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hatboyproject · 3 years

Text

This is very long, but it might be of interest to someone, somewhere. I was asked recently about the direction I'm taking this romance in and whether or not I'll be addressing certain disability specific subjects within it. The answer, of course, is yes - I have always planned to do this in one form or another. Whilst no single piece of media can address everything I'd like to say on the subject, and I am working within the bounds of a larger story with its own pacing and focus to consider, there's still room to touch on some of these things.

I'm aware that my interpretations won't always be the same as others'. They are my interpretations, coloured by my experiences and feelings, and ultimately, this is my mod - I'm writing it for everybody who 'wears the ballcap,' so to speak! But, it's my interpretation of this character that I'm trying to share with everyone. Different people "took the helm" (laugh, I'm hilarious!) on writing Jeff across the trilogy, and as time has gone on I've been trying to convince myself that it's okay to have my turn at doing that, too - albeit in a non-professional capacity. So... Let's get into my interpretation of Jeff, where his stuff comes from on my view, and how things went to get him to where we are at the beginning of ME3, where the romance can occur.

A lot of how I interpret him comes from experiences in my own life with my own issues, and with those of my loved ones, some of whom are physically disabled in similar (but not identical) ways to Jeff. Some of this carries an element of catharsis for me.

Mechanically and narratively speaking, what draws me to writing this romance is the contrast between how these two characters are strong. It's this core idea that strength doesn't have only one manifestation in a person. That loving somebody doesn't have to be done only one way, that it can be beautiful and passionate and fulfilling - even if, when it gets physical, the headboard can't exactly be made to shatter with the force of it all. For me, it's also an exercise in insecurity and dealing with feelings of frustrated inadequacy - something that has plagued me my whole life.

Yes, yes, he's fictional - but the only way for me to really get into a character is to think about them as if they're a real being. When I look at Jeff as a person, I see many things... Some very positive, some pretty negative... I try to see him as a complete person with strengths and flaws.

On the surface he is often defensive, dismissive, sarcastic, and emotionally avoidant. But why is that? He is highly skilled, dedicated and capable, and knows it, but at the same time is a person who is constantly overlooked, underestimated, and asked to work thrice as hard to get the same considerations. Even then, his validity is questioned often by almost everyone around him. Over time, combined with the realities of living with his physical condition, this has given him some deep-seated insecurities. He feels the need to brag about his skills because they are, ultimately, the one thing about himself that he is absolutely certain has real worth. He overcompensates for this by abusing rules and technicalities wherever he can, because I think he knows that if he played life by the rules, he'd never have gotten anywhere. It's a stacked deck, so why not hide some aces up his sleeve? When you don't fit in the box provided, you question the value of every box you see.

When a person lives with this long enough, it can get hard to swim against the tide of society's expectations and still remain chipper about it, let alone not internalise some of it. It can cause a person to create a shell constructed out of distrust and untruth.

Living with a disability can really suck sometimes, and the suck is compounded when having to deal with your own frustrations plus those of others. In my personal experience, that happens a lot.

There is a certain sense of alienation that it can create, and it can become a kind of Sword of Damocles. It can be easier to anticipate rejection and others' assumptions, inabilities to understand or relate than to keep reaching out, only to have the same tired conversations about being different. I see a lot of this in him. I understand the chip he has on his shoulder.

I also see an extremely sensitive, empathetic, devoted and boundlessly loving person under all that. In fact, it's because of these things that I think he actively tries to distance himself. At the core of his being, I see Jeff as somebody who loves quickly and completely. I think he sees that as a vulnerability, incompatible with what he's learned he has to do to survive... and also with the machismo thing that comes with being a pilot. I think on some level he's terrified of that about himself, but he also can't help it. Jeff is ride or die. So, he tells himself he doesn't care and never lets anyone in. Any time anyone showed interest, he'd shut them down, alienate them, distance himself, and get in the seat of something that flies.

I think up until now, (ME3) he's seen intimacy both as a thing he longs for, but is also afraid of because of his fundamental knowledge that he is different. He thinks he can't "measure up" to what he sees all around him. He sees romance as something that will lead to his inevitable rejection and being crushed, emotionally - and if he's not careful, physically, too. I think he's embarrassed about that as well. He's very interested where it comes to all that, but the things he likes to watch, he knows he can't do like that. His only experience is second-hand as a voyeur, so some of his perceptions about that are unhealthy for him. I think any kind of attempt by the medical professionals in his life to broach the topic and offer support on, he's angrily changed the subject, or stopped listening to, because of the entire mess above. I think Jeff is kind of a lonely person, and some of it is self-imposed, though the reasons for him thinking it's the right thing to do aren't all within his control.

