#but I think I was deliberately vague enough that it won’t matter | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

boyfhee · 2 years

Text

🗗 THE REVENGE PACT | 11. you're so funny yn

w. one mention of animal abuse ( 2.2k ) there are 3 screenshots at the end !!

“your favourite flowers are lilies, caramel latte as preferred coffee order and uh— what’s your favourite movie again?” heeseung asks, waiting for you to get inside the car before buckling the seat belt.

“heeseung,” an exhausted sigh escapes your lips. “you’re overreacting.”

“just tell me. i won’t forget again.”

“anything that's a thriller,” and then you hear him repeat everything all over again, from your favourite flower to coffee order etcetera etcetera. another sigh rolls off your tongue as you shoot him a pitiful yet reassuring gaze. “taehyun isn’t as bad as you think.”

heeseung pauses for a brief second before starting his car. “you said he’ll feed me to bats.”

“i, uh— i may have been joking?” honestly, you didn't expect him to take your words seriously. “he has a temper but wouldn’t feed you to bats, i think.”

“you think?” there's a latent shift in the air, one that compels you to avoid his eyes deliberately. “better safe than sorry.” and with that, he drives off towards the location.

you thought today would be a good day. the weather is nice, you're meeting your friends, and most importantly, going out with heeseung. you don't know why the last past mattered so much, but a part of you had always found him 'cool' enough for you to seek a friend in him.

however, much to your disappointment, your day has been anything but good. you woke up late, spilled tea on the dress you planned to wear and ended up discarding it in the laundry bucket; and heeseung, he's panicking, internally.

he wears a relaxed expression but his eyes tell you otherwise. you saw him fiddling with the car keys earlier while waiting for you to come downstairs, something you've never seen before. then the repeated questions about your interests and dislikes constituted the base of all the conversations you have had with him since the morning.

as funny as it sounds— because who would've expected lee heesung to be like this— you find it a little tiresome knowing that there's someone in the world who believes people actually feed humans to bats.

the rest of the car ride is silent with occasional queries about taehyun, his major, and other stuff. you and heeseung decided to not make up a lie about first meetings and other related things. 'it makes everything sound less credible' — he reasoned, and you know he's right. 'lying is all about credibility. give as many details as you can, in fewer words. you should be able to convince the other party without giving them a loophole to question you upon.' — he continued, and you find it extremely eccentric how he possesses such a logical knowledge about lying, but you didn't dare question.

after a brief discussion, you both decided to tell the truth if they asked how you both met, which they wouldn't if they're smart enough. heeseung advised you to avoid any questions about falling in love and all, excusing it as private topics.

'if it comes to a point where the questions are unavoidable, give a vague response and counter it with another question, preferably something that both you and your friends usually talk about.' — heeseung explained, and you felt like you were taking a lesson to learn the exquisite art of lying.

heeseung didn't get out of his car until ten minutes later after arriving at the destined cafeteria. a soft chuckle escapes your mouth as you remember another set of his words from the conversation last night. 'leave it up to me,' — that's what he said, and now he's knee deep in the ocean of worries and nervousness.

you somehow manage to drag him inside before he delayed even more, greeting your friends as soon as your eyes settled on the table they were sitting at. though, unknown to you, a frown settled on heeseung's face as you leave him behind before running off to your friends.

the next fifteen minutes were dripping with awkwardness. heeseung has seemed to relax after taking the seats and getting over with the introduction. you notice a sour look on niki's facenand before you could've asked, seungkwan's words interject though.

“so, since when have you been dating yn?” seungkwan asks, taking a sip from his drink.

“since the day she told you?” it's a nonchalant reply, or rather, more of an assumption. “which was almost a week ago, i suppose.”

a pause. you let the silence take over as you consider the look on taehyun's face. it is not convincing, yet he doesn't look repulsed either. jungwon seems to have taken up heeseung's answer as the truth but taehyun doesn't look like he bought that. after all, what heeseung said was just a small assumption about the two events.

“what’s with the silence? i thought you all wanted to meet him?” you laugh, directing the words of mockery towards them. perhaps, this way they would give up on questioning further, if they have the plans to.

“what do you expect us to do, prepare a questionnaire?” jungwon sneers before shifting his gaze to your supposed boyfriend. “by the way, do you work?” and somewhere inside, you are glad he asked that because you have always been curious about heeseung's work life.

“yes and no?” your brows furrowed in confusion. “i do have a job but i don’t have to work everyday.” that sounds exactly like the work you would apply for.

another string of silence follows, though it's disturbed almost immediately as niki steals the last piece of short cake on the table, causing a ruckus between him and jungwon.

you'd be lying if you claimed to not miss this. you got so caught up with moving out and part time jobs that you forgot what it felt like hanging out with your friends. riki sends you pictures everytime they go out, seungkwan's posts are captioned about how they miss you, in contrast to which, jungwon replies how your absence is actually a good radiance for him.

you can't help but smile at the boys, a smile that doesn't go unnoticed by heeseung, as seungkwan pretends as if he's no longer related to jungwon and riki. amidst all, you fail to notice the silence that engulfed taehyun in its blanket.

“do you love yn?” and the silence settles once again as taehyun directs hisnwords towards heeseung. “love, like— whatever it is— do you?”

“hyun, don’t you think this is—”

“a bit private? yeah. but i don’t want this to turn out like your previous relationship.” he cuts you off immediately. there's a hint of annoyance evident in his voice and you're sure heeseung knows that too. “so tell me, do you love yn?”

a long drawn pause follows. you tell heeseung that he doesn't have to answer because, in the end, you don't expect any answer from him.

it's a fake relationship. there's no love, he doesn't even like you, maybe, and perhaps, when this ends, you'd be strangers once again. strangers who only seek each other when it's about rent. so, after all, taehyun's question was invalid, and you would love to save heeseung from the trouble but he decided to take the matter in his own hands.

“i don’t know about love but, yes, i do like her." you scoff internally, surprised at how confidently he lies, as if it's the truth. “i like yn enough to fall in love with her, if that’s what you’re asking. i’m not sure if this is the answer you were expecting. yn never told me about her previous relationship but, i can assure i would never hurt yn.”

you feel his hand slide into yours from under the table as if taehyun is able to see that too. you're not repulsed, of course, anything to present a credible lie. however, you know this is fake, and you don't understand why your heartbeat accelerated as those words left heeseung's mouth.

“if i do, you can feed me to the bats.” heeseung mumbles and you swear you saw the look of confusion and disgust on jungwon's face.

taehyun chuckles. “where does that come from?”

“uh, someone told me you feed people to bats—”

“he does.” niki intervenes. “and i feed them to my chickens.”

“guys, can we not abuse animals?” you thought it was better to stop them before the two teamed up against you for spreading eeod rumoirs. “anyway, hyun, i appreciate your concern, but heeseung has been the only one by my side when i moved out.”

“of course, i had you all, but i could only depend so much on my friends, right? my mom stopped caring, i couldn’t ask you to help me navigate through the new streets or settle down, because you were all busy with studies. that time, heeseung was the only one who helped me.” there's an unreadable expression on heeseung's face. without giving it much thought, you simply continued with your words.

“yeah, he was a bit annoying when it came to rent, but that’s just every other landlord, isn’t it? i know, i complained a lot about it, called him names, but he was the only one who helped me; he helped me more than my own boyfriend.” heeseung doesn't know what he hates more; the fact that this is all fake, or the way you know this is fake and yet chose to tell the truth.

because out of everything you said, not a single word is a lie. heeseung recalls the day he was at your door to tell you to turn down the noise from whatever you've been doing, only to find you unpacking your boxes and moving the stuff around, all with a bunch of assignments lying stray on the tiled floors as you took your turns with studying and settling. that was the first time heeseung helped you.

and he swore it would be the last as well until you got lost on your way back from the supermarket and called heeseung as it got even darker. that day, you treated him ice cream as he explained you the way around the confusing streets through the map on his phone.

he thought it was useless, for you wouldn't owe him a thing. you don't even pay your rent in time, let alone owing him one for all the favours. all because he didn't know you remember them and place him above everyone else in your life, despite claiming to hate him with all you've got.

“just, trust him, okay? you may have your doubts, i have too, especially after what happened with junhwan. i’m scared to fall in love, but i trust heeseung with myself; and i think you all should too.” once again, it's the truth and you hope heeseung knows that. above all your differences, you want him to know that you do trust him, and you'd like it if he'd trust you a bit as well. “that’s all i’m asking for.”

“that sounded like your wedding vows. are you sure you aren’t in love?” jungwon gags after the deafening silence that followed after your little request.

“shut up.” you deadpan.

“i will run you over if you make her sad,” that's riki, and you don't know why he's being so cold, because the riki you know would never leave the opportunity to befriend your boyfriend and narrate all your embarrassing moments to him. at least, that's what he did with junhwan.

“suit yourself.” heeseung shrugs, a faint smile dancing on his face. “but, i’m sure you wouldn’t need to.” you don't know why your heart fluttered at those words.

the next hour went by in useless tasks. studies, families, you learnt that heeseung has an older brother, which is a surprise because he often acts like a spoiled kid. your friends spent a good twenty minutes talking shit about both your and heeseung's mom, and you're glad there's one thing you all agree with.

'i think both of your moms would love each other.' — seungkwan joked.

'but wouldn't that make yn and heeseung siblings?' — and jungwon took it in a whole another direction.

it's nice, you had never seen heeseung smile so much, and you realise that behind his now good-for-something handsome face was an adorable smile, even though you're shy to admit it publicly that his smile is cute.

“hee," you call, and god, a part of heeseung ascends as he hears the nickname you had for him. he doesn't think it's the first time someone has called him that, but for some reason, it always sounds more saccharine when you say it. "can we stop by the stationary on the way?"

heeseung nods, not bothering enough to voice his reply, for his eyes were fixed on the youngest one amongst the group. “is it just me or does niki look mad?”

“he’s always like that.” actually, he isn't, and you don't know why but you don't feel like explaining it to heeseung— not like you know the reason behind his peculiar behaviour. “oh and kwan, send me literature notes from yesterday.”

“see, you should start attending classes instead of getting raile—” seungkwan went home with a broken nose that day.

PREV | NEXT | MASTERLIST

PRECIS. lee heeseung is the handsome yet good for nothing mysterious boy living a floor below you, who dropped out of college and is living quite a lavish life. when you get fired from your job, ending up struggling to make your ends meet and failing to pay the rent, heeseung offers you rather an eccentric proposal : pay the rent or be his girlfriend.

250 notes · View notes

eviltothecore13 · 1 year

Text

I hate that people see “Marvel” and think “MCU” now instead of all the great things the comics have done over the years.

Marvel comics had Spider-Man cheering on anti-Vietnam-War protestors in the 60s and the MCU gets US military support and funding?

Tony Stark in the comics (while still unbearable in the hands of SOME writers) is canonically bi and had alcoholism handled actually seriously and not made into a joke in the original Demon In A Bottle story whereas the Iron Man films chose to portray it as him making an idiot of himself at parties lolisn’tthatfunny instead. Not to mention that the reason he was written as a weapons manufacturer initially in the comics was that Stan Lee knew his audience was mostly fairly progressive young people and was deliberately choosing the person they would hate the most, as a "can I convincingly make this guy become a hero?" challenge--and the story is meant to be about a weapons manufacturer realising the horrible consequences of his actions and deciding to stop making weapons and use technology for good instead--but the original anti-military script of the first Iron Man film got edited beyond recognition because of that US military funding thing, and the films sort of waved vaguely in the direction of him no longer making weapons and then forgot all about it and had him keep doing it? (Also they expected us to laugh at him making a rape joke. WTF.)

They made canonically Jewish-Romani characters into white Christians working for HYDRA. (They also added a whole “oh HYDRA and the Red Skull just worked with the Nazis to gain power, they didn’t agree with the bigotry” thing presumably either so they didn’t have to address themes of bigotry and show their heroes fighting bigots, or to tone HYDRA down enough to sell merch of them, or both--when comics!Red Skull was very much explicitly a fanatical Nazi racist homophobe etc. I’m pretty sure they even tried to sell “Hail HYDRA” merch.)

I keep seeing talk of the X-Men joining the MCU and I just...do not trust them to adapt Magneto properly at this point at all. Or to adapt stories like “God Loves, Man Kills” or similar classic X-Men stories.

For that matter, while I’m not keen on some of the recent direction of the X-Men comics (WHY did they have Xavier and Magneto on the same council as Sinister, NO even remotely sympathetic character should work with Nazis, ESPECIALLY not a Jewish Holocaust survivor! also they seem to have practically made Xavier and Moira McTaggart into scheming supervillains at this point and like...they were both morally grey but I don’t think there was ever any need to take things THAT far...especially with Xavier it also kind of ruins his whole dynamic with Magneto, Magneto is meant to respect/even admire him to some extent and that doesn’t work if Xavier doesn’t have a single admirable trait...I know he was always secretive and did some morally questionable things but him and Moira both feel like different characters recently to in, say, Claremont’s era), they DO have Logan/Scott/Jean as a canon poly relationship, and also Kate Pryde--somehow I don’t think MCU will ever really have an explicitly bi Jewish pirate woman protagonist...

And yet people think of the MCU when they think “Marvel” and you see it in posts like “can’t believe anyone expects to see men kissing in Marvel” when we’ve had men kissing in Marvel for decades, it’s the MCU who won’t portray the characters they’re adapting properly...will “Marvel” ever stop being associated in people’s minds with “movies that are mostly CGI that have an explosion every five minutes and don’t pause to spend much if any time on character development or emotional moments”?

#the most recent MCU thing I've watched and actually enjoyed was Black Panther #though I think Martin Freeman's character was unnecessary #I barely know what they're doing anymore #I've heard good things about some of the TV shows?#but the films have really lost my interest

17 notes · View notes

breadvidence · 5 months

Text

DAMMIT I.IV

On AO3

SUMMARY: Two suicidal old men with moral scrupulosity in a three-legged potato sack race towards domesticity. Dallas 2014/Brick crossover, all adaptation decisions arbitrary.

Note: To experience the final scene as the author did writing it, get as drunk as Grantaire at midmorning and listen to “Mamma Mia” by ABBA on repeat. Warnings for suicidal ideation, homophobia.

Javert fails to intimidate his new therapist, a prune of a woman who looks as if she has weathered a Methuselah’s time of worse behavior than his. He likes her no better than the last, continues in his ambivalence about whether the profession is respectable, and will attend their sessions because they have been scheduled on his behalf as part of the discharge process. He has interrogated enough witnesses to recognize when he is being handled, and to come to the unfavorable realization that he is one of the chatty ones, the kind that play out the rope themselves. It mollifies him somewhat when she lets him ramble about Valjean, and annoys him to know that she’s deliberately letting him decompress from topics he likes less.

“Fine,” he admits the second session. “I’m frustrated. That’s not his fault.”

She looks attentive. The bitch has gotten blood, already, on the topic of childhood, which he has thus far refused to acknowledge as having any significance to his adult self.

“So he won’t offer an opinion,” he goes on. “I know he won’t. Well, I shouldn’t expect him to, then.”

The therapist makes a note. “He doesn’t offer—do you ask?”

“I don’t like asking questions,” he replies, and cannot account for the shame that follows. He pushes past this, ventures, “It’s unfair to him that I’m being a dick, isn’t it? When he hasn’t had the chance to…” He makes a vague gesture, lost to describe what he actually wants from Valjean. “Though when I was direct with him, he spent a week in hiding. Ah, well, I say direct, it might have been taken as—aggressive. I didn’t mean to be. I was very… startled.”

“Hmm,” replies the therapist.

“I’m not defending myself,” Javert says, defensive. “Anyway, has it been a God damned hour yet?”

⁂

Ignorance and poverty have been the antagonists of Jean Valjean’s life. Another letter of denial from the Comptroller of Public Accounts in the matter of releasing the factory and related properties has him wondering if he ought to allow Susan Combs a special seat at a table populated otherwise by abstract concepts. Yes, the liquid assets are more than adequate for a young woman of Cosette’s sensible and modest temperament; yes, if he looks at the matter square, he could have left her with nothing but his cash on hand and been satisfied that she would graduate from medical school with no debts. Regardless, while he is a man of few wants, what he wants for Cosette he pursues voraciously. He takes this latest letter into his study and unlocks the bottom drawer in which the papers related to this matter are secreted—the names Jean Valjean and Fantine appear on them, and he is not yet ready to hear how they sound when spoken by Cosette’s sweet voice.

A chime—a message from Javert. The man’s name in direct juxtaposition with the bank statement the phone sits on top of makes him think, perhaps for the first time, about the man’s opinion; namely, what his reaction would be to Jean Valjean’s withholding information about the fortune from Cosette, though legally it is in her name only, and he ought not have access to it, courtesy his status as a dead man. A plain statement of that’s fucked up, perhaps, and confusion. Perhaps? He wonders if he ought to make some study of the man’s psyche, if nothing else to be able to guess at his reactions; he has not yet managed to disentangle himself, might not anytime soon, and the surprises are never pleasant when he fails to predict Javert’s behavior.

There’s been a shift in demeanor: he would call it presumption, were it not also submissive: Javert has taken to asking direct questions, what are almost requests for judgment. Jean Valjean abhors the role of judge and spurns it, to no effect. Over a surprisingly decent meal—he makes excellent rice—Javert had looked up and asked, Do you think that this Enjolras boy deserves to go to prison? Despite receiving empty words in response, he persisted—not in the moment, when he accepted what conversational switchback he was set on, but overall. The next attempt to engage him is more impersonal, Do you think we should be involved in this Iraq situation?

The third is agonizingly intimate, delivered over a passable shrimp paella. “Do you think suicide is a sin?”

This would not be the first time Javert forced him to jump out a window, and Jean Valjean considers it. There are topics on which he believes himself to firmly grasp not the theory of the moral problem so much as the consequences, and he would discuss that; he rather thinks the consequences in this case are clear, and that it would be belittling to Javert should he act as if the man, with all his suffering, did not know them. Cautious, he says, “‘Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.’ There is no death that He does not attend.”

“What a direct answer,” Javert replies, with a rough noise that is almost a laugh.

The sarcasm pricks, when Jean Valjean has spoken more clearly than is comfortable. “Fine. Yes, it’s a sin.”

Javert looks at him with something in his eyes that is uncharacteristically obscure, and says, “Thank you.”

Perhaps it is not obscure—perhaps Jean Valjean does not want to understand. He will contemplate it later. At the moment, he suppresses his own sarcasm, the question Are you thanking me for calling you a sinner?, because he knows that he will not like the answer—no, that is not what Javert wanted from him, nor what he got. He hauls them onto the next topic, bland, Bible translation preferences.

But—“I’m a thief,” Jean Valjean blurts, while he is washing the dishes.

Javert, who is on the couch with his ever-bothersome left leg elevated on cushions, squints at him. “Okay. What did you steal this time?”

“Not recently,” he clarifies, and because he cannot say you should not view me as a moral authority without openly acknowledging the dynamic between them, he falls silent.

Javert says, “You’re really more of a fraudster, at this point.”

“I trust your professional judgment,” replies Jean Valjean, who does not feel bad about the fraud at all, but has suffered under the weight of his thieving.

“You still think of yourself that way,” Javert says, as if musing aloud. “As a thief. I know—I, ah—you are technically a fugitive, a felon, a criminal. All that. But—”

“I am,” Jean Valjean interrupts him, who suspects but has been saved the confirmation of what his old pursuer thinks is within him, that has earned him reprieve, and seen the old legal tiger tear himself with his own unforgiving fangs. In any case, this I am is not something that pains him to say to Javert. The man already knows; there is relief in the honesty, to hear, You are a criminal, and say, Yes. It could not suffice for his conscience—nothing would, until the day Cosette was freed entirely of his shadow—but served for it like ice on a canker. “All that I have done that might be of good—what little use I’ve been to others—has been in repentance of my crimes. I was the worst of wretches, and sinned against the best of men.”

“Seems like—” Javert’s voice is low, almost a mumble. “—if you’re such a penitent, you could’ve simply served your time.”

“What penance would that be? In prison I would’ve only become more wretched still.” Jean Valjean puts away the last of the dishes in a silence that is not uncomfortable—for him, at least.

Jean Valjean, in reflection upon that evening, dislikes the vulnerability he allowed himself, and has shied away from analysis of that obscure, earnest look after all, for discomfort over the warmth it prompts. He puts aside his paperwork in favor of seeing what this strange mess of a man wants to share with him today

New outpatient psychiatrist looked at my med list and said yikes, Javert has texted him. Literally yikes Fauchelevent. yikes!

Jean Valjean does himself no credit with the surge of validation which this occasions. He tells himself that this is a time for sympathy. The fact that Javert has texted rather than waiting for their next in-person conversation indicates great disorder. He sends, Do you want to talk?

No why would I

He contemplates. I am sorry.

Yikes

So you said.

An hour later, Javert texts, What’s next I question the surgeon on how many pieces of metal should go in my spine. Do I have a fucking medical degree? I do not Fauchelevent. Doctors aren’t respected because they dont know what the hell they’re doing. Right?

People get second opinions on surgeries, Jean Valjean offers.

It is some time before Javert texts, Guess next time I am going to do myself grievous bodily harm detach my pelvis from my spine again or w/e I’ll make sure to research beforehand you know in case i survive for the best doc and request that guy

That would be your right, Jean Valjean replies. He should prepare his documents to re-file so that he can regain control of his own fucking factory, and he wants to focus on that, but he sets the task aside again as he waits for a response.

What if the new psychiatrist is the one whos wrong?

Jean Valjean struggles against his personal distaste for the medical establishment, aware that Javert’s continued survival is as much a surprise from the mental perspective as the bodily. Those who take to bridges are often certain of their path into the water, and make a second offer if the first is refused. He fumbles over the text, uncomfortable, too, about having his words be so permanent. I suppose you will have to see how you feel.

