; there was no way -- no way -- Johns could possibly know that.

The fucker's smirk was broad enough to nearly be called a grin. "Hope I don't see you again, Grant." He winked, and then he was gone.

An embarrassingly long few minutes passed before Grant recovered enough to pull out his phone. The woman answered on the second ring.

"So?"

"Forty-three minutes," Grant said, leaning over to pull the box towards him. He cracked it open to peer at the contents, unnecessarily. "And Deidre? He fucking knows where I live."

There was a pause. Grant was vaguely gratified that that seemed to have thrown her as well.

"It's okay," she said finally. "It's not gonna be a problem for much longer."

"You'd better fucking hope so." Grant glanced towards the front door, and then down at the box again. "Regardless, let me know when they've got him in custody."

"You wanna make contact?"

"Fuck no." Three different security systems, seven guards, lead-lined vault. It'll take a savant to do this in less than ninety minutes. Unless he can walk through walls. "But I think I'm gonna stay in a hotel until then."

#WIP: CASCADE #character study #original writing #writeblr #excerpt #ish

[thenamelesskitty-blog]

Always Listen to Your Mother, Especially If She Might Be An Oracle (part 1/2)

I was born to a deeply rural family. Where our property ended, the wilderness began. Our forested foothills trailed into mountains, which eventually became federal land, with no roads or houses between. We were—they were; my father was a child in this story—in the middle of nowhere. My forebears had seen enough war to like it that way.

The Katsoros family consisted of simple, earthy people. They worked hard. They produced fine leather. They went to church. They were not weird or mysterious or anything else that made them noteworthy…with the possible exception of my grandmother, Iro.

She was an interesting woman. She was polite and kind, respectful of the land and respected throughout the nearby village. Even so, “witch” may been applicable. (She once whispered “oracle” into my ear, too quiet for even the walls to hear.) Her oddity wasn’t blatant. There were no vague, riddle-laden prophecies. She didn’t wear a blindfold and toga; she wore homemade dresses that were just a little out of style. She didn’t cook potions; she cooked delicious kataifi. She was never called an oracle, but people knew to listen.

This breed of denied mysticism is a weird truth of Greece. Natives grow up with a trove of stories even they call mythological, but most can’t help but pay attention. These always weren’t fairy tales. They had once been religion and accepted reality, and something of that old faith winds through each strand of our DNA.

Some Greeks are good Christians who genuinely decry “pagan superstition.” (Most are, so far as I know.) A few are Atheist. Some are worldly people who have never given an honest thought to spirituality. But, way out there in the deep forests, amongst pools and mountains and monuments that personally witnessed the “mythological” days, you can’t help but feel something. You can’t help but sense something other than fish in the water. You can’t help but avoid a too-perfect clearing. And you can’t help but remember that some things are bigger than common sense. Your sense is very common indeed, limited by knowledge and experience. Whether you’d been around 10 or 80 years, Greece had a head start of millennia.

Even still, while the land may know better than any mortal, my dad’s mother was a close second. He certainly wasn’t about to correct her.

 “Stop right there, Vas!”

The boy froze with the front door ajar, caging his groan with a grimace and trying to figure out what he’d forgotten. His chores were done. He had no homework. It wasn’t cold enough for a jacket, even by his mother’s looser standards.

There was no time to figure it out. His mother strode towards him and he could only stare dumbly.

“Vasilhs Katsoros! You will not be traipsing off into the forest without your filhata.”

This time, he failed to restrain an annoyed exclamation, which earned him a harmless swat. In almost the same moment, he felt a leather cord dangle in front of his neck while familiar hands clasped it in back. “Mom, I’m not a baby! Adults don’t wear these.”

“Smart ones do,” she retorted. “And you even got to design yours to be ‘cool.’”

“There is nothing cool about wearing baby charms.”

“Well, while you’re being off being a big, safe loser in the forest, be careful and be home for dinner.” She kissed his hair and headed inside. (Dad recalled this interaction in great detail. His mom really did use the words “big, safe loser.” She sounds fantastic.)

Vas sighed, tucking the necklace under his shirt before some lost bus of cute girls broke down in front of the house and laughed at him. That kind of thing happened. He had seen television.

Speaking of which, Vas had also learned other things about girls. Crushes, hilarious mishaps, grand gestures, and so on. In the end, the hero would always a) get the girl, or b) end up with the girl who was right for him all along. He wanted in on that. He wasn’t sure what “that” was, exactly, but he thought a girl at school was pretty and dating surely meant that they would be best friends. Good deal.

So, per his fiction-fueled romantic wiles, he strode through the forest with intent and a pocket knife, and didn’t stop until he reached the grandest tree in this part of the woods: a beautiful, ancient oak with branches so broad and heavy they arched towards the ground all around, providing shelter to countless creatures and unbelievable climbing for small humans.

Despite its tremendous size and age, the tree was unmarred. There were no hearts or initials or graduation dates carved anywhere into its flesh. No scars from bears sharpening their claws or deer shedding their felt. That probably should have been a red flag. Vas, however, had split his attention between scrambling upward and finding somewhere to carve his initials alongside the girl’s.

The moment he found the perfect spot, he knew. It helped that he couldn’t easily climb higher, which would make it hard to show off his work if he tried. So, just over the gentle curves of a heart-like burl, he began to carve, smiling as he pictured his charming self from a narrator’s point of view.

By the time he finished the V, there seemed to be excessive sap. He may have expected it in spring, but not now.  It was easy to shrug off. When he started on the third line of the “K,” however, the knife slowed to a halt in acknowledgement of Vas’s growing unease.