All this is difficult for him to reconcile with, because he has been desperately in love with his commanding officer since almost the moment s/he met him, but entirely unprepared to face it.

I think at first it was easy for him to dismiss it as a stupid crush. Everyone gets them when cramped up in close quarters in stressful situations and the Commander's magnetism was hard to ignore. But then it became clear that Shepard really hadn't read his file and really hadn't made any assumptions at all about him. S/he just wanted to know him, and as time progressed and that actually bore out, it got hard not to really feel something powerful, even though s/he was the Commander and it wasn't strictly appropriate to think that way. But, then there was that thing about not fitting in the box provided...

I think he agonised over coming to Shepard with it, but ultimately decided it would be selfish with everything they were going through. I think there was a part of him that decided s/he'd never be interested anyway, not when there were other, healthier people to choose from... People who didn't have these hangups or need special accommodations made for them. I think he decided to keep it to himself, for what he felt was both their sakes.

If/When the Commander quietly hooked up with someone else, I think he had a lot of feelings all at once. On the one hand, the person he cared for most was finding some peace in all the craziness. On the other, he wished that particular brand of peace was shared with him. Most of the time there were more important things to worry about, but during downtime, I think it was on his mind a lot.

I think he feels very sheepish about it, but occasionally his jealousy got the better of him and he interrupted Shepard at moments that got too hard to watch on the security cams. He watched the cams around the ship lot, and listened in on all the others a fair bit. I think because he saw himself as being at a remove from most people in a lot of ways, it was easy to justify that to himself. I think he saw it kind of like listening to a podcast or a soap opera or... Nature documentary, almost, or something. He got to know all of them in this way... Parasocially at first, but gradually, socially too. He felt better about trying, because he had this secret edge. Not the greatest stuff he's ever done, but... Complete person. Strengths and flaws.

And then, the unthinkable happened. He couldn't accept that the ship was dying. He was sure he could save it... But when Shepard's hand touched his shoulder, when s/he'd come back for him, he knew it was over. And then, it really was over. Shepard paid the price for his arrogance. The person he wanted to protect the most spun off out into space. The communicator between his mask and that helmet was still in range for long enough that he could hear the choking. For a long time afterward, even hearing people cough made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

The Alliance grounded him. I don't think he even had the capacity to be mad about it. I think that was a hard time for Jeff. I think between being burdened with the knowledge of the Reapers, the loss of Shepard, and the weight of his guilt, he was pretty close to the very, very edge when Cerberus knocked on his door and made him a bunch of promises. Pretty sure those promises had nothing to do with leather seats and everything to do with Project Lazarus. I'm very sure that the promise of Shepard coming back is the reason he even let Cerberus pay for the surgeries he agreed to undergo, because I don't think he valued himself much at all at that point. I'm pretty sure it was being ready to help Shepard that he was thinking about when he was learning to walk on his painful legs without crutches for the very first time. When Cerberus offered him a big shiny reset button I think he took it without hesitation because there wasn't anything else to hope for. I think seeing Shepard in the docking bay galvanised him and without ever telling them so, he pledged his life to them even harder than before. I think he told himself that he would support Shepard in every way he could. He would go wherever, do whatever, and when dealing with him, try to give them what he knew they needed; a goddamn break.

So, fast forward again, and now we are here. With all of this in mind... Shepard might have had a dalliance with someone else, or might've been too damaged by their previous love interest on Horizon, or whatever. Either way, I think Jeff saw it as not his business to even dream about that. I think the guilt tore him up every time he looked at Shepard. I think he felt like on some level, he deserved the pain of unrequited feelings which only ever got more intense. If he didn't think himself worthy of it back then, doubly so now. I think during the six months of house arrest, he tried to visit, but the Alliance denied his every attempt. Then the attack on Earth happened.

And so now we have Jeff, who, just like other humans is confused and groping about for a sense of what's up and what's down. Fortunately for him, Shepard is part of that sense of stability. He's just better at hiding it, because avoiding it and telling himself to focus elsewhere is second nature to him by this point. But things are a little different, now. Shepard seems looking around for a connection too. Future days seem short in number and the rulebook less and less important by the minute. Denying it to himself becomes impossible, and even EDI prods him about it. Shepard won't stop being so goddamn nice to him and even responds with things that if he didn't know better, he could interpret as... But then all the old insecurities come rushing back and he's walking on his own damn eggshells again. Fuck it. It's time to admit it. To come clean. S/he has to know.