☹️, Javert sends.

Jean Valjean stares at this text as if it holds terrible importance. He has known other people of their generation who use emojis liberally, but it is the first he has ever received from Javert. His instinct to respond with lol is surely incorrect. He thumbs through to his contact card, taps his number, impatiently waits for the call to connect, and asks, “Do you need someone to be there in person?”

A long silence hums over the line. “Valjean, what would you do if I sent two sad faces?”

Jean Valjean would almost call the tone—no, he does not know. He will not say. He recalls it to mind each time, in the following two weeks, that Javert acts an entire ass. Titrating down on medications does not treat him well, and by God, does he pass on the suffering.

⁂

Javert has testified for the plaintiffs in three of this prosector’s cases, who looks at the affidavit for non-prosecution on his desk as if presented with a fresh log of shit.

“You’ll find it doesn’t contradict my original report,” Javert says, keeping his tone level.

The prosecutor looks startled. “Of course. I’m sure it’s all perfectly in order. But—you’re a hard-ass. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never known you to say a word on the stand that could be construed as opinion rather than fact, but I’ve heard you talk outside the courtroom, too. Why wouldn’t you want these jackasses strung up?”

“That question is answered in the affidavit,” Javert replies.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, but in legalese. C’mon.” He picks up the stack of paper, but doesn’t start to read.

Nowhere in those documents does Javert perjure himself, but that was the work of many days of picking agonizingly between phrases and a lawyer’s review. He has no faith in his ability to elide Valjean’s role in his escape without resorting to outright falsehood if questioned directly in a trial setting. The argument in the affidavit that mitigating circumstances and his lack of injuries remove criminal culpability from his alleged assailants does not reflect his sincere thoughts on the case, but he can conceptualize that reading of the circumstances. The sin is lesser than of breaking his oath on the stand. He has never respected victims who declined to prosecute, and has always taken satisfaction in knowing the state would take their place, ensuring the injury to society would be righted; given his reasons are not in the pursuit of justice, there is some comfort that this is a gesture he makes, and not a choice.

“If nothing else,” says the prosecutor, into the silence, “don’t you want to see them get what’s coming to them for fucking with you? With the police?”

“Retaliation has no place in the justice system.” It is a relief to be able to say something he has always believed, if imperfectly understood. He levers himself to his feet and does not miss how the prosecutor’s eyes flick to the crutches. “Of course I’ll answer a subpoena if one is issued.”

“But you’re making no promises that you won’t be a better witness for the defense than for me, eh?” He stands and holds out his hand to shake, then withdraws when he realizes that Javert’s are both occupied. “Frankly, it might work out for the best. Their friend getting shot makes them too damn sympathetic. A jury could be more open to finding them guilty of lesser crimes. Not that it’ll get that far—mark me, at this rate we’ll offer them some petty misdemeanor charges, and they’ll take the pleas.”

“You have my contact information if you need clarification,” Javert replies, and leaves before the unease stirring in his gut becomes conscious thought.

In the car, he leans his forearms against the steering wheel and finds he needs a moment to press his face into his hands and breathe. In the past, the prosecutor’s words would have been something to dismiss, implications quiet enough to not hear. So he worries more about the win than the correctness of the charges; so; so. So. Javert shakes it off. He has to be home; he has a delivery coming. He has not entirely lost the talent of bottling away cognitive dissonance and does so now.

He has purchased a dining room set because it is practical; he has had a guest, it has been awkward and inconvenient to make the desk or couch serve for the meal, and if he is going to be the kind of man who invites people into his home—or a person, anyway—he ought to check the boxes a host should check. It stings his pride to ask the delivery driver to help shift all the furniture into its new place, but his pride is a much deflated quantity these days in any case. He intends to make no particular point about it when Valjean comes over.

Valjean tries to pay for it.

Javert maintains an expression of perfect blankness. “I just got the set. I’m not looking to sell.”

“I don’t want it,” Valjean says, in evident pain. “I mean—you didn’t have to—for my sake—”

“I have more free time,” Javert interrupts. Approaching this more difficult line to deliver, he finds by couching it in purely theoretical terms he can maintain a level tone as he continues, “I might invite old colleagues over.”

Valjean’s mouth o’s, his warm skin tone takes to a flush beautifully. “I—I didn’t mean to presume—of course you might—I’m sure they’ll appreciate your cooking—”

Javert, in suppressing his reaction, feels the moment his lips press a little too tightly together.

Damn the old cat, Valjean catches it, his eyes narrow. In disbelief, he asks, “Are you screwing with me?”

Javert gestures at himself, eyebrows up: me?

“You are. No, don’t dissemble, you’re bad at it.”

He shakes out a silent laugh. “Excuse me, sir, I spent years looking at that shitty neck tattoo and pretending I didn’t absolutely know your identity. I am an excellent dissembler.”

“Javert,” says Valjean, very gently. “You used to grimace at me when we passed on the street as if I’d run over your dog then lied about it. You would literally shake your head.”

“I was always polite to you,” he protests.

Valjean touches his shoulder with an open hand in a comforting gesture that distracts him terribly, and says, “No, you were always proper. —You’re really not going to take my money.”

“Never,” Javert replies, with a liar’s stutter and great confusion: he does not know which of them would be the whore should he say, Keep your hand on me and you can refurbish this whole goddamn apartment. Just that, light fingers over clothes. He might excuse the response, were it skin on skin; he hasn’t gone this long without a fuck since he was sixteen. But—no. An innocuous part of the body, a barrier of fabric, Valjean’s warmth. It is not the first time they have touched, but now he is not profoundly drugged. Ah, he thinks. Shit. But there is no time to reflect. He can still milk some harassment out of this conversation, and on occasion his mockery makes Valjean smile, or even laugh.

The reflection catches him later. He is reminded of his first crush, his eleven-year-old self’s terror in learning what a faggot really was, except whatever’s waking now is even more vulnerable and idiotic than a cock. He’s disconcerted. All the same, a deformed mooncalf of an affection hardly ranks on his scale of emotional problems. There’s no fear, not even the wariness which comes with the risk of a heterosexual man catching a straying glance; if Valjean didn’t beat the shit out of him for the crude pass he made in the nineties, he won’t go to gay panic now. He plays a while with the idea of Valjean’s pity and what might come of it until he realizes the inherent shame of having his hand on his cock and another man’s body in his head has a nuance that does trouble him. He chases the discomfort but cannot bring it to bay. If he wanted to make a moral objection over beating off to Valjean, it really ought to have been back in the eighties, though even he doesn’t blame the young man he was for being too distracted by those muscles to grasp the ethical problem of desiring to take the dick of a prisoner under his authority.

He thinks, a little wistful, about the prison riot fantasies of his teenaged self. Ah—no, he most definitely shouldn’t get off to those. It’s certainly disgraceful, inarguably sinful, probably immoral, and embarrassing to boot. An entirely different problem than the one that has him wilting now. Is there a way to text a question to Valjean that will illuminate this problem without embarrassing the man? Possibly. Damned if it’s worth the effort of figuring it out, though. He would sacrifice his freedom to Javert’s duty, there might even be a road which ends with his cock in Javert’s mouth, but the sweet bastard won’t give him what he wants: a shred of his moral sanctity. His answer to Javert’s question about suicide appears to have been a fluke; there’s been no repeat.

Deposition this week, is the message he sends. Busy etc.

Jean Valjean responds with Of course… Let me know when you’re free.

⁂

It has been eight days since he last saw Cosette in person and three days since they spoke over the phone. She texted him today Papa its been a week!! letsplease have lunch. Of course he responded immediately with prevarications. He is debating whether a week colloquially might mean more than seven days. He has asked Google. He has even considered texting Javert for his opinion, but it has been five days since they spoke, and it is possible that whatever the man hopes to gain from his offer of friendship he has finally resigned himself to not getting.

Cosette’s text is timestamped 8:09AM, his reply 8:13AM, and the clock on the wall tells him now it is eleven o’ clock, with the dark outside delivering the shock that it is not late morning, but night. He has not even got out of his sleep clothes.

The knock on the apartment door has him halfway to the window with the fire escape before he registers why; the rhythm, the harshness, on its tail will surely come a barked police, we have a warrant. He imagines Javert’s silence as indicative of a breakdown, of confession—or—camera footage from the riot finally being traced back to him, though he kept his face covered; it would not be the first time he was recognized by his body, he thinks, somewhat hysterically. The knock comes again, but—more hesitant.

So be it. “Coming,” he calls, and goes.

Well, that would be why the policeman’s knock, he thinks, looking up into Javert’s face. It should not be a shock; he is the only person beside Cosette who knows to find Jean Valjean at the Southlake address. Only, they have never between them made the least hint that his visits to Javert’s apartment should be reciprocated, and what is technically an open invitation was meant for one purpose, which this man can no longer fulfill. Jean Valjean stands a moment merely observing him, with the hair standing up on his neck. To an unfamiliar eye, there’s nothing here to remark on; merely a man in a suit, buttoned-up, hair neat, expression grave. Except the tie is a little undone, and askew. He leans his shoulder against the jamb in an abrupt motion, losing his balance on the crutches as he hasn’t since the first few days he was on them.

“Good Christ,” says Jean Valjean, and tries to put himself under Javert’s arm, to support him into the apartment.

Javert does not—quite—hit him, but the shove is more than a reaction to an unwanted and unexpected touch. His expression flickers to what is almost disgust before it dies again.

“All right,” Jean Valjean says, in a soothing tone that he used on Cosette when she was in one of her rare tantrums. He moves out of the way. “Please come in.” He does not ask, Why are you here; they cannot avoid the answer, but he need not prompt it.

Javert enters and stands at the center of the room with his head bowed, without having made the least observation of his surroundings. He takes no heed when Jean Valjean shuts the door and circles around to stand in front of him. He says to the floor, “I’m a perjurer.” His tone is cold, and his voice slurs in a way that might’ve been drunken, but there’s no smell of it on him. His accent has shifted further East into the Bible Belt than Texas, which Jean Valjean associates with his most drugged moments.

“Okay. Did you take anything before you came over? Any of your medication?” He ducks his head, trying to get a better look at Javert’s pupils.

He turns his face aside, bruised eyelids low, which is unhelpful—hopefully not deliberately so. “Do you think of me as someone who would drive under the influence?”

“Sometimes we make unethical decisions not because of who we are but because of the situation we are in. You don’t have to answer the question.” He seems too coherent for overdose, at least. “Will you sit down? You aren’t steady on your feet right now.”

He straightens on the crutches, as if to prove something, and sighs deeply. “‘A false witness shall be punished, and he who breathes out lies shall not escape.’ Is that the proverb?”

Not quite, but that does not seem like the salient point. “Javert.”

“‘Do not murder, do not commit adultery, do not steal, do not bear false witness, honor your father and mother’—shit, Valjean, I ought to find something to steal, for completeness’ sake.” His lips twitch up over his teeth, fall flat again. “Ah, wait, did I miss one? Idolatry?”

“The story of the rich man seems more my concern,” he replies, and reaches out. “Please, Javert.”

He steps backwards. “But I’m being false now, too. It’s not God I’m fucked up over. I’ve made a mockery of justice. They could tell. The prosecution and the defense are both cautious of me. Bad witness. Scattered, hesitant. Unstable. The whole truth—hah! Do you know how often I’ve been in court? How many depositions I’ve given? I know these fucking people. They know I’m a suicide, but now they think—but that’s for the best. If they think I’ve gone insane, they won’t know I’m a liar.”

He gathers the deposition went poorly.

“It would have been one—one thing only—one moment. A single decision. Then death, then Hell, but not this hell. It’s ongoing. This, this—” He spits a profanity, too garbled to distinguish. “I don’t blame you, but—you son of a bitch—I want to.” His voice has ratcheted higher. There are neighbors to think of.

“When did you last sleep?” Jean Valjean asks, and puts gentle hands on his shoulders, trying to lead him to the couch. Because he has no reference for someone so profoundly upset other than Cosette, and it is a promise he would make to her, he adds, “We can make it okay.”

Javert lunges forward; when he drops a crutch so that he can seize Jean Valjean by the collar, the noise of it falling is loud. Leaning close, he snarls into his face, “You will not turn yourself in.”

“That doesn’t actually seem like an ‘okay’ resolution to me,” he replies, blinking as he tries to focus on blue eyes close enough to blur.

“You’ve been a fool in the past, sir. Don’t pretend like that’s not true.” He lurches back, left leg near almost giving under him as he puts space between them. “Please, tell me. Have I done right?”

Jean Valjean thinks: if this were his daughter, he would press her to his chest and let his heartbeat speak for him. There are times when a cry of despair cannot be answered by words. He does not know what to do for Javert. “I see that you acted according to your conscience,” he says, “and that is more important than whatever your actions mean to me.”

Javert surprises him by looking merely exasperated. “You don’t have even one straight answer for a drowning man?”

You are not very adept at drowning, he does not say. God has chosen that you not drown. No; he suspects that Javert is not, despite his strict Catholicism, a very religious man, and speaking of God will not comfort him now. He sends his prayer to the Holy Spirit, comforter of men, for intercession. He looks to God in himself, and knows: he must not lie. Not to this man, not now. “You must bear yourself up.”

“I’ll fall,” he replies, with a gesture towards the crutch on the floor.

“Then let it be to your knees, and no further.”

Javert leans towards him, desperate. “When you saved my life—”

“Wait. I’m sorry. When what?” Valjean regrets his interruption, but the shock is great. “Javert, surely you would have come through your suicide attempt without me.”

His distress frays on the edge of confusion. “That’s—not what I meant. Let’s never talk about that. No, during the riot.”

“When I took you off those boys’ hands?” Valjean is baffled. “When was your life at risk? I suppose you were in plainclothes, and when the police stormed the building, they might have—”

“Not from the police,” Javert says, scandalized over the concept even now. “The protestors had a pistol. Enjolras had already shot a man.”

“Who also had a gun,” Jean Valjean points out, in a reasonable tone. “You weren’t an active threat. I’m quite sure you were as safe as anyone in that building.” He evaluates the other man. “Are you—are you aware of that?”

“No,” Javert spits, and puts his face in his empty hand. He is quiet for a long time, fingers digging into his jaw, his cheek. “My God,” he says, and it’s no prayer. “I think you might be right.” The noise that wracks from his is wretched. “Everything I’ve done is on the grounds that you saved my life.” His hand falls to hang beside him. “But I don’t suppose it matters what took me off the road of false righteousness, so long as I’ve left it.”

Jean Valjean does not observe, Police have shot many unarmed men on the excuse of feeling threatened, though it seems pertinent. “I see that you struggle. You are very tired, Javert. Let me help you.”

“You kill me,” Javert says, but the intonation is all wrong, the vocative, an imperative. You. Kill me. He begins to laugh, convulsive, choked guttural noises in his chest.

Jean Valjean closes the space between them, because he has nothing to offer but his presence, and he’s worried the man will fall.

Javert reaches his hand out towards the wall, but it is too far. That seeking touch comes instead onto Jean Valjean’s shoulder, neither quick nor fumbling, dreamlike, and presses there. He settles his feet, corrects the angle of his hips, straightens his spine, he reorients himself to up, to down, to the subtler directions against which the body resists. It is such a literal and vulnerable show of his disorientation that it dizzies Jean Valjean, and he does not stumble away only from a sense of obligation to be the upright measure for this wavering man. When he puts his hand on Javert’s arm, the muscle beneath it relax.

“Sleep here for the night,” he offers. “The morning is soon enough to talk about all this.”

Javert grimaces. “You won’t be able to get me back on my feet after a night on a couch, and I think we’d both rather not even address the thought of me in your daughter’s bed.”

Indeed not. “Can I convince you that you shouldn’t drive right now?”

Javert stares at him with blank red-rimmed eyes.

“Well, then. You can use my bed.” It seems a simple enough solution.

The hand that even a moment ago was a gesture of comfort becomes a restraint as Javert moves restlessly beneath it, his desire to escape as clear as his compliance to being held. “No. I’m not going to put you out of your bed, Valjean.” His gaze wanders away. “I shouldn’t have come at all. This come apart is beneath both of us. I—I’m—”

“Fuck it,” says Jean Valjean, and sees the tactic work: it shakes the other man’s attention back to him. He does not want to outright tell him to do something he’s already rejected and have them both go on to live with the knowledge of his capitulation, and gropes for another solution. “ It’s a large enough bed for two. Come lay down, and I will too. Will that satisfy you?”

He goes tense—suspicious, even—but the effect of the direct command is predictable. When he says, “But not in a queer way,” it’s a sop to homophobia and not a real protest.

“No,” Jean Valjean says, with a sigh. Then, “I’m sorry, I don’t have an extra toothbrush.” He bends to retrieve the fallen crutch. “Follow me—it’s through here.”

Javert follows him, lamb-meek, and enters the bedroom with as little show of interest for his surroundings as he came into the apartment. Now that he is committed, he is prompt: he sits on the edge of the bed so that he can begin to remove his clothes, tugging loose his tie, shrugging off his jacket, putting fingers to the buttons of his shirt. His gaze is fixed on the opposite wall.

Jean Valjean says, strained, “I don’t think any of my pajamas will fit you.”

“That’s fine,” Javert replies, his hands on his belt. Pale skin shows from throat to the blond hair that thickly thatches beneath his belly button. These are not new territories, but Jean Valjean has not thought of them since he first saw the man broken and exposed in a hospital bed. The tattoo is so low on his pelvis that only part of the dog’s ears shows above his pants.

It seems wise to retreat to the bathroom. Undressing can be more intimate than being undressed.

When he returns, having done what he could to refresh himself with a splash of water when he would have preferred the shower he probably missed during his haze of a day, Javert has stripped to boxers and socks, the rest of his clothes neatly folded on top of the dresser. The muscles of his arm and chest are notable—he was not a soft man before his fall, and he is very intense about his physical therapy—but his ribs are too close beneath the skin, and there’s no meat on his thighs or those sharp shins. The scars are expected but unsettling, freshest the marks where surgeons forced metal plates and screws down past skin and fat and muscle to fix bone to bone, and—there are others; there are stories of violence to be told.

“I sleep on the left side,” Jean Valjean says, surprised that Javert has not snarled over his wandering eyes. He has not felt the sins of lust since his awakening to God and therefore gives little thought to them, including how one might interpret Leviticus 18:22 or Romans 1:26-28, but he imagines the conjunction of Javert’s conservative politics and Catholicism do not lead to a kindness for gay men.

Whatever comments Javert has are lost beneath the fall of heavy eyelids, the gust of a heart-sore sigh. With an undignified squirm he gets the covers out from under his ass and tucks himself perilously close to the right side of the bed, limbs tucked, as if such a big man might hope to take up only a little space. It is a queen sized bed, and Jean Valjean is smaller but not small; they will feel each other’s heat tonight.

He leaves the bathroom light on with the door cracked, so that Javert will be able to find his way if he wakes in the night, hits the bedroom switch, and and settles himself down, feeling the weight of another body on the mattress for the first time since—since—has he ever felt this? Children crawl into bed with their parents, though he never allowed Cosette into his. His sister’s little ones never tried to join him on the couch. Fifty-five years ago, did he lay between his father and mother? He prays he sees them again in Heaven, for on this Earth he does not know even their faces, much less this specific comfort. And—it is. A comfort.

Animals feel thus in the den, he tells himself, as he listens to Javert’s breathing go deep and even.

He is awake when the man turns over and casts an arm across his waist. Well, Javert did implicitly accuse himself of adultery, and while he has spoken of decades alone, there’s still space in his past for a wife. From how he, unconscious, tucks Jean Valjean into the crook of his body, he is not inexperienced in bed-sharing. To wake him and force him away would only be a disruption, most likely accompanied by drama, which in the best scenario ended again in sleep that might result in the same position. Sweat on his skin, Jean Valjean stares into the dark and counts the breaths that sigh sweetly over the crown of his head. The sensation of knees tucked into the crook of his knees is unaccountably fascinating—has the skin there always been so sensitive?

⁂

Jean Valjean wakes first. There is a moment, as he lay with an ankle linked over his and a groin snugged against his ass, that he is overwhelmingly conscious of another man’s cock in a way he has not been since such a thing was a threat. The moment passes. He is well aware that a heterosexual can use his body for violence against another without either being—he does not know the appropriate word—without, in any case, anyone involved being gay; Javert’s being straight is therefore not the source of assurance; Javert, himself—he is not a threat. Certainly not here, in this bed. Not, Jean Valjean realize, startled, anywhere. The hand that splays long-fingered and broad-palmed across his belly belongs to a friend. He extricates himself from gangly limbs, praying, and takes it as a blessing that Javert does not stir with some unpredictable and exhausting panic.

He makes it as far as relieving his bladder and starting the coffee machine before this changes. There is the alternating tack-thump of a man on crutches in the kitchen doorway, to which he turns.

Oh no, thinks Jean Valjean, with the stirring memory of this courageous despondency before him. Javert thinks he has done wrong. Jean Valjean wants his coffee and for this tension headache to succumb to the aspirin he dry-swallowed. He blurts, “Good morning. Please don’t.”

Javert opens his mouth. Closes it. Asks, “What, specifically, am I not doing?”

Jean Valjean has spoken without forethought and is at a loss.

His voice very small, Javert says, “I think I just needed to sleep. It might’ve been a couple days.”

“That’s okay,” Jean Valjean says. “Do you want toast? I’m sorry, I can’t offer better.”

“What, not even eggs?” He runs a hand back through his hair, of which the night has revealed a slight curl that is normally tamed from it by day. “Fuck. I didn’t come here to crawl into your bed.”

“I wouldn’t imagine so,” Jean Valjean replies, bemused.

Javert knits his brows at him. “No? Well—all right.” He passes a hand over his face. “There’s coffee?”

“Soon.”