As more and more sap ran from his passionate carvings, its unnatural hue became increasingly apparent. The scent of iron overwhelmed the rich, vague sweetness of proper oak. The boy cringed, staring at it. He hesitated awhile, and finally reached out slowly. Despite its thicker texture, the intense red sticking and unsticking between his fingers was unmistakable: the tree was bleeding.

Bleeding like a person.

Before he could process his horror, the undergrowth began to rustle.

When the disturbance began, ten-year-old dad was calmly curious from his safe perch, so unworried as to leave his gaze locked to the eerily crimson sap.

The rustling intensified, not so much in distance as in scope. Vines that had previously surrounded the great oak began slithering into the brush, pulled steadily by an unseen hand. Their deep roots followed, largely unbroken, and entire plants disappeared. All the while, every leaf for what sounded like miles began to rattle.

Vasilhs was rattled, too, and finally looked down to watch. Honest blue eyes widened in equally honest fright.

Saplings that stood taller than his current perch trembled all the way up their boldest branches. Their undergrowth was thinning, too. More roots snaked towards something unseen. Bushes crawled away. Still, the forest remained too thick to see far beyond the edge of the clearing.

Vas’s heart hammered.

The saplings themselves tilted to sick angles, leaning away from the rustling as though bowing to the horrified human. Then, they were dragged down too, disappearing into a strangely dense patch of flora he’d initially taken for a boulder.  

The air was starting to feel wrong.

The world was starting to sound wrong.

Something big was starting to breathe.

Whatever survival instincts the boy had managed to accumulate in his short life were conflicted: did he run or climb higher? Run or hide?  Luckily for him, he began moving before his inner voices came to an agreement. His feet thumped hard into soft, disturbed earth.

RUN.

He ran. To his unadulterated horror a tremendous slam vibrated the entire forest behind him, followed by another, and then another. Something had taken chase. His shoes slapped into the ground with increasing frequency, inaudible in his pursuer’s din.

Faster.

Too slow.

It’s going to get you.

Vas had never moved so fast, but frequent stumbles left him crying with all the frustrated terror of a wounded rabbit. At first, the few lucid thoughts he strung together blamed careless speed.

He didn’t know better—not for certain—until he hit the ground again. As his hands scrambled to shove him upright, one landed on a thick stem. Before he could launch his weight upward, the plant jerked back towards the thing hunting him, dragging his hand with it and throwing the boy bodily onto his face. When the vine became aware, somehow, of the human’s touch, it curled. Vas stared in mute horror as it wrapped around his hand.

His silence didn’t last long. Neither did the plant’s unfinished grip. It reached longingly after the screaming, sprinting child.

The ground dragged backward like a treadmill. Whenever he slowed for breath or otherwise fell behind, roots and branches grabbed at his ankles. The closer he was to whatever was behind him, the more active the treacherous plants became. Sometimes he slid backward, and his terror kept supplying a fresh reserve of strength. The sounds behind him felt all-encompassing. Vas imagined a grasping hand crawling after him on clawed fingers the size of trees. The boy flew past plants and plants dragged past him, consumed by the source of a growing roar he didn’t dare to look at.

You died if you looked back. TV taught him that, too.

His lungs burned. His muscles screamed. The world had blurred. He wasn’t sure whether everything was changing or he was seeing it through tears. Probably both. (He could hear it breathing.) His neck stung. Vas clawed at it as he ran. The vines he’d expected weren’t there: his throat was just raw from screaming. (It was stomping after him. It had footsteps like thunderclaps.) He couldn’t run any farther. He was going to fall. He was going to die. The forest was trying to retract its entire floor. His head swam.

Plants wrenched from under his feet and towards whatever was pulling them. It wanted to reel him in, too. (It was GROWING.) He skipped and stumbled, fighting to stay on his feet. Considering the outcome, the prospect of falling was just as scary as his pursuer. (It was CLOSER.)

An indefinable exclamation exploded from the boy’s mouth as he burst onto his family’s property. His waning sprint hardened once more as his feet pounded across the clearing. He didn’t slow until he reached the house’s door, pounding and bawling and screaming for help. For some reason, it didn’t occur to him to open it. Luckily, with that kind of furor, it didn’t take long for his mother to tear open the door.

She stared at her bloodstained child until she looked over his head to whatever had pursued him. (The horrific thing had stopped at the tree line.) Then, she paled. With an utterance Vas didn’t understand, she dragged him inside, slammed the door, and dropped to her knees behind him.

The child still snuffled and sobbed while his mother frantically looked him over for injury, seeking the source of the bloodbath marring his front side. When the “blood” stuck to her fingers like molasses, she lost what little color she’d yet retained, eyes widening even further. She was silent for some long seconds.

“Vasilhs,” she breathed. “What did you DO?”

“I didn’t-”

She grabbed his shoulders, started to speak, and then closed her eyes, trying to calm herself. It was a long time before she succeeded. At least, it felt that way to Vas. It was one of the scariest moments of his life.

“Vasilhs,” she began again, more softly, “Vasilhs…” She hugged him through a cracking sob. (That scared him more than his unseen hunter.)

“All the forest guards a dryad,” she whispered, “and you wear her blood. You…we, are in a great deal of trouble, Vas.”

#Greek #Greece #Mythology #Oracle #Dryad #EvilEye #Fantasy #Charm #Magick #Filhata #Scary #Creepypasta #Horror #Family #Feminist #shortstory #secretworldrp #swlrp #xenekatsaros #monster