So he asks. And s/he accepts. He's equal parts thrilled, stunned and terrified. He's even on some level, suspicious. Is s/he setting him up for a fall? Are they angry about his responsibility? What do they want out of this, actually? He hasn't explained what it'd be like. That what they're doubtlessly expecting of him is unrealistic. That he's completely inexperienced. I think at this point, he's a bit pissed off with himself and feeling a lot of dread because he's pretty sure how this is going to go. He realises he's got so caught up in it that he's done things in the wrong order. Damage control. He has to talk with Shepard and explain what s/he should expect from him, because it will be different. Manage expectations because he's had to manage his own. He goes in steeled.

But s/he knows it will be different, it turns out. As ever, Shepard has made no assumptions whatsoever. S/he only wants to get to know him. Wants him for everything he is, and accepts what he is not. It was never an issue for them beyond understanding how to work with it, because he is worthy just as he is, and has worked hard enough. He has to teach them about his limitations, about underestimating and overestimating... But where there's a will, there's a way. Time for a few shared moments of peace before the end of days, and through all the craziness, something feels right at last. He feels safe enough to let Shepard in properly. Thus begins his reassessment of himself and reckoning with letting go of the insecurities he has that aren't actually his own, but come from outside.

Also he totally gets to sext the Commander now when s/he's on missions. Nice.

So. There's a lot more I could say and expound upon but it's been hours and I have stuff to do. That's my direction. It's not going to suit everyone, and I doubt I can get everything across... But I'll try. I'm just one person, with just one perspective, with just one version of this story. But I hope people like what I come up with surrounding this framework, because I have lived a lot of it myself. Just a few less Reapers in my version. Not everyone's experiences and responses will be the same.

#shoker #shoker mod #hatboyproject #jeff joker moreau #character study #my approach

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darter-blue · 3 years

Text

Beautiful Rage

Bucky/Zemo

Explicit - 18+ readers only

Helmut clenched his fists to control the shaking. He hadn't meant… hadn't meant to…

Well. That’s a lie.

He had absolutely meant to upset Bucky.

He should have meant to placate him, to twist him against Sam, to keep his leverage but give them enough information to keep them both on his side.

But there's something about the way Bucky holds his jaw. The way his eyes flash with unchecked emotion.

Something about the heat that radiates off of Bucky when he's angry.

Fires under Helmut's skin like a pulse.

And that little outburst, looming over Helmut, ripping the tea cup from his fingers and smashing it against the wall. The cold fury…

Helmut needs to shake it off. This is not what he's here for. This is not part of his plan…

Bucky's beautiful rage, the way it clouds Helmut's judgements, his fixation on bringing it to the surface, is only going to make it harder for him to finish what he started.

It takes almost no time at all for Helmut’s resolve to crumble.

It takes only as far as their next argument, with Sam gone to speak with his sister, to buy himself some small peace, and Helmut fresh from a hot bath, Buky has been sitting too long on his own. Left too long with his own thoughts.

A well placed attack at Bucky’s restlessness, his currently unfulfilled need to be useful, and Bucky is up and at him in a second.

This time with no one to pull him back.

‘What is it that you actually want from me,’ Bucky says, his face so close to Helmut’s face, Helmut can taste the cherry blossom tea on his breath.

He wants to reach up and taste it for real. He wants to bite at that taste, sink his teeth into it. Into Bucky.

He also doesn’t know how to answer that question.

He doesn’t want Bucky to know that, though he’s taken so long to answer, stared so long at Bucky’s mouth… he might not be able to hide it now.

‘You don’t even know? Do you?’

‘I want to finish what I started.’

‘Kill all of us?’ Bucky’s eyes are blazing. His lips are pursed, his jaw is clenched. It throws his whole face into the kind of chiseled righteous fury that Helmut craves.

He shouldn’t push… he can’t afford to push him too far. He needs Bucky to help him find the others. But he needs… he needs to feed off this rage.

'No good will come of allowing super soldiers to live,' Helmut whispers, and it's not a lie.

'And you? You've done so much good with your life?' Bucky asks, whispered just as quietly, not moving back, not giving an inch.

'I've done what was necessary.'

Bucky’s eyes narrow at that. But he doesn't move. Doesn't respond.

'At least I've always done what I thought was right,' he closes the distance between them, speaks the words right into Bucky’s ear, 'At least I've never rolled over and let my enemies enact their evil through me.'

Bucky’s reaction is beautiful. He flinches at the words as if they've struck him. Helmut can feel him shaking. With guilt, or anger, or fear, he isn't sure.

But if Helmut knows anything about Bucky, he knows it will be some combination of all three.