“Thank God.”

On which they can agree.

There have been worse mornings.

#dammit #fanfic (mine)

1 note · View note

robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Note

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

What Does the Fox Say - ao3

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

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

Her schedule was packed!

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

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

How unreliable. Men.

She sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

Her hands stilled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But – Nie-gongzi –”

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

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

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

“– can’t you do something?”

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

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

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

It was awful.

She couldn’t bear it.

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

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

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

“What?” he said. “What’s happening?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one ever found out what happened.

Jin Guangyao despised social events, he’d found.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jin Guangyao barely managed to avoid rolling his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or so Jin Guangyao had thought.

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

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

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

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

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

And next to her…

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

Jin Guangyao swallowed.

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

And oh, what advantages it had…!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s your name?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

It was that type of smile.

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

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

Her smile widened.

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

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

262 notes · View notes

my-soul-sings · 3 years

Text

kiss the girl | ch 1

Fandom: Tears of Themis Characters: Artem x Reader

Summary: Armed with a trusty book, Artem Wing attempts to win the woman of his dreams.

A/N: Artem’s personal story cracked me up so much that I had to write a fic about him with a less dense MC to troll him. :)

***

It’s no secret that Artem is a genius. As the youngest person in Stellis to become a senior attorney, the firm has attracted hordes of clients seeking his services despite his higher-than-average hourly billing rates. Themis Law Firm may be a relatively new firm and much smaller compared to the bigger, reputable and more established ones in Stellis, but Artem’s presence has made it a force to be reckoned with in this industry.

And yet, despite being perhaps one of the finest lawyers of his time, the Artem you know is quite something else altogether. You don’t really know how to explain it. Sure, he’s your boss and you admire his work ethic, intelligence, wit, charisma… the list could go on and on. But over the past few weeks it’s become evident that even geniuses like Artem lack in some ways.

In Artem’s case, the area of lack is painfully obvious.

“So what kind of man are you into? We’ve all shared, it’s your turn now.” Celestine is sitting on the edge of your desk, a playful smirk on her lips as she sips her coffee.

“Well… I don’t know…” Your words trail off as your eyes dart towards the pantry, where you spot the familiar back of your boss who’s trying very hard to blend into the side of the fridge at the moment. Needless to say, he’s not doing a very good job. He’s been stirring that cup of coffee for the past ten minutes now—yes, you’ve been keeping track ever since you noticed him come to the pantry for coffee despite having a coffee machine in his own office—and you’ve already spotted him glancing over in your direction at least twice when he thought you weren’t looking.

It’s been like this for the past few weeks. You didn’t really pick up on the signs at first: Artem leaving work almost always at the same time that you do, your conversations about work almost always ending with personal questions to get to know your likes and dislikes, and the unusual number of times he would walk out of his office a day to pay a visit to the pantry, only to leave empty-handed.

But one incident became two, two became four, and it didn’t take much brainpower to figure out that he was oddly interested in matters involving you. It doesn’t matter if it’s about work or about your personal life, he seems to want to know everything, but especially about your love life and love interests.

If the fact that he’s been not-so-subtly eavesdropping on your conversations with Kiki and Celestine in the office isn’t clear enough, then nothing will be.

You could just clear the air with him directly, although there’s that lingering fear of, “What if he isn’t actually interested?” It’s not like you can read his mind; maybe he’s just doing this shoddy spywork in an attempt to know his employees better. Something about employee welfare and morale building maybe—you wouldn’t put it past him.

But then you think about it deeper and realise it can’t be, especially not when Celestine isn’t that subtle either with her pointed glances in your direction before staring straight at Artem with a smirk on her lips. She obviously knows what Artem is up to and is in on it somehow, which might be why lately she’s been asking you all sorts of questions relating to your love life whenever Artem happens to stroll into the pantry yet again.

Just like that three weeks have passed, and you still haven’t gotten around to talking to Artem about it. It’s not for a lack of guts; really, it’s not. It’s just… it’s quite amusing to see Artem Wing, the youngest senior attorney in Stellis, a brilliant mind who usually has the answers to every legal problem, at a complete and utter loss.

“The kind of guy I like… I think I’ll know when I meet him...” The answer is deliberately vague, which makes Kiki groan and Celestine click her tongue in dissatisfaction. Your attention, however, is focused on the back figure of your boss whose head is now drooping like a wilted flower.

“...and I think I’ve found one.”

In that instant, his head perks up, as do Kiki’s and Celestine’s. They begin to badger you for details, but your stubborn lips won’t budge. When you hear footsteps coming from the pantry, you allow your eyes to dart upwards only once, and you see Artem’s usual cool demeanour and straight face as he returns to his office.

Your lips curl into a tiny smirk when you notice that the mug of cold coffee is still sitting on the pantry counter.

***

She found one…

The sentence she just said is playing over like a broken record in his head, much like when he’s mulling over a witness’ statement when preparing for a cross-examination.

Does that mean she’s met someone who might be her type? Or is she already dating someone?

No wait, it can’t be the latter. She just told Celestine last week that she wasn’t seeing anyone because she’s “married to work”.

A chuckle spills past his lips before he realises it—that’s the kind of thing he tells his relatives when they pester him about not having a girlfriend at his age.

His smile quickly fades however, when he remembers the dilemma he’s in. Her answer left no room for him to guess what kind of guy she likes, let alone whether he fits into that box. And the fact that she’s found someone who’s her type… Does that mean he’s already lost the battle before he could even try?

A knock on his office door jolts him out of his reverie, and he barely has time to clear his throat and fix his tie before Celestine enters the room. There’s only one reason she comes into his office when he doesn’t call her in, and it’s written all over her amused face.

“I think she noticed you in the pantry this time. You stood there for way too long—even Kiki was starting to notice.”

Artem groans, leaning back in his seat and turning away so Celestine won’t have to see him crumble internally and wallow in shame. First, she has a type, and now she’s noticed him needlessly hanging around the pantry, suspecting that he’s been eavesdropping on her conversations (which he has). She must think poorly of him now.

“Don’t look so down, I think you still have a shot.”

“What shot?” he asks with a sigh, fumbling with the knot of his tie to loosen it. “She’s already found someone who’s her type.”

“She never said she was dating him. She could just be, you know...” Celestine waves her hand in a gesture that Artem can’t understand, “...making a general statement of some sort. Point is, you can still try. Don’t give up.”

“As a lawyer, shouldn’t you be advising your client to give up if there are better alternative modes of settlement?”

His know-it-all response is not appreciated, and Celestine folds her arms across her chest, glowering at him. “Artem. She’s not a case that you need to solve. This is about love! Romance! The heart! Read a book about it, will you?”

“I have, but nothing has worked so far. The advice in the book is at best ineffective, at worst a hoax.” He glares at the book on his desk, and Celestine follows his gaze to it before she recognises it as the book she’d given him a few weeks back.

For the first time since coming in, her gaze turns into something more sympathetic. Artem isn’t sure he appreciates the sentiment.

“Trust me on this, Artem. Don’t give up yet. I really think you still have a chance.”

“I do?” He perks up at that, raising a brow. “Did she say something about me?”

“Not exactly…” Celestine grimaces when he starts sulking again. “But it’s a woman’s intuition. Trust me. I know her better than you do.”

At his prolonged silence, she adds, “We both know my intuition is way more reliable than your gut feelings when it comes to relationship advice.”

The silence lingers on for a few more minutes, before Artem finally relents with a sigh. He doesn’t say anything however, merely fixing his tie and picking up the book from his desk to put in his drawer.

“...You really should get back to work now.”

“Got it, boss.” Her tone is patronising as always, and she throws what’s probably meant to be an encouraging smile his way before she finally leaves him alone to his thoughts, although Artem can’t help but wonder if she’s still laughing at him internally.

In his now quiet office, his breathing is the only thing that can be heard. He picks up his pen and flips open the case file he was reading earlier before he left to visit the pantry.

But then not even a minute passes before his office is filled with the repeated sound of a pen clicking, a dejected sigh... and then the sound of his drawer opening once more.

#tears of themis #tears of themis artem #artem wing #artem #tears of themis fanfiction #tears of themis fanfic #artem fanfiction #artem wing fanfiction #artem fanfic #he cracks me up so much #my writing #kiss the girl

191 notes · View notes

silverdreamscapes · 3 years

Text

Gw*nriel in the bonus POV is a red herring.

(Everybody has their own interpretation of the characters and the bonus POV. I respect everyone’s opinion, and this isn’t meant to be antagonistic. It’s just my personal interpretation.)

From the beginning I felt that the POV was set up to make people assume it was romantic in nature, but that Gwyn was actually a red herring. It’s no secret that ship wars drive engagement and discussion, and when you look at the structure of the POV, it puts the women in direct contrast to each other. Elain at the beginning, Gwyn at the end. Both of them being “gifted” the necklace. “A thing of secret, lovely beauty” being used in reference to both of them. It deliberately puts both Elain and Gwyn in a romantic light because as readers we’re almost conditioned to believe it must be romantic, but it almost feels too deliberate on SJM’s part. Which is why I think the gw*nriel part of the bonus POV is a red herring. A misdirection meant to intentionally mislead the reader into believing one thing, when it’s actually something else.

I keep going back to the fact that this is a bonus teaser that most readers won’t have access to or won’t even know about. And an author would never put something as important as the setup for a new couple in a teaser like that. All of the important information the author wants the reader to know for the next book would’ve been in the book itself, and the teaser is only meant to reinforce what we already know or what was hinted at in ACSOF as well as the previous books.

What Azriel’s secret is. Why he couldn’t go into the room where El*cien was sitting. What Azriel meant when he told Cassian “it doesn’t matter what I want”. Why he was staying away from family dinners. Nesta observing a charged look between them both. Cassian observing that Azriel seemed to be getting over Mor but he “couldn’t think why.” It reinforces why Azriel was protective over Elain several times in the book, his shadows swarming. The POV confirmed he had feelings for Elain, but if you take away the bonus, all of these hints still exist and hold up in the book.

Meanwhile, Gw*nriel had no romantic setup or moments. Nesta making a remark about a ribbon, references to training, and smirking do not have the same overt romantic connotation or underlying romantic meaning as Nesta observing a charged look or learning Azriel’s secret. In order for casual readers to accept that Gw*nriel is the next book, you have to have the bonus chapter because “hints” for them are thin at best and don’t stand up on their own in ACOSF. Which again, I don’t think an author would rely on a limited bonus chapter available to very few readers to supply information this important. The setup for Gw*nriel in ACOSF does not hold up without the bonus chapter.

But if you buy into the idea that Gwyn is a lightsinger, her part in the POV makes more sense. There aren’t references to anything romantic between Gw*nriel in ACOSF, but I think there are hints to her being a lightsinger. Like the bonus reinforced the Elriel hints, the bonus also reinforces the hints to Gwyn being a lightsinger. The references to her singing and glowing, and Nesta feeling like she’s being lured by her singing are also the same words and the same “glowing, light, musical” imagery used in the POV But because it’s Azriel, the reader is more likely to assume it’s romantic unlike with Nesta. Her scenes with Azriel come directly after the scenes with Elain and he leaves the necklace with Clotho to give to Gwyn. Their interaction and dialogue is just vague enough that it gives people the impression something more might be going on, making the twist that Gwyn a lightsinger all the more shocking (And when I say she’s a lightsinger, I’m not saying she’s evil or a villain, or that she’s even consciously using her powers. I just think that’s there’s more going on with her character that we know don’t know about that the POV set up, and it doesn’t have to do with pairing her with Azriel).

#elriel #azriel #anti gw*nriel #elain archeron

132 notes · View notes

dr3amofagame · 3 years

Note

I have seen a few fanfics with this premise, so now I wanna see your hands drabble with it. AU where everything is the same except nobody knows that Dream is actually the youngest member of the SMP at 14-15 years old. Bonus points, revived Wilbur figures it out and makes some plans for how to use this knowledge to his advantage.

ooh yeah !! this au is one of my favorites - it’s a really interesting examination on the mindset of different characters in the server, plus just fun for just Angst Purposes. this is a little messy but i hope you like it!

tw: abuse, torture mentions, broken bones, branding mentions, trauma, emotional distress, unhealthy relationship, unhealthy coping mechanisms, smoking, mental illness, panic attack, mentioned death, dark portrayals of ,, most of the server, prison arc/pandora’s vault

“Hey. Thought I’d find you here.”

Wilbur turns at the familiar voice at his back, smiling.

“Dream,” he pulls him in to clap him on the back, ignoring the other’s full-body flinch at his movements. “How’ve you been, man?”

“Don’t pull that bullshit on me,” Dream’s words are biting, but he smiles as he says them - a small, bitter thing that stretches over his scarred skin. His new mask is pulled to the side of his face, exposing the dark bags beneath his grey-green eyes, the varied scars that fall over the bridge of his nose and under his jaw to trace down his neck below his collar. Wilbur watches him as he walks forward to stand by his side with a small spark of fascination, enhanced further when Dream’s eyes narrow at him. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing- nothing,” Wilbur laughs. “They just really did quite a number on you, huh?”

Dream stiffens, then rolls his eyes. “Well, he did have seventy four days, or so I’ve been told,” he quips back, words dry. “Not that there was any keeping track in that hellhole.”

“Speak for yourself,” Wilbur smiles tightly, amusement coloring his words as the other scowls. “I kep track of my thirteen years quite well.”

“Whatever you say, old man,” Dream huffs. “You have a cigarette?”

“I almost feel bad, y’know. You’re kind of underage, man,” Wilbur feels his smile widen when Dream glares up at him, eyes glinting dangerously from behind his eyelashes. “I don’t know if I should.”

“I was younger when you gave me one the first time,” Dream retorts immediately, not bothering to hide his annoyance, sharp-edged and acidic. “And even younger when you drafted child soldiers to fight in a war for your own glory. Don’t make me laugh.”

“Ouch, really know how to hit a man where it hurts, don’t you?” Wilbur mimes pressing a hand to his heart like he’s been shot with one hand, the other fishing through his jacket pocket for his pack. Dream rolls his eyes again, but stretches a hand out for him to press a cigarette and a lighter in his palm.

“Learned from the best,” Dream drawls, going quiet as he focuses on holding the end in the flame and then pulling the lit cigarette to his lips. He chokes, as he always does, on the first drag, sputtering slightly as the smoke seizes in his chest like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit, and Wilbur watches the little flickering light at the end of the stick in his hand as he struggles to catch his breath.

“Surprised I can stand the sight of these things,” Dream says suddenly, quietly, as Wilbur pulls out one of his own to light. He looks up, meeting Wilbur’s quizzical look with a faraway one of his own. “Quackity was a fan of making me his personal ashtray.”

He reaches up towards his collar, pulling it away slightly to reveal a collection of puckered circular burn scars that dot the skin of his shoulder to trace to the edge of his collarbone. Wilbur hums in vague sympathy and acknowledgement, breathing in a drag of his cigarette slow and smooth and feeling the smoke fill his lungs.

“Guess it didn’t make the cut of torture methods bad enough to become a trigger,” he laughs, sharp, the bitter punctuation of a joke he’d realized would fall flat halfway through speaking and fidgets awkwardly with the cigarette in his hand as he looks off into the distance. “I should make a tierlist. It could be...useful.”

The words are empty - Dream wouldn’t be able to stomach torturing anyone and they both know it; Wilbur cocks his head to the side curiously, deciding to press the point anyway.

“Useful?” He takes a deliberately heavy drag, blowing the smoke out slowly from his lips and watching as Dream flinches away from it. “How so?”

Dream keeps looking stubbornly away, the only indication he’s heard at all being the way his lips press tighter together. Wilbur laughs softly.

“You mean with Big Q, don’t you?” Dream’s hand, which never seemed to stop trembling since he’d left Pandora, starts shaking harder, the smoke rising from the cigarette clutched tightly between his fingers making a jagged pattern in the air. “I won’t judge man! He tortured you for- what, 72 days?”

“74,” Dream’s shoulders rise to his ears, his head pitching forward as his arms wrap around his torso in a futile attempt to hold himself, “74 fucking days, and no one gave a single shit.”

Wilbur hums, encouraging, trying to tamp down his curiosity from making itself too obvious in his voice. Dream had been closed off for as long as Wilbur had known him, his walls only rising more after they’d pulled him out, half-starved, half-dead from the depths of the prison, newly revealed face startling young even deprived of the baby fat that would’ve otherwise lingered in its corners. For the other man to actually say something, to give more clues into his head than his usual one-word answers and bitter sarcasm - Wilbur settles in place, raising his cigarette to his lips once again. This will be interesting.

“I just-” Dream’s voice cracks, and he goes quiet, looking down at the cigarette in his hands like it’ll give him the answers he’s looking for. “I don’t understand. They’re all perfectly fine with throwing me in there and leaving me to rot, with letting Quackity come in every single day to make my life hell, but all of a sudden because I’m fifteen that changes? Because I’m a “child”? Because that makes them feel guilty?”

His grip tightens on his arm, breath seizing in his throat. “It doesn’t change a damn thing and they all know it. All of them were perfectly fine with watching me die, with sticking me in that hell, with letting Quackity- fucking-” his free hand reaches for the long tangles of his hair, the sandy locks peeking out from between his fingers, “He did- everything he could fucking think of, carved words on my goddamn back, broke every fucking bone in my body just because he could, branded his fucking NAME on me I-” he squeezes his eyes shut. “I screamed for them every single day. All seventy-fucking-four and I was still calling their names and-” Wilbur reaches towards him, watches as his head snaps away once again. “It didn’t fucking matter.”

“Dream-”

“None of it mattered. All that matters is that I’m a fucking child, that I’m fifteen fucking years old. Not that they stood by while I died twice with no means of defending myself! Not that they threw me in a fucking torture chamber! All that matters is how old I am and I fucking hate them!” He shouts, voice breaking and dissolving into a choked sob, and Wilbur watches quietly as Dream swallowed back his cries, shoulders shaking silently. “I- I hate them. All of them. At least Quackity still treats me like normal- the rest of them just look at me with this- this stupid pity, I don’t need their pity, I don’t need anything from them, not anymore-”

“Dream. Look at me.” Dream’s head snaps over, fear flashing in the backs of his eyes before it disappears as fast as it came. Wilbur ignores it, shucking off his jacket and draping it carefully over the other’s shoulders. “They’re hypocrites, I know. That’s why we’re doing this, yeah? We’re blowing it all up to kingdom come. You know how it goes.”

Dream meets his eyes, a storm warring briefly over his face before he looks down. “It was never meant to be,” he says, sounding tired, sounding resigned, and Wilbur smiles darkly at the self-same bitterness that shadows the words, recognizing the ashy taste from when they had coated his own tongue.

“Atta boy,” he says, grip firm on the other’s shoulder. “See you tomorrow. You can keep the coat for tonight; it’s getting cold.”

“Thank you,” Dream murmurs, quiet, and they both know it’s about more than just the jacket. “See you tomorrow.”

239 notes · View notes

mythicamagic · 3 years

Note

Enemies to Lovers - Sesshoumaru is injured - "Lean on me" prompt

AN: Because there’s a lot of prompts to get through I probably should have/could have spent more time on this one due to the heavy subject matter buuut since in the anime Sesshoumaru only gets 11 episodes to recover from the loss of his arm, I don’t feel too guilty XD

Warning: body trauma

---

Inuyasha's wench had found him around an hour ago. Unlike Rin, she'd deliberated approaching for a few moments. Unsurprising. They were still foes after all. Crimson eyes remained burning, glaring listlessly at her face.

She'd seemed to silently decide something, determination steeling her expression. The yellow nekomata he vaguely recalled belonging to the slayer was her sole companion, who growled at him warningly not to try anything. As if he would.

The miko carried a large cumbersome bag, so he assumed she'd been headed somewhere before running into him within the forest.

Kagome cleaned his wound as best she could, before binding it to try and stop the excessive blood loss. She'd then approached with the beast, proceeding to kneel beside his bloody form. Sesshoumaru remained where he was, reclined against a tree and settled at its base.

Kagome winced, arm secured around his waist after having removed his armour.

"I can't just leave you like this. Lean on me. I'll take your weight enough to move you onto Kirara."

Sesshoumaru turned his head, gazing at nothing.

His lips moved, speaking too softly for her to hear.

"What?"

He repeated himself in a tight voice. "What is the point?"

Kagome stiffened against him. Her heart thudded quicker, fear brushing his senses.

Sesshoumaru allowed his hazy red eyes to dull into empty gold, staring right at the woman.

He could survive a missing arm. Had adjusted his fighting style enough to manage.

But the Killing Perfection could not survive the loss of a leg too. His body would save him from blood loss, but his spirit lay broken, irreparable.

Kagome swallowed loudly, resting a hand on his upper thigh. His leg ended below the knee.

"T-this… it's nothing for you," she mumbled quietly. "You're going to be okay. You'll find a way to walk again."

Sesshoumaru chuckled dryly, resting his head back against the trunk. "Why do you care, wench?" he flashed sharp teeth at her. "We are not allies. Leave me."

"I won't," Kagome moved closer, grabbing a handful of his hankimono. "Listen, I might not be your friend and you've tried to kill Inuyasha more than a few times, but…" her hand shook. "But you're the strongest person I've met. If you fall, then what hope do the rest of us have?" she questioned softly. "Despite myself, I admire people like you and Kikyo. Always so crazy strong."

Sesshoumaru scoffed, gripping her hard by the hair and forcing her head down to look at the stump of his right leg. "Do I look strong to you, miko?" he hissed in her ear.

Kagome braced her hands on his available leg, twisting in his grip to look at him.

Sesshoumaru stilled.

Unshed tears lay in her eyes.

"Yes," she muttered with conviction. "So long as you don't give up now."

Sesshoumaru stared. Inky black hair slowly fell limp around his fingers. He settled back against the tree.

Kagome straightened, winding an arm around his waist again. "At least come with me to find shelter. You can't stay like this out in the open."

Sesshoumaru remained dead weight. He did not see the point in trying.

He could not hope to recover from this.

Kagome tugged and heaved at his body, his mass much too big for her to hope to move.

She sighed with frustration, blowing air at her bangs. "I'll tell Inuyasha about this," she grumbled.

Sesshoumaru blinked, sliding his gaze back to her. "I would kill you before you managed to leave."

Kagome smiled a little, patting his shoulder. "That's better. You look a bit more like yourself when you're threatening someone."

He wanted to snap at her. To snarl and bite the soft looking skin of her neck, frighten her enough to leave.

He was tired. A part of him felt content to die after his pride lay in such shattered tiny pieces.

And yet…

And yet a part of him, instinctive, strong and indomitable, refused to lay down and perish. It appreciated her continued efforts.

The thought of him hobbling about so pathetically was almost too much to bear, but Sesshoumaru closed his eyes, realising very wretchedly that this meant he did not in fact wish to die.

"We can do this," Kagome was muttering, trying to angle him enough to lay on Kirara, who pressed in close, offering assistance.

Sesshoumaru stifled a sigh, making a silent choice. He begrudgingly leaned against her, shifting his remaining leg beneath him.

Kagome gasped, "that's it!" she encouraged, helping him into a crouching position before he fell forward onto the beast. Kagome adjusted his leg, ensuring he was steady, before nodding for Kirara to stand.

Sesshoumaru did not pay attention to their surroundings, the forest passing in a blur.

If he'd just been quicker, the bull demon who had humiliated him would have perished sooner. The beast had produced a second weapon out of thin air, axe cleaving through muscle and bone. All he could do was pull back- lest he lose his entire lower half.

He felt no pain. Surprisingly, everything remained numb. His flesh was cold and clammy, and he lay as if outside of his own body.

Sesshoumaru closed his eyes, lapsing into unconsciousness.

---

The scent of rain stirred his senses.

Sesshoumaru turned his head, finding himself laying down upon a strange futon that resembled a squashed cocoon. The nekomata lay behind him, keeping him warm.

Sesshoumaru blinked. The miko had found them shelter. He soon located her sitting at the mouth of the cave, looking out at the rain while a fire lay in the centre of the cool space.

When she noticed he’d regained consciousness, Kagome rose and offered some water from her strange water container.

She’d changed clothes, donning more unusual clothing Sesshoumaru was unfamiliar with. Her pants clung to her form distractingly.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, hovering close.

He tsked, passing back the water after taking a swig. “Like I have one leg and one arm. How do you think I am feeling, mortal?”

She winced, “shitty.”

“Indeed,” Sesshoumaru lay back down, staring at the cave ceiling soberly.

“Do you want something to eat?” a crunchy noise rustled from her pocket as the woman produced a rectangular bar of some kind.

He couldn’t keep the disgust out of his voice, eyeing a picture of the food on its strange packaging. “What is it?”

“A peanut butter and chocolate energy bar,” Kagome winced. “Look I don’t know how to hunt-” he scoffed, “-so this is the best I’ve got. Sorry, your Highness.”

Sesshoumaru sneered, “you may keep it. I do not eat human food. Least of all bizarre creations such as that.”

“Fine but it's your loss.”

His expression became blank, noticing her wince and start apologising for the wording. He wasn’t listening anymore though. The initial shock was beginning to wear off, and now he was more than painfully aware of the shooting pains running up and down the remainder of his leg, from stump to upper thigh. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, refusing to show his discomfort.

“...You’ve used a human arm before,” Kagome said carefully, sitting beside him and crossing her legs. “And what looked like a dragon one. By that logic, you could attach a demon leg to yours, right?”

Sesshoumaru slid his gaze to her, silently thankful for the distraction. The coming agony would be something he’d already dealt with due to the loss of his arm. Phantom limb pain was a real bitch.

“Yes,” he managed, before taking a steadying breath. He managed to arrange his features into something smirking and lofty. “Are you implying you will fetch me a new limb, little miko? How very generous.”

Kagome’s eyes turned flat. “I’m not about to go out and lop off some poor demon’s foot just to help you. But...if…” she said slowly, “if I’m attacked- which happens often because of the jewel shards- maybe I’d…”

Sesshoumaru dropped his smug expression, frowning softly.

The rain continued to pour, pelting the ground hard. It was a sobering reminder that if she’d left him to the mercy of the elements, he’d be in a much worse state.

He ran careful attention over her features. “Why?”

Kagome’s deep blue eyes held his probing stare, not a flicker of deceit in them. “I don’t know,” she admitted softly, “things can’t go back to normal for you right away- or at least, they shouldn’t. You should take the time to recover. I don’t know how the hell you managed to come after us so quickly after losing your arm. It likely wasn’t healthy for you.”

He arched a brow. Repressing every single fibre of the experience and any feelings about the fate that had befallen his left arm had worked wonders for his recovery. Granted it made sleep difficult at times, but none had ever had the audacity to lecture him about his decisions before.

“But- I also don’t want you to be vulnerable to attacks or starvation,” Kagome kept rambling. “Giving you a leg won’t solve everything but it’ll help- ah, are you burning up?” she noticed a bead of sweat roll down his temple, reaching out automatically.

Sesshoumaru snatched it mid-air, pushing up with a burst of speed and yanking Kagome down, simultaneously rolling atop her. Her back hit the ground, punctuated with a squeak from her startled lips.

Silver hair hung down, creating a curtain that blocked out the rest of the world. Those blue eyes widened, breath hitching. Their lower halves pressed intimately together, stomachs meeting as Sesshoumaru leaned closer, using his hand to brace his weight above her. A fire burned within the back of his throat, ancient, tattered pride stinging. He found that he resented her slightly. Resented her for seeing him so weak. It hadn’t mattered when Rin had found him wounded. A battered child had no relation to him. But this girl, Kagome- was an enemy. She should not have seen him thus.

“Do I seem so very vulnerable to you?” he asked in a hushed voice, mouth inches from hers. The fire crackled, rain pouring. Her breathing sounded a touch quicker, heartbeat loud in his ears. Drumming.

Against all logic, he felt her body relax beneath his. She even smiled a little, “no,” she muttered.

“Is something amusing?”

“I’m just glad you proved me wrong. I’d rather you kept acting like a jerk than look so...defeated like you did earlier,” Kagome gave a nervous giggle, gesturing between them, “uh...if you could let me up now though that would be great.”

She tried to rise, but he let more of his weight sink down upon her soft, warm body. “No, I do not think I will.”

Kagome gasped, drawing a knee up and inadvertently opening her legs, allowing him to fit snugly against her. If he hadn’t lost a limb several hours earlier that same day and wasn’t experiencing agonising, blinding pain, Sesshoumaru had to say, the feeling was enough to make him...consider something previously thought impossible between himself and humans.

As it was, he hissed a breath through grit teeth, the stump licking phantom flames of blazing fire around the wound.

“Sesshoumaru? Sesshoumaru!”

He shuddered, trying to prevent himself from crushing her beneath his weight, arm shaking.

It hurt. It suddenly hurt like hell- and nothing was working. No distraction could take him from the blistering, lonely, maddening sensation that holy fuck his leg was missing. He wanted to do something as meaningless as wriggle his toes and he could not-

Suddenly, her arms were around him. Pleasant fresh scents assaulted his fractured senses, citrusy and clean. Kagome pulled him down while rolling herself, flipping their positions.

“I don’t have anything for the pain,” her voice strained apologetically. She quickly moved off him, but Sesshoumaru wasn’t paying attention anymore. He panted, temples pounding. His body shook, pain shooting through the nerve endings in the remainder of his leg.

Something cold and wet lay over his marked forehead. Cracking the burning suns of pained golden eyes open, he watched Kagome adjust the cold compress, before checking his leg.

“You heal quick, but you need new bandages. M-maybe that’ll help until I can go home for painkillers,” she muttered, grabbing her bag and digging through it.

Sesshoumaru panted softly, seizing the fretting miko’s wrist.

“Your...scent,” he grunted.

“What?”

If he were sober he’d never request something so undignified, but Sesshoumaru kept talking, somewhat delirious now that all sense of shock had worn off. “Come here...again. I want your scent.”

Kagome’s shocked features were lost to him as the Daiyoukai hissed, squeezing his eyes shut.

The scent of citrus returned after a moment. Soft, curling locks of dark hair brushed his nose as Kagome gingerly embraced him.

Sesshoumaru wrapped an arm around her shoulders, burying his face into the black fall of citrus-scented strands. He lost himself to instinct, gripping onto the stable, pleasant sensations that took the form of Inuyasha’s wench. She let out a tense breath but soon relaxed against him, verbally assuring Kirara when the nekomata growled.

For the second time that day, Sesshoumaru unwillingly lost the battle for consciousness.

----

She was gone by the time he awoke in the morning, but the nekomata remained. She growled and hissed softly whenever he looked at the beast for longer than necessary. Kagome left a note, explaining that she’d be back soon.

Sesshoumaru had little to do except wait. The pain had become a continuous throb, which was easier to deal with but equally as irritating, exhausting him.

When Kagome returned several hours later, she produced wrapped pieces of cooked chicken from her bag, cheerfully explaining that she’d returned home. Sesshoumaru turned his nose up slightly at the food.

“I would have preferred the bird...raw.”

“Wait like freshly dead?”

“Alive, favourably.”

Kagome gaped, leaving the lunchbox with him. “That's terrible!”

Sesshoumaru stared at her flatly, opening his mouth and drawing out his tongue, transforming his features into something more monstrous and canine while placing the food into his mouth and eating it in one quick snap of his jaws. “Demon,” he muttered pointedly.

She rolled her eyes and let him finish his meal in peace.

---

They fell into an odd routine of planned visits for several days, talking about the strange things she brought back from home. He came to learn she was from the Future, of all places. They discussed its advanced technologies while she bandaged his leg.

He suspected the miko felt some sense of responsibility for him now. The thought set his teeth on edge, mildly humiliated.

When he brought up the subject of his vassal, ward and steed, Kagome shrugged and told him they’d been accepted into Inuyasha’s group for the time being. They worried about his continued absence and Inuyasha complained about having to share a space with Jaken, but bared with it. Not one person knew about his situation except Kagome, for which he was thankful.

By the end of five days though, Sesshoumaru needed to move. He began by pulling himself along the ground via his hand and knee, which proved awkward but not impossible. Next came standing, which- after many failed attempts- he finally managed to do, gripping onto the cave wall.

Walking was impossible, of course. And by the time Sesshoumaru realised the very sobering truth that he’d have to hop everywhere the rest of his life or walk with the use of a cane or crutch unless he could grab a demon leg- he wondered why he’d bothered moving at all.

“You’re standing!”

Dulled golden eyes slid to the miko, who stood at the mouth of the cave. In her arms was a large sack faintly marred with blood, and he could tell from the wrinkle of her nose exactly what it was. Surprise slammed into his gut.

“Miko-”

Kagome set the bundle down, hurrying over and steadying him when he tipped too much to one side. “Are you alright? You should be resting-”

“Give me the leg, miko.”

Kagome fell silent, eyeing his stump. He’d stopped needing bandages two days ago. She didn’t protest, merely looking at him carefully. “Are you sure?”

Sesshoumaru leaned against her, allowing her to help ease him down into a sitting position. He briefly touched her cheek, gliding a thumb there and watching it redden. His heart thudded with gladness. “I am sure.”

She nodded, soon bringing the bloodied sack over. She explained that he’d gotten lucky, as while the first two demons they’d faced in a group of three had been too large and bulky to fit his build, the third had been smaller. Inuyasha had been extremely disturbed and suspicious when she’d asked him to hack their leg off once all three were dead.

“It’s not been easy, avoiding his questions, you know. He’s tried to follow me here more than once. I managed to convince him that this leg was for my weird Grandpa.”

Sesshoumaru blinked, finding himself watching her instead of studying the leg as it was revealed to him. The miko had been astronomically helpful and considerate in all the ways one could to a demon lord. His chest felt strange. Warm, upon realising the extent of her actions for his sake.

“Well, do you like it?”

Sesshoumaru jolted, focusing on the red-scaled leg laying before him. From its scent, he knew it to be from a lizard demon. Not his first choice, but this was no time to be picky. Sesshoumaru grabbed it and pressed the severed end to his stump after aligning it. He didn’t so much as flinch as muscle and bone wove together, the process over in seconds. Kagome gaped with amazement.

When he moved to stand, she quickly assisted, pulling him to his feet. Sesshoumaru took a step and staggered, looking downwards.

Ah.

Kagome’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh. Oh no...it's too short isn’t it?”

The height was off by a few inches.

He made to reply- before stiffening, scenting salt. “Why are you crying about it, foolish woman?”

“I-I’m sorry,” she waved it off, some tears escaping down her cheeks before she roughly brushed them away. “I just wanted it to be perfect but now you’re kind of...tilted.”

Despite the situation, a smile tugged at his mouth. A noise bubbled up from the back of his throat, escaping as a quiet laugh.

Kagome froze, tears clinging to her lashes.

“It is fine, miko. More than...fine.”

Sesshoumaru held onto the wall for support, feeling the bite of putting weight onto the leg, his stump flaring. It would take time for his body to adjust. Despite this, his warrior heart filled with purpose again, powers working to heal him. Just having the ability to walk after having it stolen away renewed his spirits.

Kagome watched him with a smile, occasionally offering aid but largely keeping her hands off. He could sense various soft emotions rolling off her in waves. Admiration, relief and something else. Something he could not name. It remained untouched and unnamed long after he left the cave behind one afternoon.

He had no writing utensils to leave a note, instead carefully tearing out a segment of his sleeve, leaving the red and white flower symbol of his family crest for her to find.

---

Kagome panted hard, catching her breath and folding down into a crouch, gripping her bow tight.

“Are you alright, Kagome?” Rin asked, closely followed by Shippo as they approached from Ah-Un, having kept away from the random attack on the village. Thankfully the hoard of boar demons had finally been dealt with, but Kagome’s nerves were shot to hell after racing around so much, trying to protect villagers.

“I-I’m fine, guys, thanks,” she smiled, looking between them both. The orphans had bonded quickly, and she felt a surge of warmth, happy they had a companion their age to talk with. It had been two weeks since she’d last seen Sesshoumaru since his disappearance, and while she loved having Rin around, it did make her worry. Sesshoumaru always returned to his group. Where had he run off too?

Maybe he went to find a better leg, she thought, taking the children’s hands and walking towards Miroku- who was helping up an old man from where he’d fallen. Perhaps he needed time to get used to walking on what’s essentially a prosthetic.

For humans- such a thing took up to one year. Demons really are something else.

Kagome’s lips curved, picturing the burning, determined gaze of the Daiyoukai.

Or rather, Sesshoumaru is something else.

“Kagome, look out!” Miroku yelled.

Jerking, Kagome sensed a lone boar youkai barrelling towards her through the forest, knocking trees aside. It was quicker than anticipated- and despite Kagome grabbing the children and trying to run out of its way, it charged straight for her, grunting, throwing its head wildly.

People were screaming her name, but they were too far away. Kagome twisted her body, pushing the kids aside and in order for her to take the brunt of the hit-

Red light exploded to life, consuming the boar demon before it could reach them. Hide and blood were caught up in the attack, leaving Kagome mercifully free from the boar's flying carnage.

She panted, shaking a little and gazing at the steaming remains of the demon. A pale figure floated to the ground, landing elegantly.

“Lord Sesshoumaru!” Rin cried happily.

“Lord Sesshoumaru?!” Jaken’s distant yell could be heard.

Kagome straightened, heart doing a funny thing in her chest. She immediately looked at his leg- finding him clad in white hakama pants and black boots. The same as always.

Blue eyes widened. He appeared completely unchanged. Somehow, he must’ve found an inhuman demon and took their leg so that he could masquerade as his usual self.

His tiny group circled around him joyously, while Kagome’s friends gathered together a little ways away. Inuyasha’s ears pinned back to his head with displeasure.

Jaken hopped up and down. “Where have you BEEN, mi lord!”

“Nowhere."

“Tch, bastard,” grumbling, Inuyasha raised his voice a touch. “Hey- you could at least thank us for babysitting your damn group while you were probably out doing power-hungry shit.”

Sesshoumaru’s gaze slid over the Hanyou dismissively, stopping on Kagome. Her breathing hitched.

“I am not here to thank you, Inuyasha.”

Kagome remained frozen as a shadow fell over her face, his head of silver hair blocking out the sun. Golden eyes replaced the burning circle in the sky, blazing and intent. Slit pupils pinned her in place.

She was vaguely aware of her friends exclaiming in surprise and alarm, thinking he meant to harm her. The sound of Inuyasha drawing his sword was enough to make her mutter ‘sit boy’ absentmindedly, paying no attention to his subsequent impact with the ground.

Sesshoumaru raised a hand, resting pale knuckles against her cheek in a slow drag down to her jaw, skin cool, clashing against her warmth. White lashes lowered, becoming half-mast.

“You’re okay?” she breathed.

“Hn, I merely needed some time,” Sesshoumaru’s low rumble melted her insides.

She cleared her throat, cheeks tinging red because of his proximity, his dark youki brushing her senses, his touch- his everything. Reaching into her pocket, she produced the segment of his clothing, the pattern of his clan. “Did you want this back-?”

“Keep it,” he closed her fingers over it, catching her eye. “You have my loyalty for what you have done for this one, miko. Keep it,” he said softer.

Kagome nodded slowly, opening her mouth to ask more-

Firm lips slanted over her own. Stiffening, she became deaf to her friend’s even louder exclamations of surprise, Miroku quietly voicing his awe, impressed.

The miko inhaled sharply through her nose, feeling Sesshoumaru’s mouth move, brushing against her own in several lingering kisses. Blushing, it took a moment for Kagome to get over her stupefaction. But then she pressed a little closer, kissing him back perhaps a little nonsensically. But it felt right. Her toes curled at the feel of him.

A low groan rumbled in his throat and his lips softened against hers, mouth parting to brush his sinuous tongue against hers.

Kagome shivered and wondered if he could hear how her heart hammered in her chest. His palm felt steady upon her back, arm encircling her waist. When they finally pulled away, their lips lingered close.

“What...what was that?” she breathed, cheeks flushed.

Sesshoumaru’s lips quirked, “that was this Sesshoumaru conveying my deep sense of gratitude, miko.”

“Funny way of thanking someone, but I’ll take it,” Kagome’s eyes glittered. She could think about the consequences of such an action later. For now, she was content to hold his gaze and keep his secret safe- for however long the prideful Daiyoukai needed.

#sesskag #sesshoumaru x kagome #sesshoumaru #kagome higurashi #sesskag fanfiction #enemies to lovers vibes

112 notes · View notes

lavandermin · 3 years

Text

if all stars fell at once (3) | xiao

pairing | xiao/reader

word count | 3.8k

genre | fluff, light angst, developing relationship, overall domestic

warnings | eventual smut, nightmares

Dark and suffocating. Every corner had entities reaching to restrain you. You were panicked, running down unknown streets despite lead-heavy legs— despite not being able to scream. Like a thick syrup, the stress crept into your chest, filling your lungs as your eyes darted back and forth looking for an answer, a way out.

This warped reconstruction of memories and experiences with sinister manifestations was never ending. A second weighed on you like a century; trapped in the box of dreams conjured by your mind.

The Sea of Clouds was nothing more than a desolate wasteland. Buildings you'd known for years looked unsettling with details that were a little off— stairs that led to nowhere, the shadowy forms that lurked in the deepest corners of your peripheral vision… This was the inescapable circumstance of the environment your mind constructed. Like a labyrinth of the mind that left a sense of impending peril. Though there wasn’t a soul that could be found in any of the deepest recesses of the harbor, there was an ever-present feeling of being followed— watched.

Something was after you. Down deserted streets and abandoned alleyways the ambiguous figures followed you. By the ominous presence of a colorless sky above the harbor, you knew anything encountered here would not seek to be well-intentioned. And still knowing this was nothing but a nightmare, there was always something that filled you with paralyzing trepidation at finding out what fate awaited you if the evil entities consumed you.

Fear of the unknown.

It was always like this. Yet you could never stop the suffocating dread that enveloped your form and drove you forward as adrenaline fueled your heavy limbs.

With legs fighting to continue forward, you take a sharp turn to increase the distance between yourself and the malevolent figures inching closer.

‘I’m scared.’ But your thoughts echoed helplessly around you.

The entities dripped with malice, pouring out of cracks in the buildings and trudging through the stone paths. No longer holding a cohesive form, they began to merge and fight to walk over each other to reach the nightmare’s victim.

You tightly squeezed your eyes shut, body seized with recoiling anxiety. But nothing came. Instead, there was a gentle hand that placed itself on your shoulder.

‘I’m here,’ Xiao’s voice reassured. He pulled you towards him, delicately holding you in a protective embrace. There was an immediate shift in the air around you. ‘I won’t allow them to hurt you anymore.’

Behind him, you could begin to see the harbor chip away into ashen particles that glowed wispily. The dark entities seemed to melt away, seeping into the cracks and grooves of the cobblestone like a murky syrup.

Your body became light and airy in his hold, and you wanted nothing more than to stay in his safety for all eternity. Now more at ease, you slowly raised your clouded gaze to meet his golden irises, firm and reassuring.

‘May this nightmare release you from its hold.’

Tenderly, Xiao pressed his lips to your forehead and the crumbling mind-space around you was forgotten. It was as if the nightmare was unraveled and recondensed within the palm of his hand, and left you feeling like a wave of drowsiness settled in to fill it’s absence. Everything went blank, feeling like you succumbed to another slumber within your slumber.

Euphoric and warm. Finally, peace found you for a restful sleep.