Bucky steps back but Helmut follows him, reaches up a hand to cup his face. 'Such a perfect weapon, Bucky,' he says, tracing a thumb across the stubbled divot of his chin, 'Do you honestly think you can ever be free? So much capacity for death and destruction.'

'I'm more than what they made me,' Bucky fires back, ripping his chin out of Helmut’s hand, 'I'm more than what you see in me.'

'You might think so-' Helmut starts but Bucky cuts him off, stalking forward and pushing Helmut back with the force of his chest, his expression, his power.

Bucky stalks Helmut all the way back into the wall.

‘You want me to be a weapon,’ Bucky says, sneering now, menacing, as he crowds Helmut into the rendered brick of the kitchen wall, ‘you need me to be a weapon,’ he puts his hands on either side of Helmut’s head, leans his face in close, ‘I’m not the only one of us who’s broken, Zemo, I see the way you look at me, the way you land your blows to hit me so right.’

Helmut can’t move, he can’t find any words to reply that won't betray the mess of his feelings right now.

His breath comes faster and faster, his heart pumping blood to all the wrong places. He needs his head, he needs his mind, he doesn’t need his dick to do his thinking.

He doesn’t need for Bucky to be able to feel how broken he is, that this is working. That Bucky has him cornered.

‘You need me to be nothing more than what they made me, because then you can play with me all you want. Isn’t that right? Then you can break me more, you can push me over the edge, and you don’t have to worry that you are becoming everything you hate.’

‘I am nothing like what they made you,’ Helmut says, breathing faster, harder, his chest rising and falling and pressing up against Bucky’s on every inhale.

‘No, you’re not like me,’ Bucky says, and he smiles. Shark-like. Fiercely stunning. ‘You’re like them. You’re just like Hydra.’

And that catches at something jagged in Helmut, something he knows and pretends isn't true.

‘I am nothing like them!’ he snarls, pushes up into Bucky’s face, their noses almost touching.

Bucky lets him.

He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t pull away.

He takes his vibranium hand off the wall next to Helmut’s face and he runs it down Helmut’s chest. Then he pushes him back into the wall. Holds him there.

‘You know you are,’ Bucky says, still smiling, ‘and you want exactly what they wanted.’ Bucky leans in, ‘You want to use me,’ he takes his flesh hand off the wall, traces a finger down to Helmut’s waist, ‘want to control me,’ pushes his robe aside and trails his hand across bare skin, ‘you want to own me.’

Helmut lets his head fall back against the wall as Bucky’s hand slips down to his dick. Presses on it, wraps his fingers around it.

Helmut means to shake his head, means to deny it, to lie again. But he can’t.

He wants it so much.

‘You want to own me, don’t you.’ And Bucky bites down on Helmuts ear.

Helmut can’t help the breath that escapes him. The way it drags out like a sigh, like a prayer.

‘You want to fuck me open, make me yours.’

It’s not a question. Bucky knows. Helmut hasn’t hidden anything. Hasn’t manipulated anybody but himself.

And even so, Bucky pulls back to look him in the eye. Raises an eyebrow at him, looks for confirmation.

Because despite everything they’ve done to him, at his core, Bucky is a good man.

Helmut wants to burn that out of him.

It's terrifying how dangerous Bucky is. The raw power, not just from the poison in his blood, but the vibranium in his arm, the force of his rage.

It's terrifying and it's magnificent.

He can't let Bucky get the better of him, he needs to take back his control.

The victory here belongs to Helmut.

He tests Bucky by pushing against his weight, and at first Bucky pushes back, but then almost immediately he relents.

'You okay?' He asks, voice shaking.

And it rings in Helmut’s ears, that affectation, the way he has rattled Bucky. He uses his sudden leverage to press even further forward, and he looks up into Bucky’s beautiful face.

'I'm never going to be okay,' he says, voice calm, using every measurable unit of control in his body to keep still. To keep steady. 'You and your Avengers made sure of it.'

Bucky's face closes over, but his stance loosens further, his shoulders slump, and Helmut seizes the opportunity to push Bucky to his knees.

And Bucky lets him - be it sense memory or innate supplication, whatever the reason - Bucky lets Helmut push him to the ground.

Helmut ignores his hesitation, focuses instead on the storm in Bucky's eyes, the rise of his chin. The way Bucky has made this his choice, even now.

Helmut mimics his movements from earlier to cup Bucky under the chin, takes his other hand and runs it through his hair, grips it hard and pulls, snaps Bucky’s head back.

'Open your mouth for me, like the good little soldier you are.'

And Jesus, Helmut has to swallow down his moan at the way Bucky does exactly what he's told. At the way Bucky opens for him. Never dropping eye contact.