—

Distant hums of mourning doves and the tranquil drips of raindrops playing melodies on puddle surfaces greeted Qingce Village as morning settled in. The sky was grey yet maintained bright as the sun still managed to break through much of the condensed clouds. The sluggish morning greeted you with a breath of ease.

With a stretch and a yawn, you peered one eye open. Across the room, you spotted Xiao seated against the wall, arms crossed over his chest as his head slowly nodded off to the side. He was dozing off, if not already asleep. Had he stayed the whole night? You clutched the warm blankets a little tighter around your cozied-up form, eyes fluttering shut to try and recall your dream.

...Nothing.

No matter how much you tried to recall anything, even the vague feeling of the dream, ultimately you were left empty-handed. Though it wouldn’t be the first time that you woke up being unable to recall a dream, this time felt deliberate. There was a distinct feeling lingering in the back of your mind you couldn’t quite describe. You could only imagine that it meant the nightmare was eaten as Xiao mentioned.

You glanced back over at the dozed off yaksha, his face peaceful and loose stands endearingly strewn about his face. When he had first mentioned dream eating a few nights ago, you got the feeling he was a little reluctant to do so. Despite his usual calm, aloof demeanor, there was some body language you learned to pick up on. Xiao is never one to lie to you, as he is curt and blunt in his own polite way, so you could only hope he wasn’t putting himself in danger with this.

You force the spiral of thoughts away before it festers any longer. No use getting in your head about it. It would only worry you sick if you kept deliberating. And much like Xiao is straightforward, perhaps you, too, should just ask him about it. You’d think about it.

With quiet movements so as to not disturb the sleeping adeptus, you waddled over draped in warm covers to put around him.

‘He looks really tuckered out,’ you noted, brows furrowing ever so slightly with momentary worry.

The moment you crouched down to brush a strand of hair out of his face, his hand quickly shot out to grab your wrist. His golden eyes opened frantically, narrowing momentarily at the sudden disturbance only to be met with your startled whimper and remorseful expression.

“I–I’m sorry to scare you awake!” you apologized hurriedly. Upon seeing it was only you and not an enemy, his expression returned to a more neutral state as he released his deafening grip on your wrist. “I thought you might be cold sitting on the floor so… I…”

Xiao wordlessly eyed the large blanket that practically swallowed your entire form and trailed behind you. It made you look so tiny in comparison.

He eyed the way your fingers absentmindedly massaged where he gripped with a little too much force. Concern settled in, and his gloved fingers gently reached out to check the tender flesh.

“Your wrist— did I injure you?” His eyes searched your face intently for any hint of pain or discomfort.

It only tingled, the prior pressure lingering and slowly subsiding. You shook your head, gingerly draping half of the blanket over him and huddling up next to him. He didn’t protest the gesture, the gentleness of your actions becoming something Xiao’s grown fond of.

You offered him a reassuring smile. “No, I’m okay. I startled you pretty badly… Were you having a bad dream?”

He hummed, pensive as he leaned his head back to thump softly against the wall. “Adepti don’t dream. When a mortal dream is consumed, it lingers in fragments that soon disappear not long after. I can only briefly be part of that dream as a means to get rid of it, so it’s as close to dreaming as I can experience.”

Perhaps dreams were akin to adeptal realms, and he left such inferences at that. His only goal was to rid you of the nightmares that resurfaced as of late.

“I see...” You contemplated, both perplexed and enthralled by this ability Xiao had proven to possess. And though you didn’t actually witness it, the inability to remember last night’s dream was proof enough that it worked. “So, does that mean you got rid of one of my nightmares?”

“Yes. It’s fragments are mostly gone.”

With a looming sense of guilt, you asked, “Are they scary? The nightmares, I mean.”

“No,” he responded without second thought. Considering his past— the likes of which you were still vastly unfamiliar with— any nightmares he had consumed were few and far in between. “Nightmares are conjured by the mortal mind as visual human fears. Often adepti will not be able to experience this except for myself through dreams I consume, but I’m not afraid of what I encounter. No matter what I see, I know it’s only an illusion. The feeling of the dream only lingers similar to the taste of food.”

You felt like a curious child; asking too many questions about something that piqued your interest. Still, Xiao entertained you all the same, answering your questions about dream eating with all the patience in the world. It made for a nice morning chat on such a drowsy day made to be spent huddled under warm covers.

The sparkling glint your eyes held as you hung on every word, or the way your soft, pink lips parted slightly with a silent gasp as he elaborated— it never tired him. It made his chest ache sweetly with that recurring feeling. Perhaps if his range of emotions were similar to yours, he would be smiling like he biggest love-struck fool right now.

“So, think about it, okay?” You finished with a beaming grin.

Oh. You had been talking. How long had he been distracted? He can’t even remember the last thing you said, too busy sorting out his mind. The adeptus could only blink confusedly at you as you stood up, hands on your hips lacking admonishment with the amused smile that quirked the edges of your lips up.

Rare was the moment you would catch the highly-attentive Conqueror of Demons off guard. Though his face remained neutral, you didn’t miss the momentary bewilderment in his eyes when he wasn’t sure how to respond. You took that as cue that his mind had momentarily drifted elsewhere.

“I said I wanted to repay you for helping me with the nightmare issue, but you seemed distracted. Did you fall asleep with your eyes open?” you jokingly teased as you waved your hand in front of his face.

Xiao averted his gaze, lightly scoffing, “Don’t be absurd. Adepti have no need for sleep. And payment isn’t necessary— I did this because I wanted to.”

There are many things you know about Xiao, and perhaps twice as many more things you had yet to learn about him. Your knowledge was already far surpassing what most mortals knew of him, but your advantage lay within the boundaries of a more personal relationship with an adeptus— a true rarity indeed. However, the subtle shade of scarlet twinging his ears as he hid his composed facade behind dark teal hair… there was no doubting it, much to his unvoiced chagrin.

Ah, you noted, so he’s embarrassed.

A relationship, unclearly defined by little gestures and subtlety in words that were mere whispers of deeper pining. There were complex feelings at hand, but the universe would show kindness and move for you both at the pace needed to meet each other halfway. Not rushed, but never stagnant. It was achingly slow and sweet to share moments of vulnerability among each other, here within walls that weren’t privy to prying eyes. And it was moments like this that fell into a rhythm— a wavelength— that seemed to pull an invisible string connecting you both together.

You didn’t tease him for the embarrassed pinks on his cheek, and for that he was grateful.

“Still, I want to do something for you.” You stopped him before he could protest, turning at the door frame of your washroom. “I’m doing this because I want to. It can be anything you want, as long as it makes you happy.”

With that, the door clicked shut and he was left with his lips parted in quiet bewilderment. Distant sounds of running water filled the deafening silence as he sat back with a deep sigh. Adepti are the ones relied on for favors and wishes. How strange— to have a mortal so readily offer to fulfil an adeptus’s curiosities with your limited capabilities. To bring him happiness… Something he didn’t see any benefit in, nor did he think he was capable of feeling happiness.

Xiao thought deeper into it, analyzing what exactly it was that filled him with a strange unease. Something that made him happy…

Happiness. He scoffed at himself at the mere thought. He was made to kill, to defend the land by any means necessary. His happiness… It was never a factor in his contract. It played no greater role in how swiftly he cut down blighted monsters. Happiness was not the weapon he relied on in the face of evil he vanquished. So, why was he giving himself a headache trying to figure out what made him feel happiness? An emotion he wasn’t very familiar with to begin with.

Here you were, showing— what? Mortal arrogance? No. His perceptiveness as an adepti was far too knowing, and perhaps the truth was what puzzled him more. What you showed him was genuine kindness, and perhaps a shred of naivete you clung onto.

He found himself warm with amusement when he thought about it— about how you treated him like you would any human. Where most would tremble at the sight of him or treat him with the reverent idolization that mortals do, you were instead treating him like one would a close friend. And maybe, if it were anyone else, he would see it as blatant disrespect. But if it’s you— since it’s you, he oddly sees no reason to raise a fuss about it despite himself.

It was a nice change of pace to feel at ease around you. A lighthearted reverie of mundane human life, and a moment of freedom from the heartache that burdened him as an adeptus.

Languidly, he scanned the room with unfocused amber eyes, your distant hums echoing in a muffled melody from beyond the other room. The glaze lilies from the other night had been moved to the desk by a window, the closed buds subtly glowing as they picked up on muffled hums of wordless songs and opened up shyly to your song.

Much like it’s difficult to find the right harmony favored by the delicate flower, Xiao wondered what made you bloom… and decided he would find happiness in figuring out your melody.

——

You blinked, mouth wordlessly opening and closing just the same. The words even made you fumble with your needle as you were stitching some intricate embroidery.

Finally gaining some composure, you cleared your throat but still ended up stuttering out, “W–Wait, I– Um– Could you…run that by me again?”

He had returned later that same day, when the moon was high in the sky and fireflies illuminated the still fields of Qingce with their soft glow. Seated patiently across from you, Xiao held your gaze firmly with arms folded across his chest.

“I’d like for you to enlighten me more about mortal emotions. If I want to get to know you better, I can’t avoid being a bit more knowledgeable about them.”

The way he held your gaze firmly and with undeniable resolve meant he truly deliberated this for a while, though you hadn’t expected him to actually come forward so quickly. Truth be told, you expected him to take on an adeptus stance and simply pay you no mind.

With a softer voice, he added, “Consider it the one thing you can do for me. I want to… understand you. Fully.”

“A–Ah, I see. Okay, so I did hear you right the first time.” You were already starting to put away your materials. Better to avoid any mistakes while your mind was taking a second to refocus. “Well, it’s… it’s a bit of a broad topic, and I’m no Sumeru professor. But, I’ll still give it my best.”

Dealing with a battle-hardened warrior in an area they were unsure of was a little intimidating. But, you’ve seen moments where Xiao has shown you a gentler side, one more tender and soft. It gave you hope that things would come naturally to him over time. More than anything, your heart was taking the heat of the nerves. There was just… so much and yet so little to emotions— taken for granted when they were embedded into you without much second thought. It was a little dizzying to figure out how to best help him comprehend things he hasn’t experienced much.

You shook your spiraling thoughts away before they over-complicated themselves and made you short-circuit. “So, uhm, are there any specific emotions you don’t fully comprehend?”

Xiao hummed, eyes closed and brows slightly scrunched as he racked his brain. In the end he came up empty. “I’m not sure. I’ll leave it up to you.”

With a slow nod, you pieced together possible ways to go about this. For the span of time you knew him, Xiao always expressed his puzzlement with how humans worked— not out of disdain, but rather voicing his disconnect with them. To hear him want to finally break the surface rather than choose his usual path of avoidance, was surprising to you in every way.

Still, humans are social creatures by nature and such interactions are what sparks the reactive emotions as a result. You were positive his curiosity didn’t warrant the desire to be put head first in a sea of emotional enigmas. He wasn’t a ‘people person’— something you knew all too well. This desire to learn was something Xiao allowed himself to entrust you with. You and you only.

“I have no desire to figure out how every mortal works,” he explained, hoping it would help narrow down your jumbled thoughts. His voice lowered just a fraction— volume just above a whisper meant for you alone to hear. “Understanding you alone is enough for me to work with. Don’t overthink it.”

There was an undeniable heat that twinged your cheeks. Xiao was looking to unravel your feelings for him without even knowing it. But there was a slight excitement you felt at the idea of the dense yaksha in front of you figuring out what the ties that wound you both together meant. There was plenty to explore.

“Alright, well,” you started, “What I think you need is just… experience. On a human level. Maybe then some things will click easier.”

He felt the warmth of your hand as you sidled over next to him, hand reassuringly placed over his gloved one. Xiao nodded slowly, a little apprehensive at the prospect of needing to adjust his perspective.

You cleared your throat, anxious to be prying more into his personal being. “So, what makes you happy, Xiao?”

There was a brief pause, the gears visibly turning in his head as his brows knit together. He was left staring blankly at you. “Could you… explain?”

“Oh, right… Sorry,” you apologized. “It’s whatever makes you feel… uhm, pleasant. Like a warm, sunny feeling in your entire being. Sometimes it makes you smile or laugh, but in the end always leaves you feeling satisfied for a fleeting moment and then everything doesn’t seem so bad— no matter how much you’ve endured. It makes things worth the effort.”

“I see,” he nodded slowly. “What makes you happy?”

Avoiding the question— though it’s not like you expected him to answer easily. Some examples would probably help him understand best and you reasoned this would be a very hands-on learning experience for him in the end, anyway.

“Me? Hm…” You pondered it a moment, absentmindedly fiddling with the adepti amulet he gifted you. “Sitting under the stars. It’s one of my favorite moments of peace under the calm of the dark sky… The world around us shifts every moment that passes, but it’s a comfort that the stars remain a constant when I look up for hope to get me through another day.”

There was a distant look in your eyes that didn’t go unnoticed by Xiao. However, something about the delicacy of the moment told him now wasn’t the moment to prod into the heaviness that weighed on your heart. There was a reason you were still here, much like him— your will to go on became your greatest strength. You visibly snapped out of your musings, a rosy hue high on your cheekbones.

“Sorry for… that— Where was I? Oh, right. It’s not too hard to find something that makes you happy if it’s something you like doing. Reading books, the people I love and care about, the colors of the sky as the sun sets— all of these make me happy, too.”

The subtle embarrassment that tensed your shoulders at first was subsiding, settling into comfortable conversation. Maybe it’s the attentive way Xiao sat with his face propped on his fist, expression relaxed as he took in every little detail you gave— it was hard to feel flustered for long.

He leaned back against the wall, his arms folding over his chest as he exhaled from the effort it took to think long and hard about what sparked some form of happiness in him.

“And if I were to say that what brings me happiness is you,” Xiao starts, his amber eyes glowing subtly as they focused on you, “what would be your response?”

There would be many ways you could respond, but the instant the words registered in your head you were suddenly at a loss for words.

“T–That would depend… on what you consider me,” you stuttered out, voice slowly growing meeker under his burning gaze. The moment of silence as he hummed in thought felt like it lasted an eternity, your heart pounding loudly in your ears.

“I consider you my person.”

Your plush lips were left parted in quiet awe, eyes glittering like the sky you so dearly loved as they visibly widened. Any words you were going to stumble over were cut off when soft lips pressed at your cheek. The tender revelation didn’t need words, as Xiao was a man of communicating best through actions. Both mortal and immortal sat in the stillness of the room with matching rosy cheeks adorning their features.

“You…” The heat in your face seemed to match the intensity of the ache in your chest. “Kissing me so freely… You want my heart to stop, don’t you.” But you were smiling as you buried your face into his shoulder to hide the increasing redness on your cheeks.

Xiao shrugged, “You do it all the time.”

...Screw it.

Any other lighthearted remark he was about to say was cut off by your lips silencing him in a rushed kiss. It was hasty and sweet, your eyes tightly shut as you chose to respond in actions like he did. Golden irises widened briefly before fluttering shut, letting the feeling lead.

It was warm— the feeling in his chest, the shy innocence reddening his face, the gloved hand that settled on top of yours as it tenderly cupped one of his cheeks. Here before him you bloomed so beautifully that it made his heart ache and his mind go blank momentarily. Yes, he was positively sure of it now.

You made him happy.

#adeptus xiao #Xiao #genshin impact xiao #genshin fanfic #mii writes #genshin #genshin xiao #xiao fluff #fluff #eventual smut #pwp #developing relationship #xiao x reader #xiao/reader #dream eater #fic: iasfao

234 notes · View notes

catalists · 3 years

Text

not quite a WIP Wednesday since (a) I don’t think I’m going to finish the story this scene belongs to, but I like it too much to let it languish in my folders forever and (b) it’s not Wednesday. but the middle of the week is always busy for me, so please enjoy ~800 words of a Mighty Nein modern AU where Molly reunites with his fuck-up friends and struggles to fit in because they are not fuck-ups anymore.

(not to say I’ll definitely never ever write more, but it’s below too many other projects to expect that to be soon.)

---

After four days of vague text responses, Molly took matters into his own hands. Jester had grown up a lot, but she was still painfully easy to manipulate, and it didn’t take much finagling to get her to drop the name of the café that Caleb frequented. It was an obnoxious bus ride to the area of the city around the university campus, but worth it when he tracked down The Melville. The building had large windows with green awnings and couldn’t seem to decide between a charmingly rustic aesthetic and an inexplicable nautical theme—the dark wood sign had a whale painted on it.

Inside, the place was well-lit both through overhead hanging lamps and the sunlight through the glass, and it was at a table illuminated by the afternoon sun that Molly finally saw Caleb Widogast again.

Caleb was handsome, Molly thought without consciously willing it. He’d always known Caleb was capable of it, of course, but back when Molly had known him he really hadn’t put in the effort—he’d always been vaguely grubby with an overgrown beard and ill-fitting clothes. Molly had found him attractive, but in a more ignorable way.

It was��less ignorable now. He wasn’t clean-shaven, but his beard was neatly trimmed. His long hair—redder than Molly remembered, although he wasn’t sure if that was his memory or more evidence of past dirt—was tied back in a neat ponytail. Molly recognized absolutely none of his clothes—he wasn’t even wearing the filthy duster he’d refused to be parted from, but instead a handsome purple coat in the Xhorhassian style.

The one thing that hadn’t changed was that Caleb was reading and paying no attention to his surroundings. Molly made it all the way across the café to him and stood across the table—he would have sat, but there was no chair opposite Caleb.

“I was going to ask if this seat was taken,” Molly drawled, “But you don’t seem to have one.”

“You can take the chair,” Caleb said distractedly.

“Someone already has.”

“What?” Caleb finally looked up, and did a double take. “Molly?”

“Don’t act so surprised,” Molly said. “You’re in the group chat. I’m devastated you haven’t come to see me yet.”

“I am sorry,” Caleb said. “It’s a busy time of year.”

“At the university, so I’ve heard,” Molly said. “You did make it back to school, then?”

“Yes,” Caleb said, and smiled. “It has been—very good. Yes.”

“And yet you’re sitting here without company,” Molly said. “Let me alleviate that.”

“Ah, my company is coming,” Caleb said, apologetically.

“Let me join you, then,” Molly said. “Who is it? Jester?”

“Maybe another time,” Caleb said, surprisingly firmly. It almost distracted Molly from the fact that he hadn’t answered the question.

“You don’t want to see me?” Molly pouted. “Caleb, it’s been four days! I’m beginning to think you never liked me at all.”

“I do like you,” Caleb said. “But I am meeting someone else right now. It has been a very long time.”

“All the more reason to catch up,” Molly said. “Let me grab a chair.”

“I do not mean to interrupt you,” a new voice said, just behind Molly, “But Professor Widogast has regularly scheduled office hours, if you are looking for assistance.”

Molly spun around and was immediately rendered speechless. The man behind him was a drow—a rare enough sight that he would have garnered attention even if he wasn’t strikingly beautiful. His white hair was cut short enough that you could see the silver rings in his ears. He wore a dark coat that covered most of his body, and fingerless gloves. Both hands rested lightly on the wheels of his chair, a subtle indication that he expected Molly to move out of the way.

Molly stepped aside, on some kind of autopilot, and the man wheeled himself forward into the gap.

“That’s why you didn’t need a chair,” Molly said, snapping his fingers.

“Indeed,” the drow said.

“I will see you later, Molly,” Caleb said.

“You won’t introduce me?” Molly gasped. “How rude.”

“Ah, Essek, this is my old friend Mollymauk, who cannot take a hint. Molly, you have now met Essek Thelyss. He is a professor of astrophysics here.”

“Pleasure,” Molly said. He made to take Essek’s hand, but he withdrew it; the motion was so subtle that Molly wasn’t entirely sure he’d meant it as a rebuff.

He clasped his hands behind his back and inclined his head in a subtle bow. “It is always a pleasure to meet a friend of Caleb’s.”

“Don’t be so quick to say that with this one,” Caleb said, with a smile.

“I’d love to get to know you,” Molly said, because he wasn’t not going to flirt just because he didn’t know the man. “But Caleb seems to want me to be on my way…”

He’d meant to nudge Essek into telling Caleb it was fine if he stayed, but once again Essek either didn’t pick up on the cue or deliberately ignored it.

Instead, Essek said, “I am sure I will see you again, if you are anything like the rest of your friends,” and looked at Caleb.

The pieces fell into place. “Is this a date?” Molly wanted to know. “Am I interrupting a date?”

Neither of them answered immediately, but Caleb flushed.

#mollymauk tealeaf #caleb widogast #essek thelyss #cr fanart #shadowgast #critical role #snippet #widomauk #which is a bit one-sided so I'm putting the tag down here

62 notes · View notes

kuroopaisen · 3 years

Text

cause & effect || 8

➵ your work friend, kuroo, has a tiny favour to ask. unfortunately, that favour includes convincing his family that you’re very much in love with him and have been for a while now. let’s just say it’s easier than you’d assumed.

warnings: f!reader, discussion of divorce

wc: 2.2k

m.list | ch. 7 ↞ ch. 8 ↠ ch. 9

“Tetsurou!” His mother calls as he’s a few steps away from the safety of the car.

“Hm?” He only half turns around, not willing to commit to the concept of walking back towards his mother’s house.

“Don’t forget to call.”

“Don’t worry,” you call out, “I’ll remind him.”

She smiles at you, raising a hand. “Thank you, dear.”

You’re rushed into the car before you know it, buckled in next to an exceedingly stressed Kuroo.

The two of you are already leaving later than he would’ve liked, and you can tell he’s desperate to get back to Tokyo.

So are you, honestly. It feels like you didn’t get enough sleep last night, even though you certifiably did.

His mother’s words keep playing over in your head. ‘No chemistry.’ ‘She’s no Ritsuko.’ What did that even mean?

Sure, you might not be his real girlfriend, but you’re kind of pissed that you’re expected to live up to a set of standards you don’t even know about. Maybe you’re a bit too ticked off by the chemistry comment, but ‘no chemistry’ meant you weren’t playing your role well.

And if you were going to do anything during this whole stupid pantomime, it would be playing your part exceptionally.

“You know,” Kuroo begins, clearing his throat and stirring you from your thoughts, “I don’t think I said thank you properly last night.”

You smile, shaking your head. “It’s fine.”

“No, I…” There’s a creak in Kuroo’s voice, an uncertainty. Once, you might have found it unusual. After last night, not anymore. “I really appreciate you listening to me.”

You turn your head towards him, your smile softening.

Kuroo takes a deep breath, his fingers tensing around the steering wheel. He’s not looking at you (rightfully so – his attention should be focused on the road), but his brow is furrowed and his bottom lip juts out ever so slightly.

“I know it sounds dumb,” he says quietly, voice barely louder than the humming of the car, “since they split ages ago, but… I’ve had a hard time believing that… that if I fell in love with someone, it’d last.”

It hurts. Deep and true and harsh.

You know that pain. You’ve felt it.

“That doesn’t sound dumb at all,” you murmur, voice soft as cotton.

“Thanks,” Kuroo chuckles.

Silence falls once more. You let it. If Kuroo needs time, you’re willing to give out. Trying to force things out of someone never did them any good. You wait patiently, watching the road.

“I just…” He sighs after a while, sitting up a little straight. “I don’t know how to let someone in. Not in the way they want, anyway. I just…”

He chews on his lip, brow furrowed as he searches for his next words.

“Because your parents split up?” You offer.

“Mhm,” he nods slowly. “I don’t begrudge them for it or anything… and I know it’s better than forcing themselves to stay in the relationship.”

Ah, the bargaining. You know it well.

You tell yourself that what happened is better than nothing changing at all. But in the process, you forget you’re allowed to grieve. Allowed to be hurt. You push it away, cover it with a tatty veil, tell yourself that it’s wrong to feel anything mildly negative about it.

But that’s how it builds. That’s how it spreads like moss over a stone wall, slow and deliberate and hard to notice at first. But then it’s in all of you – in how you see yourself, in how you see others, in how you love.

“But it’s affected you more than you realised, right?” You ask gently.

Kuroo nods again. He glances at you out the corner of his eye, vaguely suspicious.

“Yeah,” he swallows. “I’ve only begun unpacking it recently.”

“It can take a long time to work through something like that,” you murmur, fiddling with your fingers as you gaze down at your lap.

You’re not sure if you’ve even worked through it all. There are still days when the thought of ‘family’ makes you want to throw up, where the bitterness swallows you whole. Bitterness for them, bitterness towards a society that places filial piety as a key virtue. How are you supposed to fulfil your ‘duty’ as a daughter when you still haven’t forgiven them for leaving you among the wreckage?

Maybe it’s time.

You take a deep breath, lifting your head to gaze out the window. “My parents are divorced, too.”

It’s a half-whispered confession. One you’re not sure if you should make.

You don’t know why it’s so hard to say that. It’s a simple fact – one that’s been written in stone since you were fourteen. And it’s not like Kuroo would judge you for it.

But it’s still difficult. It still feels like a stain that won’t come out.

“Wait, really?” Kuroo’s eyes go wide, glancing between you and the road. “I’m so sorry—”

“What’re you apologising for?” You giggle.

Kuroo opens and closes his mouth like a goldfish. “Well I—I’ve been sitting here complaining about it, and—”

You wave a hand at him.

“It’s fine,” you smile. “I’m not close with either parent, so…”

The mood shifts. Have you made a mistake?

“I’m sorry,” Kuroo says. There’s a painful sincerity in his voice – evidence that he doesn’t know what that’s like.

You’re happy for him. Through it all, at least, he had his dad’s side of the family. It’s something to be grateful for; and while the abandoned child in you feels bitterly jealous at the thought of someone else getting support, you know better than to admonish a parent doing their best to keep their son above water.

“It’s fine,” you say, pressing your lips together and shaking your head. “They’re both overseas for the holidays, actually.”

That’s the real reason you’re able to actually do this whole thing. There’re no parents to visit, no family to make merry with. There are friends you’d like to see, but most of their time was taken up by their own family festivities.

“Wait, really?”

“Mhm,” you nod. “Dad’s gone to Europe with his new partner, and mum’s visiting her new husband’s family in Australia.”

You know that they didn’t need to ask you if you wanted to spend the holidays together. And you don’t expect it. Sometimes weeks go by with no contact, and it’s your fault as much as theirs.

But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Being along during the holidays is always a reminder that things aren’t as they should be – you don’t have that nice little nuclear family you’re told to want, with parents who love (or at least, tolerate) each other so they can love you.

“I see…” Kuroo murmurs.

“So, you needing someone to stick their neck out for you ended up being pretty convenient,” you grin, trying to lighten the frankly dour atmosphere in the car.

“Where will you be during New Years?” He asks softly. There’s a certain melancholy to his face.

“Alone, at this rate.” You have friends to see, of course, but you know they can’t dedicate all their free time to you – and you’d never ask for that.

But you can’t reason your way out of loneliness, no matter how hard you try. Maybe you weren’t trying hard enough. All you can do is remind yourself that it wouldn’t be forever; the holidays would pass, things would return back to normal, and you won’t be lonely again for another year.

“You can stay with us, if you’d like.”

Kuroo’s voice is so soft. So kind.

It’s enough to make your chest feel all light and funny. Why, you don’t know.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

You’re not sure if you’ll take him up on the offer; you wouldn’t want to impose, and it wasn’t part of your agreement. Not that you’re really sure what’s covered by your agreement. You’re just coasting along, hoping for the best. Hoping you’re helpful.

Silence. A silence that weighs on your shoulders.

Did Kuroo feel… awkward, now he knew you came from a similar situation? Did he feel that he had no right to talk about it the way he was?

That wasn’t what you’d been trying to do at all. You didn’t want to rob him of his voice.

You take a deep breath, clutching your jacket with your hands. “I’m just saying that… I know where you’re coming from,” you swallow. “Kind of.”

Kuroo glances at you out the corner of his eye.

“It’s okay to take your time to work through these sorts of things,” you smile. “God knows I still am.”

He chuckles lightly. A good sign.

“It’s not easy,” you continue, “and I spent a lot of my teen years believing it didn’t affect me, that it hadn’t had that big of an impact, but…” One deep breath. “I used to besmirch the idea of family.”

It feels strange, admitting it out loud. You’d never done that before; not to someone outside of a therapeutic context. Not even your closest friends knew this was how you really felt.

“I didn’t believe in it,” you swallow, “And now I know that’s because of how my parents treated each other.”

Fights. Pointless bickering. Nothing ever got physical, but bitterness has a way of twisting people up on the inside, leaving them all tattered and miserable. A place where there’s no love at all, only two people running through the tired motions of affection, is no place to raise a child – let alone teach them how to love.

And something else.

“And… and because of how they treated me through the divorce,” you sigh.

It sounds worse when you phrase it like that.

“If you don’t mind me asking…” Kuroo speaks slowly, each word careful and cautious, “what happened?”

You chew on your lip. “Well, there’s the two of them trying to pit me against the other.”

Kuroo groans.

“And I… I don’t know, I felt very neglected,” you swallow, doing your best to ignore the pressure in your chest, the lump in your throat, the way your gut twists. “They were both so focused on sorting themselves out that I got left behind in a lot of ways.”

“How old were you?”

“Oh, I was like… thirteen? Fourteen?” You can’t remember exactly. It’s been so long.

“Shit.”

You laugh. “Yeah, it really wasn’t a good time for it. But… I think that contributed to why I feel a bit distant from my family.”

You sigh, closing your eyes for a moment.

This wasn’t how you’d wanted this conversation to go. This was supposed to be about Kuroo, helping him feel more at peace with what’d happened to him. It wasn’t supposed to be your sob fest.

You open your eyes, looking straight at him. “Look, Tetsurou, it’s okay to take your time. And it’s good that you’re able to identify the causes of your troubles. That’s a great start.” you say as your heart races. Would he find this preachy? Nagging?

He just chuckles, shaking his head. “I just wish I could deal with them.”

“I think you’re doing better than you think you are,” you murmur, resisting the urge to reach out and place a hand on his shoulder. “And… if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

Your heart feels like it’s running a damn marathon as he slows to a stop at the red traffic light. Have you overstepped? Are you being annoying? Worse yet, were you being invasive?

Kuroo turns to look at you properly for the first time on the drive.

He’s graced with the softest of smiles, his features much gentler than you’ve ever seen them. You’d almost believe there’s genuine affection in his eyes.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, reaching over to ruffle your hair.

You pout at him reflexively. You haven’t had your hair ruffled in years.

✧ ✧ ✧

The rest of the drive is quiet. Pleasantly so. Enough’s been said, and you feel no need to fill the silence.

Kuroo doesn’t either.

It’s nice to exist comfortably like this, the car’s heater working overtime as you trundle your way back to Tokyo. You drift in and out of a light sleep, bundled up in your jacket and your coat.

By the time Kuroo parks on your street, you’re ready to crawl into bed and hibernate for the rest of the month.

“Well,” Kuroo sighs. “Thanks again.”

You yawn, stretching your arms as far as the car will let you. “No problem.”

Kuroo wastes no time in getting out of the car and opening your door for you. You grimace as the cold air hits you; maybe you will crawl straight into bed. What better way to spend your day off?

You grab your things and slowly walk yourself to the front of your apartment building. Kuroo accompanies you the whole way.

“I’ll see you soon,” he nods to you as you turn around.

“I look forward to it,” you smile. God forbid, you’re actually excited.

Kuroos eyes light up for a moment. Are his cheeks red from the cold, or something else?

A bubble in your gut and you’re desperate to get inside, away from this confounding, stupidly charming man. You give what you intend to be your final nod, turning to open the door, but—

“Oh,” Kuroo says. “One more thing.”

You turn and tilt your head at him.

Somehow, he makes the stark winter light suit him. He grins. It’s brilliant enough to make you blush.

“Thanks for opening up to me,” he smiles, “I really appreciate it.”

#kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsurou x reader #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo x you #kuroo tetsurou x you #kuroo tetsuro x you #kuroo scenario #kuroo tetsurou scenario #cause and effect by rowan

230 notes · View notes

masterthespianduchovny · 3 years

Text

The Poor Development of the Marauder's Era

I've recently been listening to Binge Mode and, even now, I honestly believe the Marauder's era is some of Rowling’s worst writing of the series. When I say Marauder's Era, I'm simply referring to characters and events pre Harry.

The Marauder's era isn't poorly developed because I didn't like what happened. It's poorly developed because of how Rowling handled the characters, the events she put them in, and the reaction to said events.

As a kid, I respected Lily and thought she could do no wrong. As an adult, I find her decisions questionable. For transparency purposes, I read these books in real time and was a similar age as the characters. So, I don't want to hear anything about me being "unfair." Of all of the Mauraders era kids back then, I was the most generous to Lily. It's only when I reflected more about her role in the series that I realized how lackluster she is as a character and as a friend.

Rowling relies on Lily being seen as the moral compass to signify who and what is right or wrong during this era. The problem with this is that Rowling undermines Lily in the process. Minus being flat out called Mudblood by Snape, she has no proof that Snape has done anything her friends accused him of doing, but she unequivocally views it as the truth. Despite Lily listening to Snape, it's not really in good faith because she already has her mind made up about Snape's guilt.

Now, this is important to note because since Lily hasn't seen any of Snape's alleged bad behavior for herself, why would she definitively accuse him of these things? Lily claims she was in denial about this when she ended their friendship, but it's quite obvious she does believe Snape is guilty.

What makes Lily's beliefs and choosing to side with others over Snape is that none of the Marauders have ever mentioned ONE instant of Snape doing or saying some fucked up shit. As a reminder: THEY HATED HIM. They never mentioned anything about him bullying others, calling muggles mud blood, or any other troubling behavior. It was merely because he existed. They couldn't even tie him to being a Death Eater.

Also, let's consider the fact that kids like Snape have rumors made up about them all of the time. ALL OF THE TIME. Not even Snape's own bullies could attest to Snape doing the things Lily's friends claimed Snape did, yet Lily believed their words?

And, maybe I'm being nitpicky, but the fact that Lily says "my friends" in reference to defending Snape has always rubbed me the wrong way. Snape IS her friend too. Her best friend, in fact. Why wouldn't she have said, "my OTHER friends." My Gryffindor mates or whatever? IMO, that implies that Snape is just some weirdo she talks to and not the person she's known the longest.

HOW ROWLING COULD'VE FIXED THIS:

Have Lily overhear Snape calling one of his peers Mudblood. Have the Marauders be incensed that Snape called someone a mud blood. Have them call out Lily when she tries to intervene on them confronting (confronting NOT bullying) Snape. Hell, even have Snape fucking bully someone.

Because as far as canon goes, Snape was a bystander as death eater wannabes bullied people and presumably did nothing about it. We don't see any of his alleged wrongdoings and the people who hate him can't even recall that this happened.

There shouldn't be an ambiguity or readers relying on the word and opinion of Lily to guide their opinion.

Some may say, "she's only a kid." To this I say, "You're right." Lily was a teen and teens don't always know how to handle complex situations, I will give her the benefit of the doubt. However, this means we shouldn't hold her as the moral standard.

Lily essentially says that the difference between the Marauder's bullying people and the death eater wannabes doing it is dark magic. I'm sorry, but that's weak sauce. Dark magic is such a vague and broad thing depending on what you're talking about, so nah...Also, is there something not dark about James choking Snape with soap? I mean, that could've traumatized Snape to the extent of him being triggered by soap. Isn't that dark?

HOW ROWLING COULD'VE FIXED THAT.

Jut have Lily acknowledge that behaviors by the Marauders and death eater wannabes are both bad, but for different reasons. Problem solved. She can even emphasize that she takes so much issue with Dark Magic due to why it's being used and what it ties into.

We hear how great Lily is and that everyone loves her, yet Harry meets literally NOT ONE FRIEND of Lily's. He meets James' friends and a former teacher of hers. We don't see Lily hanging out with anyone else. We hear examples of Lily feeling sad for people, but no references to her actually helping people or supporting others somehow.

HOW ROWLING COULD'VE FIXED THAT.

Maybe instead of Lily talking about the bad thing Avery and Mulciber did, she could've intervened, even if it was too late, and "saved" Mary. Hell, we could've had Lily hex James rather than just threatening it. I'm sorry, after literally reading the many ways the Golden Trio are there for each other even before big shit started to happen, Lily threatening to hex someone who is actively bullying her friend doesn't cut it.

And give her her own friends for Harry to meet.

Lily is said to be smart and empathic, but how she deals with Snape and his issues don't exactly support this.

HOW ROWLING COULD'VE FIXED IT.

Have Lily genuinely listen to Snape's grievances about the night he was saved. Don't have her be so dismissive about the Lupin thing. Maybe have Snape set up by the Marauders and the big reveal is a flop.

I know Rowling wanted to tackle people having shady pasts and how they can change, but 1. Either she needed to commit to it being a rivalry or 2. She needed to appropriately deal with the bullshit the Marauder's did. Snape is justifiably angry and distrusting of the Marauders due to one almost killing him as a joke and the other publicly humiliating him. This doesn't even account for YEARS of bullying, which remus admitted happened.

We cannot say that bullying is wrong, and then excuse the bullies because they were on the right side of a war.

HOW ROWLING COULD'VE FIXED THIS.

She should've had Remus flat out acknowledge they were wrong for what they did and that there was no excusing it. Then, have Sirius and Remus privately talk about this where Sirius admits it too. OR, despite loving them and his dad, Harry realizes how flawed they were and that their reasoning is simply to protect their dad not necessarily because James grew up. OR Rowling could've not written James and Sirius behaving as psychopaths AS WELL AS show instances of Snape starting shit with them.

SHOW US Snape deliberately starting shit with the Marauders and James trying to apologize. Show us James' growth outside of that. Don't tell us that James is secretly hexing Snape behind Lily's back because it has her looking like a dumb ass.

Also, all of this James stuff is important because Lily ending up with James is such a bad fucking look. IMO, it makes her disgust at his behavior seem performative. It says that she didn't really care about him bullying others, but rather, the perception of her being with someone who bullied others. And, no, having Lily smile as Snape was actively being bullied, and then poverty shaming him isn't a good look.

"BUT, BUT SNAPE CALLED HER A RACIST SLUR!!!"

It doesn't matter how much you want to give your friend the benefit of the doubt, if you believe he's calling others racist slurs, you need to confront it. And, if you believe it to be true, you need to end it. You don't wait until he calls you the slur to say, "hey, maybe he really is this racist person people claim he is."

HOW ROWLING COULD'VE FIXED THIS.

After James saved Snape's life, this is where he could've matured and his big head lessened. He still hexes others, but leaves Snape alone because he realized that they went to far with him even before Sirius' "prank." Instead of James being the antagonizer, it should've been Sirius. Once again, James breaks this up and he and Sirius gets into a small argument. Snape is let down as Lily runs up and Snape says his mud blood remark.

Snape then tries to hex Sirius and James steps in once Snape refuses to stop. It gets out of hand and Snape accidentally harms Lily.

I won't lie, I'm a HUGE Snape fan. However, because of how Rowling handled this era, there are many ambiguous things, situations that don't make any sense, not enough development of characters, etc which undermines the story she tried to tell.

Yes, I do love the series, except I don't like any of the Marauders or Lily. I don't hate Lily, but she grates. Remus really was a coward and irresponsible as hell. Sirius was childish as fuck and, no, him being in prison doesn't excuse or justify all of his behavior. James saved his peer's life, and then publicly humiliated and sexually assaulted him. He didn't stop bullying, he just stopped how he did it.

This doesn't mean I believe that Snape was faultless, but I believe this era was so poorly told that by default, I believe and sympathize with Snape.

Although I believe Rowling wanted readers to do this, I don't think she planned for some readers such as myself to hold the positions we do. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy Snape as is, but I do believe Rowling didn't intend for me to hold the views I do about Lily and the Marauders.

I don't understand her laziness during this era, especially since it's so key in Snape, Lily, and James' stories.

Lastly, she could've developed James and Lily better.

I know she only has so much time, space, pages blah blah blah. However, the best writers find a way to make it work with what they have.

#harry potter #Harry Potter series #Severus snape #lily potter #James potter #remus lupin

147 notes · View notes

rabidpotato · 3 years

Text

I have Castlevania brain rot send help

Ho boy. I have FEELINGS.

Season 4 spoilers and (longwinded) Discourse(TM) below the cut

A happy ending? In MY Castlevanias? It’s more likely than you think. With as grimdark as the series has been I fully expected to have my heart torn out and shat on, so to get an actual satisfying happy ending was a whole lungful of fresh air. Gimme that sweet sweet rush of Everybody Lives Nobody Dies, I need that shit pumped straight into my poor serotonin-starved brain.

What a hell of a season. There was enough material there for at least two seasons (and I would have LOVED to have two seasons, but that’s just because I’m greedy and want more…) and I was skeptical that they could even try to wrap up all those threads..and then they DID IT. Hot damn.

Hot Takes:

In this house we stan Greta and will tolerate no disrespect against our sword-and-hammer wielding queen. I love her, and I love her and Alucard’s dynamic with the deliberate parallels to Dracula and Lisa. I think she’s good for him.

TREVOR AND SYPHA UGH I JUST LOVE THEM SO MUCH I’m out here crying ugly tears at how much this stinky himbo and tiny nuke love each other ;______; Battle Couple OTP.

I would watch the shit out of an entire season of everybody building the new village and Trevor and Sypha learning how to be parents and Alucard and Greta getting closer and everybody just being HAPPY. This is because I am trash, not because there would actually be any storytelling value in such a thing. Same thing with onscreen kisses between Trevor and Sypha. Is it necessary? No. Doesn’t mean I don’t want it. But hey, that’s what fandom is for, right? I’ll just be over here drawing beetus-inducing fluff and being vaguely disgusted with myself.

Papa Trevor would be so soft. I think my ovaries just exploded.

I 100% expected Trevor to die and leave Sypha grieving and pregnant with the way they teased it in the trailer and the way it would have thematically fit with the rest of the series, and I am SO GLAD he didn’t. I’m tired of sad endings. I really love that he gets to be part of this world of people who know how to build things.

“I love you.” “I know.”

That single flash of Sypha’s face as he’s fading out knowing he’s going to die and being at peace with it, augh my fucking heart. T_T

Horse is secret MVP. That horse knows things.

Isaac confirmed for a) stand user and b) monster fucker. King out here living his best life, you love to see it.

But for reals tho, Isaac’s arc was one of my favorites. Nice fakeout with the conquest line in the trailer. The philosophical discussions on the nature of humans and night creatures, the way he comes to realize that he (and Hector, and by extension his own night creatures) is/are more than a tool to be used in the hands of others, the way he reclaims his own agency and decides he’s going to live...I fucking loved it. (Also paves the way for post-series forgehusbands…)

SO FUCKING HAPPY FOR STRIGA AND MORANA. I was holding my breath expecting them to get horribly killed the entire time and then they just...weren’t. The hot vampire wives got to literally ride off into the sunset (sunrise?) together, in a way that made sense. The General and the Organizer looked at the data on the ground, discussed, and made the calculated decision to stick with what really matters to them, not just Carmilla’s ambitions. More of this, please! Would have loved to see Striga fight more than once, though. Also I would shank a man for Morana’s cape.

Respect for Carmilla for going out on her own terms, even if it did feel a little heavy-handed. The cinematography of her and Isaac’s fight sure as hell made up for it though- that was one of the prettiest fights of the series.

Reunited trio’s fight was the other prettiest fight of the series. Holy fuck, what gorgeous animation.

I actually liked that St Germain’s lady friend never spoke- it reinforced the way that he has mythologized her to the point where she’s not even a person, just an ideal. It was also exactly what he deserved that she turned her back on him in the end. She’s just not that into you, bro.

Varney is a hoot. A greasy, flea-infested slimy hoot. Nice twist, too. Death’s design is *chef kiss*

Loved the themes of moving on and rebuilding and change and how there’s a pretty clear split between the people who are able to adapt and change (and live), and those “relics of the old world” who can’t or won’t. Ratko was criminally underused in this respect. I think there just wasn’t enough time.

Quibbles:

Pacing. I know Castlevania is notorious for uneven pacing, but in this case I think this is on Netflix- they should have been given a full two seasons to wrap this up, just to give things a chance to breathe. As it was, though, I think the writers did the best possible job given the constraints they were under.

Zamfir should have lived to learn the lesson about caring for the people who are still alive, and been the one to take charge of rebuilding Targoviste for the living. Having her die was straight-up pointless in a predictable way.

Did Trevor just straight-up forget he has TWO weapons with range when fighting Ratko? You have like a 30 foot reach what are you doing bro

Lenore is Problematic, and I wish there had been more tension between her and Hector. Like, I know Stockholm Syndrome is a thing, but he’s weirdly chill with her in a way that glosses over just what she did to him. Also I would have liked to see more self-awareness of “Oh, being a pet in a cage really is shitty, no matter how nice the cage. Now I know why what I did to you was wrong” before she dips. Her ending sure was poetic, though.

Wasn’t Trevor’s left arm broken in that last fight? How the heck is he even able to use it at the end? Also damn dude it’s been two weeks you should probably at least have washed those gaping wounds by now. Do you want sepsis? Because that’s how you get sepsis.

Unpopular Opinions:

Look I love Dracula/Lisa as much as the next shipper but “Hey we’re alive again for some reason!!” was totally out of left field. It felt like something out of a fix-it fic and it was just kinda baffling and jarring. Also go see your fucking kid, jfc you two are terrible parents.

Is Lisa just...kinda fine with the fact that Dracula tried to commit genocide in her name and almost killed their son? That must have been an awkward conversation.

I’m actually cool with Alucard spilling his life story to Greta on the march. He’s starving for human interaction, who’s to say he wouldn’t just want to TALK about what he’s been through? It’s treated in a way that’s a bit flippant for my taste, but we’ve seen enough of his trauma onscreen. I want to focus on his healing.

I’m hesitant to kick this particular hornet’s nest, but I really don’t think the ot3 has to be sexual? If it is, it damn well be an ot4 polycule with Greta. I see them more as two couples that are close friends and found family. But that’s the great thing about fandom! Rock on, shippers of all flavors, there’s room enough for everybody.

In Conclusion (jesus fuck how much did I write)

Castlevania pretty

Have you seen my braincell I think I misplaced it

Moar plz

98 notes · View notes

spencers-renaissance · 3 years

Text

storm-darkened or starry bright

Summary: Spencer contracts HIV. It all falls apart after that.

Tags: angst, illness, hurt!spencer, hurt/comfort, worried derek, depression, mutual pining, getting together, angst w a happy ending

TW: vomit, implied/referenced sex and addiction, disordered thinking, depression as a result of medical diagnosis

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 6.5k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

(I've tagged my usual moreid taglist in this fic, but I won't be offended at all if this is too heavy for you!)

Title from "Where All My Books Go" - W.B. Yeats.

Originally inspired by J_Ballinger's Swift, Fierce & Obscene which is just a brilliant piece of art.

you said I could have anything I wanted, but I just couldn’t say it out loud — richard siken, litany in which certain things are crossed out

It starts with the flu.

He calls into work sick and he makes himself comfortable in bed, preparing to ride it out. It is the middle of January after all, and their last case saw them in Ann Arbor, shivering their way through each crime scene and a police station with abysmal heating.

His lymph nodes are swollen, and he’s running a moderate fever — 102 the last time he checked — and the cough he’s had for a couple of days is definitely getting nastier, but he uses the time to catch up on the documentaries he’s had stored on his DVR for the past couple of months. He tries to see it as a positive: he never gets time to rest like this. Warm soup, chamomile tea, and some Nyquil should be the end of it.

He makes the most of it. He gets better. He goes back to work, and life goes on.

“It’s not like you to get sick, Reid.”

Emily doesn’t mean anything by it, it’s about as innocuous as a comment can possibly be, but something about it makes his heart stop for a second. Because the thing is, she’s right. The last time he was actually sick was the anthrax poisoning three years ago, which can hardly be blamed on his body itself. He hasn’t been sick with a virus since he was a child — certainly not anything more than a mild winter cold.

His world turns upside down in the middle of a Tuesday, a couple of them gathered around Derek’s desk laughing about nothing in particular, the easy camaraderie of a close-knit team without a time-sensitive case on their minds.

Three and a half weeks ago: a night heady with alcohol in a gay bar in downtown DC, a charged encounter with a man just Spencer’s type, a whispered invitation back to his place, not making it past the bathroom…

He pales, suddenly feeling violently ill at the prospect of what’s happened, how badly he’s fucked up this time.

“Spencer, are you okay?” Emily asks, suddenly noticing his appearance. “You look really pale… maybe you’re not ready to be back at work yet.”

Forcing himself out of his stupor, he manages to open his mouth without vomiting. “I don’t feel so good,” he says, and even to him his voice sounds weak and distant. Blood roars in his ears, and all he can think is what that blood could very well be tainted with.

Far away voices discuss something he doesn’t pay attention to before Derek’s placing his hand on his shoulder, drawing him back into the discussion. “I’m gonna drive you home, okay?�� Emily isn’t standing at the desk anymore, but he doesn’t think to look around for her, just locks eyes with Derek: noticing his brows knit deeply in concern, worry clouding his dark, striking eyes.

He lets himself be led down to the garage. Later, he won’t remember any of the winding car journey home, Derek’s worried sideways glances, his attempts at making conversation, tucking him into bed, his hesitancy to leave and go back to work. He’ll just remember the weight of his realisation, the sinking acknowledgement of what this means.

What it makes him.

⭐️

The next day, he wakes up ravenously hungry. He doesn’t remember anything after the dreaded realisation, but he remembers that he came to it only minutes after eating lunch: meaning he’s gone over eighteen hours without food. Somehow, he manages to pick himself out of bed and stumble to the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal. He finishes it all and doesn’t taste a single bite.

He texts the group chat Penelope had made for the whole team last year, ignoring the dozens of anxious messages from his team already filling his phone. Won’t be in.

Almost on auto-pilot, he gets dressed, picks up his phone, wallet, and keys, and walks to his nearest metro station. He counts four stops, gets out of the carriage and walks up the stairs onto the street, weaving through exactly three streets until he finds himself staring at the sign for his Urgent Care clinic.

Words — not ashes, as some small part of him anticipates — manage to spill from his lips as he tells the doctor everything from the unprotected sex he vaguely recalls having on the night of Saturday the 12th of March to his brief flu-like symptoms to his sickly realisation yesterday. Vaguely, he thinks there’s some sort of sick humour in being able to recall exactly what day he had sex, but not the details of the sex itself. Alcohol and dilaudid are the only things that have ever been able to interfere with his memory.

He obediently opens his mouth for a saliva swab, lets the nurse prick his finger and collect a drop of his blood. He wonders if she knows what they’re testing him for. He wonders if she thinks he’s as dirty as he feels, if she’ll violently scrub her hands after smiling politely at him, if she’ll roll her eyes when she talks to the other nurses, lamenting his stupidity.

The sounds of the waiting room melt into the background as he waits for the test to be conducted, and judging by the tone of the nurse who gets his attention when it’s time to return to the doctor’s office, it’s not her first attempt.

He mutters a distracted apology as he gets up from his seat, but she just smiles sympathetically. It shouldn’t get his back up in the way it does.

“I’m afraid you have tested positive for the Human Immunodeficiency Virus, Dr Reid,” she tells him, her voice gentle but straight-forward. He’s at least glad she doesn’t try and soften the blow. It’s not a blow that deserves to be softened. “I know this is a shock, but—”

“It’s not a shock.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s not a shock,” he repeats insistently; impatiently. “I knew it was coming. It’s my own fault.”

“Playing blame games isn’t going to help anybody here, Dr Reid,” she says firmly, meeting his eye. “Whether you were expecting it or not, this would knock anyone off-kilter, and I’d be remiss not to acknowledge that.”

She waits for his reluctant nod before continuing. “The good news is that we’ve caught it early enough to contain the infection. Your CD4 levels are very good, and you do not meet AIDS criteria. I’ve referred you to Dr Frederiks at George Washington University Hospital. He’s an expert in Infectious Disease and specialises in HIV/AIDS treatment. He can see you tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

He arrives back at his apartment almost $300 out of pocket, having gained nothing but a positive HIV diagnosis. The FBI has brilliant healthcare insurance but Spencer ticked the ‘no’ box on the insurance form. He can’t risk anybody knowing about this.

He texts Hotch and tells him he has a doctor’s appointment in the morning and will let him know whether he’ll make it in for the afternoon. Then he lays on the sofa, and cries.

⭐️

“HIV is a chronic illness,” the doctor explains at four minutes past ten the next morning, “a latent infection. Not a death sentence. Medications have come leaps and bounds in the last ten years, and the regimes aren’t anywhere near as rigorous as they used to be. With your CD4 levels this good, your life really won’t be much different than it was a few weeks ago.”

Spencer’s never had much interest in medicine — after all, there’s a reason he’s not that kind of doctor — but he knows this much. He doesn’t tell the doctor that he’s wasting his time explaining the basics of the disease, just stares blankly at the point in between his eyes, staring at the small crease in his skin, the way it moves as he speaks.

“It’s likely that you’ll die of something else, Dr Reid, decades in the future. When managed correctly, HIV is rarely deadly.”

This seems irrelevant: it doesn’t matter to Spencer what he dies of. Whether his immune system gives in or he’s shot in the line of duty or drops dead in the street from an aneurysm he doesn’t see coming, he’ll be dead.

He still doesn’t say anything.

“For the first six months of infection, the risk of transmission to sexual partners is high,” he continues, unfazed by Spencer’s lack of response. “Are you in a relationship?”

“No.” It’s the first word he’s spoken since he entered this office. His voice breaks. He can’t have the person he wants: this feels like the nail in the coffin of a relationship dead on arrival.

A look of sympathy crosses Dr Frederik’s face. “In any casual encounters you may engage in, you’ll need to be extra careful. Do you have the contact details of the person you contracted this from?”

His voice is steadier this time. “No.”

“Do you have any suspicion that you were deliberately infected by them?”

“No,” he answers, because he doesn’t, but it occurs to him that he’ll never actually know. He doesn’t remember if they used a condom; if he even wanted to use one. (All he remembers is his muscles and the way he pretended he was Derek, the amused look on the other man’s face when he whispered his name like a prayer.)

“That’s fine,” the doctor smiles encouragingly. It feels patronising. “We’re going to start with a triple combination of medications: tenofovir and emtricitabine combined with dolutegravir. HIV is an adaptable virus and easily becomes resistant, so it’s best to attack it hard and fast as early as possible to give you your best chances at an undetectable viral load in the next year. Which, I might add, Dr Reid, is a completely reasonable goal. At that stage, you will not be all that infectious. You’ll have bloods drawn before you leave to estimate your baseline kidney and liver function as well as overall health. In three months, you’ll have another test, and in six months, we’ll assess how well the drugs are working for you.”

Spencer nods, his eyes not leaving the crease between Dr Frederik’s eyebrows.

“Make those appointments with my secretary on your way out, and contact me if you have any concerns.” He pushes a brown paper envelope across the desk. “Inside you’ll find a copy of your positive test result, your prescriptions, and a number of leaflets on the condition as a whole.”

He squashes the urge to push the envelope back across the desk and nods again.

“Pick up the medication before the end of today and start them either tonight or in the morning,” he advises, before standing up from behind the desk and walking towards the door.

Spencer follows obediently, nodding once more and forcing a grimace onto his face, before walking down the hallway towards the secretary, another stranger he has to share his secret with. Swallowing down the urge to either scream or vomit, he fiddles with the envelope in his hands and bites the bullet.

⭐️

He tells Hotch that he won’t be in that day, and he goes home and forces himself to get it together. He showers first, the hot water washing the grime of the last few days down the drain, but he can’t do anything about the lingering layer of shame clinging to his skin. For the first time since the realisation, he forces himself to look in the mirror. A thin, pallid man with bags under his eyes and the look of someone harbouring a secret looks back at him.

His hair has grown out a little in the last few months, actual curls visible around his face (memories flash across his mind of breathy gasps; a hand buried in his hair, pulling ever-so-gently but they’re gone before they’re even remotely tangible), and he lost a little bit of weight he couldn’t afford to lose during his symptomatic period.

But, as frustrating as it is, it’s not what he sees. Not really. He sees Spencer Reid, possessor of five degrees, soon to become six, expert analyst in the FBI, the man who listens to jazz when he studies and watches documentaries for fun and solves crossword puzzles on the metro.

Something inside him shifts as he’s reminded of his humanity in that moment. It’s the most okay he’s felt in the last forty-eight hours.

He’ll take it.

He goes back to work the next day with little fanfare, getting warm smiles and ‘glad you’re feeling better’s from the team before they’re plunged headfirst into a new case, as it so often goes. They fly to Vermont, and part of him is glad for the distraction: no more talking about his illness, no more self-pity — he’s forced to try and bridge the gap between Dr Spencer Reid, Before and Dr Spencer Reid, HIV Positive as quickly and seamlessly as possible.

He does what he’s good at: offers relevant, detailed facts, profiles the victims and the unsub, cites studies that help them get to the bottom of the case, and for a moment he allows himself to forget about the virus coursing through his blood and the feeling of shame he can’t quite shake no matter how clean he scrubs his skin.

They get to the hotel late that evening and Spencer takes his second dose of medication, individually popping each tablet from it’s sheet into his hand. The pharmacist he spoke to yesterday told him that from his next medication order they can put all three tablets into a blister packet for him, but for now he’s stuck punching through three different plastic packets every night. Derek asks him to join them at the bar for a drink, but Spencer turns him down. He’s barely been able to look him in the eye.

If, in some rare and far flung universe, Derek did want to date Spencer, he wouldn’t want to date HIV positive, ex-addict, reckless and unsafe Spencer.

He wouldn’t want to date a man so heartbroken and lovesick that he got black-out drunk and slept with someone — most likely without a condom — just because he bared a passing resemblance to Derek. Contracting the Human Immunodeficiency Virus in the process.

No.

Spencer spends the evening staring into the mirror instead, desperately trying to find the man he was four days ago under the burden of broken suffering he seems to have picked up along with the diagnosis, the positive test, the sympathetic doctors.

When he hears the others come up past midnight and pile into their hotel rooms, laughing and chattering among themselves, Spencer still hasn’t looked away.

The use of the case as a distraction only works until 11am the next day. He’d had trouble falling asleep, and he’s powering through the day fuelled by black coffee and raw determination alone, but those motivators — as effective as they can be — can’t stop his legs from shaking as he stares at the geo-profile, searching for what they’re missing.

It sucks, but he’s glad for the warning the shaking gives him. He finds a chair and sits down, which is likely the only thing that stops him from collapsing when black dots swim in his vision and he’s suddenly vomiting down his front.

“Reid!” Hotch cries, running from the other end of the police station to where he’s sitting, panic clear on his face. They’re the only two from their unit currently in the station, but Hotch quickly locates an officer and turns to him. “Call an ambulance.”

“No,” Spencer manages to protest, although it only makes him want to be sick again, “‘m fine, promise.”

“What’s going on? I thought the flu had passed? Healthy people don’t spontaneously vomit and almost pass out, Reid.”

Somehow, his addled brain manages to concoct a decent enough lie. “Keep thinking I’m better,” he mumbles, leaning forward to put his head between his legs as Hotch places a hand on his back, “and then I’m not.”

“You’re sure this is just the flu?” Hotch asks, concerned but at least appearing to believe him.

“Certain,” Spencer lies.

Hotch nods once before shaking his head at the officer on standby with a phone to call an ambulance. “Well, you can’t work the case like this,” he sighs. “We need to get you back to the hotel, okay? You can rest there. God, Reid, what did the doctor say?”

“Bad case of the flu. Gave me some strong Tamiflu and told me I’d be fine in a couple days.” He gasps the words out in between intense waves of nausea, clasping his hands together in an iron grip.

He absolutely can’t let Hotch catch on. In the nine years he’s worked at the FBI, he’s managed to conceal his sexuality below layers upon layers of closeting, and he’s not about to be forced out now. It started as a purely protectionist strategy — law enforcement in the early 2000s didn’t exactly have a stellar reputation when it came to tolerance — but then he just felt forced too deep, felt the web of lies spun too tightly around him to even begin to unpick them.

Terror seizes his heart at the idea of his team knowing who he really is: not because he expects homophobia or backlash, but because he’s not sure he’s ready to live that openly yet. He’s never been good with change, and this is no exception.

It doesn’t help that the whole team is all too aware of his past addiction. He dreads the thought of them thinking he’s using again and, worse, so irresponsibly that he managed to contract HIV.

Hotch gets a rookie officer to drive him back to the hotel, and she keeps sending him nervous glances, most likely worried he’ll stink up her immaculately kept squad car with his spontaneous vomiting. Both he and the car make the journey unscathed, although he knows he probably looks as green as he feels as he drags himself up the stairs — could there possibly be a worse time for an out of order elevator? — and somehow manages to make it to the bed before he collapses.

Unfortunately, his restful slumber doesn’t last long. He’s woken up not half an hour later with the intense need to be sick again, and he races to the toilet, where he spends the next two hours: intermittently slumped over it, being sick into it, and lying on the cold tiles next to it.

It feels like a punishment. If Spencer was a religious man he’d be certain God was smiting him for his sins, but instead he’s left instead pondering karma or fate or some other theory he doesn’t really buy into either. Logically, he knows it’s just a combination of guilt and regret — he made a mistake, he’s suffering the consequences; there’s no fate or religion or karma involved — but his delirious, out of sorts mind struggles to hold on to that.

Reason doesn’t make the nausea any less crippling, after all.

Eventually, he must manage to pass out on the bathroom floor, because he’s being shaken awake by a pair of gentle hands, and when he finally opens his eyes, it’s dark outside.

“Spence?”

Shit. Derek.

His eyes fly open and he fights to sit up, to make himself more presentable. The smell of vomit lingers in the air and he remembers that he didn’t even put the toilet seat down, let alone flush it. (At least he thought to change out of his vomit-covered shirt. Thank God for small mercies.) He blushes, and thinks he must look a pretty picture of red and green as he finally meets Derek’s eyes.

“God, Spence, how bad is this flu?” he asks worriedly, smoothing his hair with the palm of his hand. Despite himself, Spencer finds himself pressing back into the touch, relishing any contact he can get.

Then it hits him: he’s dirty. He can’t contaminate Derek like this.

“You should leave,” he asserts hurriedly as he pulls away, hating that desperation is so obvious in his voice. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve cleaned everything up, and I used gloves. I’ve been in contact with you the last couple of days, so if you were going to get me sick you would’ve already. I just want to be here for you.”

Spencer squeezes his eyes closed so tightly they hurt. He wants nothing more than to fold himself into Derek’s arms, let himself be comforted by the man he wants to spend the rest of his life with. But he can’t. There are so many reasons that he can’t.

“No,” he says, not opening his eyes, resenting the tear that slips out and spills down his cheek. “You can’t. I’m… I’m not safe to be around.”

He doesn’t really mean to say it, but it escapes anyway, and he opens his eyes just in time to see the confusion cross Derek’s face. “Not safe to…? Spencer, what—”

“I just… I need to be alone.”

“No, you don’t,” Derek says softly, bringing a hand to his hair again, and he knows that HIV isn’t transmitted through sweat or vomit but he’s dirty, and Derek is so so good, he can’t be responsible for tainting him. Derek doesn’t relent, though, not even when Spencer pulls away from his touch and shrinks in on himself, leaning against the toilet. “You need to allow yourself to be comforted. You need to let me help, Spencer.”

Suddenly, he feels incredibly tired: the energy seeping out of his body, and he’s boneless against the toilet, absent even of the effort to hold himself upright.

“Come on, let’s get you into bed.” He puts his arms around Spencer’s rolled up body and lifts him, holding him close to his chest as he carries him from the bathroom to the bed.

Spencer doesn’t just let him, he curls into his embrace, clinging to the material of his t-shirt like it’s his only grip on reality.

(Later, he’ll blame the fever, but deep down he knows that just once, he wanted to play pretend, and just once, he didn’t have the energy to stop himself.)

⭐️

The side effects take weeks to finally leave, his body having a hard time adjusting to not only a deadly virus in his bloodstream, but some of the strongest drugs on the market inhibiting his natural enzyme production. Eventually, though, he’s back at work properly, selling a story about a simultaneous gastro-intestinal virus making the flu exponentially worse.

He’s not really sure everyone believes him, but nobody questions it out loud, so he avoids everyone’s eyes and takes it as a win.

Nobody gets close enough to try, anyway. He pushes everyone away, holds them at arm's length no matter how much they kick and scream and claw their way closer to him. It surprises him how persistent Derek is, and for a moment he feels a sad flutter of hope in his stomach and he’s forced to stamp it down: Derek sees him as a brother, a friend, a colleague, not a potential romantic partner.

And it would be irrelevant, even if he did. Derek wouldn’t want him as any of those things if he knew what he was hiding. Ever since his lapse in judgement on the case in Vermont, he’s refused to spend any time alone with Derek, and he hates the hurt he sees in his eyes, hates that he can’t scream at him that this is for his own good. But he can’t know. Because Spencer is still ruled by his relentless selfish desires, and he can’t let Derek go, no matter how hard he tries to.

Kept at arm’s length at least means he’s still touching his shoulders.

He muddles through the next few months on his own, returning to his quiet apartment every night and eating a sad, lonely dinner on his sad, lonely sofa before punching his way through a blister pack, taking his tablets, and going to sleep. He turns down drinks invitations, declines phone calls, ignores text messages. He pretends he isn’t home when there are knocks at his door.

He takes showers that are too hot and cries on the metro, scrubs his fingernails and his face, and when he got a shallow knife wound on a case last month, wouldn’t let a single member of the team near him. Whispering his status, shame-faced, to the attending EMT.

This is it, he thinks one night, as he opens the microwave and takes out the mac-and-cheese ready meal he’d bought on the way home that night. He doesn’t even like mac-and-cheese. It was just the only thing left in the store at 8.30pm. This is my life now. Standing in my kitchen at 9.15pm, not being able to remember the last time I was actually happy.

(He does remember, really. It was Sunday the 13th of March, 9.37am: Derek had ruffled his hair and joked with him as they waited alone in the conference room to find out what was so urgent they were being called into work on the weekend for. Spencer could still feel the aftermath of his Saturday night tryst, and pretended for a brief few minutes that that encounter was with Derek, and those jokes were actually flirting. But then the case took over, then the flu symptoms, and then. Well.)

Before he can carry the mac-and-cheese into the living room, though, there’s a knock at the door. Everyone had mostly given up on turning up unannounced, so it catches him off-guard, and something in him, some vain flicker of hope, or maybe a masochistic desire to hurt even more, propels him forward until he’s opening it and coming face to face with Derek Morgan.

“Spencer,” he says urgently, and panic immediately grips Spencer as he wonders what could be so wrong that he’d need to show up out of the blue, but Derek must see it on his face. “Nothing’s happened, don’t worry, I just… I need to speak to you.”

A knot of something that Spencer can’t quite place tightens in his stomach as he stares at the myriad of emotions playing across Derek’s face, but he steps aside to let him in anyway. He closes the door behind them and feels a flash of embarrassment at the state of his apartment. It’s completely clean — his already rigorous attitude towards germ and cleanliness have only intensified in the last few months as paranoia plagued his mind relentlessly — but it’s barren of any joy, and it couldn’t be more obvious.

The furniture is drab and Spencer’s packed away all the photos and trinkets that used to litter the entire place because they just made him too sad to look at. The only life that remains is his books, and the sheet he’d hung to cover them up in a fit of rage a couple of weeks ago still hangs there limply. He hadn’t wanted to see his books: didn’t want the temptation of touching them and tainting them. What if he got a papercut on one of the pages and his virus-ridden blood spilled across the words he treasures so dearly?

He watches as Derek surveys the place with a sad expression on his face, before recollecting himself and turning back to Spencer.

“I know you’ve been pulling away from us, Spence,” he says, almost breathless as he takes a seat on the sofa. Spencer doesn’t know what to do with his body, so he settles on remaining where he is: stock still facing the couch, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets. “We’ve watched you become a shell of who you used to be, and we’re all worried about you—”

“I don’t—”

“No, just let me speak. Everyone is worried, and I am too, but… I’m also… I’m hurt, Spencer. You’re pushing me away, turning me down every time I try to get close to you, and it’s painful because you’re my friend. You’re my best friend, and you mean the world to me.”

I wouldn’t if you knew my secret, he thinks miserably, but he doesn’t say anything.

“More than anything, though, it hurts… because I’m in love with you.”

Spencer stares. He’s hallucinating, he has to be.

“And I know — well, I don’t know because we’ve never talked about it — but I know you’re probably straight and even if you were interested in guys, too, who’s to say you’d be in love with me back? But I had to tell you because our relationship is heading south anyway, plummeting straight for the ground, and I figured it couldn’t hurt, I just… say something? Please?”

He doesn’t mean to say it.

“I’m HIV positive.”

It’s Derek’s turn to stare. Spencer can’t meet his eyes, and suddenly feeling like he needs to Get Out, he rushes to the kitchen and picks up his rapidly cooling mac-and-cheese. He gets a fork out and faces the countertop, away from Derek, as he starts to shovel unsatisfying bites into his not-hungry stomach.

It can’t even be a full minute later that he hears footsteps behind him. “You have AIDS?”

He sets the mac-and-cheese back on the counter. “No,” he answers, not turning around. “I tested positive for HIV; I don’t meet AIDS criteria. My CD4 levels are apparently very good, and the medication I’m taking is proving effective in controlling and managing the virus. I don’t have side effects anymore, and I don’t feel any different than I did before I contracted it.”

There’s a beat of silence. “And this is why you’ve been pulling away from us?”

Spencer hesitates before nodding shamefully, his eyes burning a hole in his dinner. “I didn’t know how to tell anyone, and I—” He’s cut off by a heaving sob. It catches him by surprise, but suddenly he’s choking on emotion: everything he’s been through, everything he’s been dealing with alone for so long a burden he no longer knows how to carry.

“Oh, baby,” Derek breathes, rushing forward and turning Spencer until his face is pressed into his neck and their arms are wrapped around one another. The nickname only furthers his emotion, falling apart completely in such a way that makes him unsure he’ll ever be put back together again. “I’m so sorry.”

He lets Spencer cry it out until his sobs recede and his tears slow, and he feels confident enough to pull away and meet Derek’s eye properly again. It feels like a reconnection; a reconciliation of sorts, and his breath catches at the emotion on his face. He’d expected a meddle of sympathy and disgust, but all he finds is compassion and love, tinged by a sadness Spencer supposes probably comes from watching the man you’ve just professed to love fall apart like that.

Oh wait. Derek just told him—

“You love me?” His voice comes out quieter and shyer than he’d hoped, and not nearly as incredulous as he’d intended, but Derek softens anyway.

“Yes,” he says emphatically. “So much. And if you think you telling me this is going to change how I feel even a bit, then you’re dead wrong, Spencer.”

It’s suddenly too much to think that everything he’d feared happening for the last few months was wrong, and he’s gasping for breath again, sinking to the ground to bury his face in his hands.

“Spence?” Derek asks worriedly, following him to the floor. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No… please, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He takes a deep breath, trying to recenter himself, ground himself in the reality that’s unfolding before him, no matter how different it might look than that of his anticipation. “You know, the man. Um, the man I… contracted this from. I slept with him because he looked like you.”

He looks up and meets Derek’s eyes again, searching for anything in them to confirm that he was thinking all the thoughts Spencer feared and coming up empty. “I was so heartsick that I got blind-drunk and slept with a complete stranger because it was the closest to you I ever thought I’d get and then I was just so scared of what everyone would say when I found out. I know logically that HIV doesn’t make someone dangerous or unclean, but I just couldn’t shake this feeling of shame, you know? I was constantly panicked that I’d pass it to one of you. Besides, I’m not even out to the team, and I know the implications of a disease like this: gay or an IV drugs user — I didn’t know how to deal with the fact that I was both. I’m clean, and I’ve stayed clean, I just…”

“Hey, I get it,” Derek says gently, reaching out a hand and cupping Spencer’s cheek gently. “I think if I was in the same boat I probably would’ve reacted in exactly the same way. You can’t be blamed for bowing to a social stigma this heavy, Spence. I’m just sorry I didn’t realise what was going on sooner. And even sorrier, for that matter, that I didn’t tell you I was in love with you before this even had a chance to happen.”

Spencer smiles a little at that. “Hey, I didn’t tell you either. I don’t blame you at all. Neither of us were out and confessing something like that is no small feat.”

“I suppose so.”

Spencer shifts a little in his position on the floor, the raging storm of emotion that he’s been drowning under for the past four and a half months quieting for the very first time. He breathes deeply for a few seconds before working up the courage to ask the question he really wants the answer to. “I know you said that this doesn’t change the way you feel—”

“And it doesn’t.”

“Yeah,” Spencer nods, because suddenly he gets that. He isn’t sure what took so long. “But does it make you not want to be in a relationship with me?”

“Spencer, no.” Derek’s voice is urgent as he makes intense eye contact with him, raising a gentle finger to his chin. “It doesn’t change a single. thing. I don’t know much about HIV, I’ll admit, but I do know that these days you can get to a point where it doesn’t transmit to partners. And we can be really safe about it. I’ll do all the research to make you comfortable, but Spencer, even if it did mean that we could never have sex, I’d still want you. I want you so badly, pretty boy.”

He can hardly believe his ears. “Really?”

“Really.” He swipes his thumb across his cheek, catching a falling tear. “I’m hopelessly, desperately in love with you, Spencer. I have been for years. You can ask, Penelope: she’s been putting up with my pining like a saint, but I’m not sure she could’ve taken it much longer.”

“I’ve been in love with you for years, too.” Another tear falls as the prospect of what’s about to happen really sinks in.

“Can I?” Derek murmurs, as he inches closer ever so slowly.

“Please,” Spencer whispers, barely finishing the word before their lips are colliding and a flurry of butterflies break out in his stomach as his chest glows with the warmth of a kiss he’s long been aching for. Derek’s hands find his waist, his jaw, his cheek, his hair, exploring his body ever so softly as he kisses him with the same inquisitive gentleness, managing to take him apart with just his lips and his hands.

“God,” he whispers as he finally pulls away, pressing his forehead to Spencer’s as he struggles to hide his wide grin. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve dreamed of that. I’m gonna be like a teenage girl tonight, running my fingers across my lips as I remember every minute of it.”

Spencer giggles at that. “Well you can rest easy in the knowledge that I’ll be doing the same.” He pulls away slightly and looks down for a second before looking back up into Derek’s earnest gaze. “I’ve never been kissed like that before.”

“I’ll kiss you like that every day for as long as you’ll have me.” He doesn’t hesitate to lean back in, connecting their lips again as they melt into one another’s touches, and it makes Spencer laugh later that the most intimate and passionate encounter of his life so far happened on the kitchen floor.

They pull apart as soon as it heats up a little bit, and pain flashes across both of their expressions at the thought of why.

“There’s this thing called PrEP,” Spencer says, still a little ashamed of his situation, that Derek has to be protected against him before they can take this any further. “It’s medication that you take before and after sex with a HIV positive person that blocks the virus from entering your bloodstream if you were to somehow contract it. And we can wear condoms. And once I reach an undetectable viral load, it means the virus is untransmittable, and you won’t contract it even if we’re unprotected.”

Derek blinks. “Wow, that’s… that’s better than I thought.”

“Really? You’re still okay with all this?”

He softens. “Pretty boy, I am so okay with all this, and I’m sorry that you spent so long thinking otherwise. We have time to figure all this out, but what matters is that right now, I have you next to me, and we love each other. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” He smiles, and leans forward to kiss Derek chastely. “I do.”

“Now, how about we bin that disgusting mac-and-cheese and order some Chinese?” he suggests, matching Spencer’s smile. “We could eat it in bed and watch one of those documentaries you’re always talking about.”

Spencer laughs fondly. “You want our first date to be eating takeaway and watching a science documentary in bed?”

“Well it sounds perfect to me.”

“Yeah, it sounds pretty perfect to me, too,” Spencer whispers, the happiness in his chest feeling warm and inviting, begging him to bask in the moment for as long as he can.

They’ll work out the specifics later — they’ll get Derek started on PrEP and attend Spencer’s appointments to measure his viral load, they’ll have important and serious conversations about the risks to both of them, they’ll work out what their relationship means for work, how they’ll begin to repair the damage the last few months have done to Spencer’s mental health — but right now, none of that matters.

All that does is: the buffet of Chinese food Derek lays out on a blanket on Spencer’s bed, the documentary about bees playing on the TV, and the thrilled little glances thrown each other’s way, the stolen kisses and casual touches, the love palpable in the air around them. And later, when the food is eaten, and the documentary is playing the credits: Spencer’s tired head resting on Derek’s loving chest, and the syncing of their heartbeats as they fall asleep to the sound of each other.

This shouldn't have to be said but please do not use fanfiction as sex education and PLEASE practice safe sex. As far as I know, all the information included in this fic is correct, but I have no personal experience with HIV/AIDS, and this is very much written from an outsider's perspective - albeit a thoroughly researched one.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @livrere-blue @hotchseyebrows @jellejareau @reidology @i-like-buttons @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @goobzoop @marsjareau @garcias-bitch @oliverbrnch @im-autistic-not-stupid (taglist form)

#cm #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds writing #derek morgan #spencer reid #moreid #moreid fic #moreid angst #hurt spencer reid #derek morgan/spencer reid #derek morgan x spencer reid #spencer reid/derek morgan #spencer reid x derek morgan #my writing

74 notes · View notes

twstoric · 4 years

Text

in the heat of the moment

𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘: leona kingscholar x gn!reader

𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: you never expected their to be an additional season you’d have to remember—or how you seem to be fixated on taming a certain kitty

𝕨𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘(𝕤): explicit content, gn!reader?? hopefully certain parts are still vague about it!!, ear?kink!, slightly dom!reader

𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 1.8k

𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕖: i don’t have a kink of leona’s ears—i really don’t i say as i make this

—————

There are about four seasons in Twisted Wonderland; that part of the weather not so different from what you know but it’s looking past those four climate changes that you’re not overly familiar with. Mating season isn’t exactly… a thing you understand from where you came from. The thought itself is quite embarrassing but experiencing it takes you to a whole different world altogether.

“A- ah-- Leon--AH!” A squeal leaves your lips at a particular hard thrust, the tip of Leona’s large cock kissing the deepest parts of your heat. You groan, biting your lip to try and reduce the sounds you’re making; you’re in a supply closet for fuck’s sake. Getting caught was the last thing you wanted.

Leona growls, pushing you further against the wall, his hold on your waist tightening ever so slightly; no doubt leaving their mark. “Shut up. Just help me for a bit.” His head is delirious, mind drowning deeper and deeper in his heat. He can’t think of anything else aside from the way your body wraps around him so perfectly--as if you were made for him.

Your hands are placed on the wall, leaning heavily on it for support. The uniform you’re wearing is missing a couple of buttons from the rough handling, back exposed and shirt hanging by your arms; he can’t think to undress you properly. Leona’s cock sits heavily in your hole, stretching you wide open and every small shifts rubs against that sweet spot so deliciously it makes your mind numb--

“Fuck, you got tighter,” amusement colours the Dorm Leader’s voice and you can practically feel the smirk he has behind you. Leona leans closer, pressing you further against the wall and his cock shifts, rubbing your walls and rearranging your insides. His lips press against the back of your ear, mouthing the area there with his hot tongue. “How long have I been fucking you here, hm? So needy… it makes me wonder who’s really in heat.”

Your face heats up at his words and all you can think of is piece of shit-- he’s the one who practically begged to fuck you! He can’t joke about you being the one so desperate for this--!

As if reading your mind, Leona picks up pace from his previous stillness. The cum already poured inside you helps him move easily. The pace he sets this time is deliberately slow; making sure to drive you wild and Leona makes sure to put force in each thrust. The steady sounds of skin slapping against skin rings in your ear and you can’t focus on how the volume of your voice increases with each powerful thrust.

Leona’s fingers snake up the front of your chest, pinching and playing with your erect nipples as his mouth busies with sucking more bruises into your skin; making sure to thoroughly mark you as his. Your head hangs between your shoulders heavily, pushing back against Leona when his slow pace just isn’t enough. A frustrated grown leaves your lips. You can’t fucking belief this; he’s teasing you as if you were really the one in heat.

Supply closet be damned. You’ve been through enough torture for one day. Leona’s arm snakes across your neck (perhaps to pull you back) and you take the opportunity to bite his arm. “Ow! What the fuck?!” Leona growls, the rough snarl in his voice sends a shiver down your spine but you take the moment his hold on you loosen to push him back.

You would have whined at the sudden emptiness inside you when Leona stumbles back in surprise. He blinks, brows furrowing in anger but you’re having none of that. With enough determination, you manage to push him down, instantly straddling his thigh before Leona could get back up.

The expression on his face still holds some annoyance but you catch the spark of interest in his eyes; a smirk stretches your lips. This time, you’re the one who leans closer to his ear, biting the soft skin there to tease him. Leona’s ears visibly twistches, briefly pressing down against his head before lifting back up again.

“Since you’re the one so desperate to fuck, just stay still and be a good kitty,” a low chuckle leaves your throat at the irritated expression on his face but much to your pleasure, he doesn’t fight back.

The teasing piece of shit has the audacity to look at you in boredom; as if not expecting much. He pushes his torso up by the elbows, looking at you impassively and you have an irresistible urge to wipe that look off his face.

No matter. You’ll get him wrapped around your fingers soon enough. Reaching for his cock, still beautifully erect, you take your time in squeezing him between your fingers, using his precum as lubrication. Your expression is steady, focusing only on his face as the soft pads of your fingers put pressure on the large meat in your hands.

A miniscule twitch of the expression is all you receive and as if sensing your growing frustrations, Leona smirks, moving in to lick your lips. “Is that all you’re gonna do?” His eyes narrow teasingly, watching his prey closely and you frown. Time for a new approach.

“You have really cute ears, Leona,” you can’t help the smile spreading on your cheeks at the way said ears twitch, his eyes narrowing as if in warning. Your fingers play with the tip of his cock, scraping your nails against the head lightly and a full blown smile settles on your lips. Putting your weight on him, Leona’s forced to lean back against the floor.

Your knees are against the floor to make sure his cock can’t make contact with your body, only allowing him stimulation by your hands as your chest presses firmly against the prince. “You have no trouble lying, do you… It’s fine,” your chest is leveled with his face, hands stretching just to keep hold on his dick as your face leans against the top of Leona’s head. “Your ears are awfully honest, though~”

There’s a faint thud behind you as you blow on Leona’s ear lightly, biting the tip and sucking the skin into your mouth. It’s a strange sensation--like sucking a fur rug but you don’t feel like stopping. You can faintly hear the rough knocking of Leona’s tail against the floor, swishing erratically behind you. With every thud, you make sure to squeeze his cock between your hands; the louder his tail knocks against the floor, the harder you squeeze him.

Leona attempts to press his ears against his head but with every attempt, you bite into his skin in warning, kissing and licking the spot in apology but you’re not stopping. His breath begins to turn into short erratic breathing, body pushing against yours, hands on your waist and mouth kissing the skin on your chest he could reach.

He won’t admit it but the attention you’re giving to his ears and the ministrations on his cock is enough to bring him over the edge, a familiar coil in his stomach just waiting to burst again. Leona bites into the skin in front of him, scraping his fangs on your flesh as if to ground himself and your moans rings loudly in his ears--no doubt you’re purposely moaning into it.

“Fuck- c- cum--” a loud gasp replaces the moan spilling from Leona’s lips and it takes him a moment to finally realise that you pulled away, a glint in your eyes that makes Leona’s stomach twist. The building pleasure slowly fades away and he has to try his best not to just push you down and take you however he fucking wants--but you won’t give him what he wants so easily.

Unbothered by his glare, you blink your eyes innocently at him, a small pout on your lips as you loosen your hold on his leaking cock. “Do you want me, Leona?” You whisper cupping his face. Your fingers tangle in the back of his hair, fingers faintly scratching his ears as Leona holds you close, trying not to focus on the unbearable hardness of his cock.

His hold on you tighten and the look he gives you makes your breath hitch. You’re not sure if it’s because of the heat in his mind making him so detached from reality; the sharpness in his gaze reduced to a look of a cat starved of affection or if he’s so desperate for your touch that he’s willing to beg that makes him look like that. Leona’s long lashes flutter as he blinks slowly. The look he gives you is almost pleading. He whispers, arms snaking around your waist, “Just you.”

You feel the heat spreading on your face, heart pounding at the endearing look he’s giving you. “Be a good kitty for me.” Heat spreads over your belly as you take the time to kiss his mouth, head tilting in a better angle to devour his lips.

Leona’s eyes are clouded, a sleepy look on his face as he savours your lips. Gently grabbing his cock, your lips remain locked as you stroke him slowly; distracting him with the kiss as you rub the tip of his hardness to your hole. Like blooming flowers welcoming a new season, you welcome the stiffness of Leona’s cock inside you.

Your prince sighs blissfully, fangs catching on his lip as he bites down. Your insides welcome him snugly; a perfect puzzle to his pleasure. Though unlike the sweet ways you’ve been having him, the pace you set is anything but; staying true to how one would fuck during a heat.

Your insides clench and unclench with vigour, vice grip on Leona’s cock as you bounce on his lap with all the strength you could muster. His cock penetrates the deepest parts of you with each movement, rubbing your insides so deliciously it makes your head spin. No words are exchanged in this primal moment of heat. Focused only on the thought of reaching the gates of ecstasy.

The familiar coil in your stomach tightens with each decent. Your chest constricts with each movement; waves of pleasure crashing down on your body. “F- fuck!” Electricity runs through your veins as the coil snaps and you’re cumming with a shout. Your vision goes hazy for a moment, feeling the way Leona’s cum fills you as he reaches his high with a throaty groan.

You stay like that for a moment. Glowing in the aftermath of blissful pleasure, Leona’s cum sits deep inside you with his cock blocking your hole like a makeshift plug. Your body is sensitive, skin prickling at the sudden coolness of the temperature when your mind slowly comes back to its senses.

A satisfied sigh leaves your lips and Leona’s looking at you with his brow furrowed. “What’s gotten you in a good mood?” He questions, looking up at you and you’re astonished he sounds so composed despite everything.

You smile, leaning closer to his face. Spotting the certain glint in the lion’s eyes, you feel your body tingle, the cock inside you stirring; indication that the day has yet to end. “Hm~ Nothing… I just have quite the handful of a kitty on me.”

#leona kingscholar #twst leona #twst x reader #leona x reader #twst n/sfw #twst scenarios #twst imagines #savanaclaw #twisted wonderland #gn!reader

461 notes · View notes