As if this is exactly what he wanted.

Helmut should take that, should let it stop him. Should pause now. Not give him what he wants. But it's too late.

He's too far gone.

And Helmut is already sliding his cock into that open mouth with delicious abandon.

The slick wet warmth, so tight, so sweet, it draws him forward. He yanks at his grip on Bucky’s hair, uses it like a stronghold to keep Bucky in place (though he could never; Bucky is so much stronger) to pull out and then slam all the way back in.

He looks down into those steel blue eyes and catches the fire there. And it spurs him on, to pull out and push back, to slam his hips forward. To fuck Bucky’s face, to own him, and be owned, and throw everything away on the power, and the powerlessness of this feeling.

Of the way Bucky hollows his cheeks to keep that wet heat deliciously tight, an action that only exacerbates the sharp cut of his cheekbones, only intensifies the beauty of his supplication.

Every thrust brings Helmut closer and closer to a complete loss of control. And every thrust feels more and more like tipping over the edge.

'You are mine,' Helmut says, as much to reinforce that idea to himself as to Bucky. 'I own you.'

Bucky doesn't move to agree or disagree. Only slides his hands up Helmut's thighs to pull him closer.

'Oh god,' Helmut cries out, throwing his head back as Bucky sucks harder, as Helmut’s cock pulses. 'So good,' he looks down, pulls tighter on Bucky's hair, 'my perfect little soldier,' and he means every word to be a barb, but they miss the mark so completely. Because he feels it too damn much.

And Bucky… Bucky knows it.

Bucky is smiling around Helmut’s cock as he draws it in, as he takes every thrust.

It's too much. The smile, the fire in his eyes, the warmth of his mouth, the way Helmut’s cock hits the back of Bucky's throat.

The way he can put all of his force into yanking Bucky's newly shorn hair, and Bucky just takes it like it’s a gift.

It's too much. He can't hold on.

He pulls out just in time to feel his orgasm wash over him, to spray come all over Bucky's lips and chin.

And Bucky...

Bucky happily opens his mouth to it. Closes his eyes and accepts it, rapturous.

He chases the mess on his lips with his tongue, wipes at it with a vibranium thumb and sucks it clean.

Helmut doesn't mean to run his hands through Bucky's hair. Doesn't mean to trace a finger down his face, let it linger across his swollen red lips.

'Such a good boy,' he says quietly. And then he bends down to pick up his robe, turns around. And walks away.

He doesn't feel victorious at all.

#bucky x zemo #angry sex #emotional manipulation #smut #my writing #you can thank my evil friends for this #htp adjacent #beautiful rage #i am still OTP stucky #but this was an exploration of a dynamic I felt this scene really highlighted to me #and i think i really like the writing here

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pollylynn · 3 years

Text

Title: Catenation WC: 1000 Episode: Cops and Robbers (4 x 07)

He thinks she might be stalling. He thinks there’s a distinct possibility that her reluctance to leave is dead equal in weight, force, and whatever to his eagerness for her to stay, and this feels winning. It feels like more than that, because winning was getting her here in the first place—under his roof, with his family.

It’s tradition, Beckett, he’d said with as much solemnity as he could muster. One of us almost gets blown up, we regroup at my place.

She’d laughed. She’d let him reach for her arm and slip it right through the loop of his own and she’d fallen for it. Willingly, and with that—admittedly shaky—little laugh, she’d come along home with him. That was the win, and now here they are, the two of them engaged in the most leisurely, least efficient dish-clearing exercise in history. She’s down to fetching a handful of serving spoons at a time from the table to the counter by the dishwasher, and yeah. Definitely stalling.

She’s quiet as they ease past one another, moving in sync like they do this every night. She’s not silent. She laughs at his occasional jokes. Or rolls her eyes. Or glares. She comments, now and then, on a particular dish, a particular sauce, a particular combination of things that was unexpectedly fantastic. She’s not at all silent, there’s just no . . . nervous teenage chatter or bright, brittle conversation meant to cover for the fact that she’s very definitely stalling.

He kind of loves it. He is kind of totally in love with everything that feels natural and easy and familiar about this—the simple task of cleaning up after a meal—and he loves the slightly awkward streak running through it. He loves knowing that it’s work for both of them.

Oh, It has the untouchable, slightly unreal magic of a mundane night that has followed hard on the heels of a day that’s been unbelievable, even for them. It’s certainly that, but it’s not just that. It’s a choice and a little bit of a struggle. It’s a stretch of time that—at any moment—could tip right over the edge into something that’s too strange to go on with, but they’re not letting it. They’re fetching a handful of spoons at a time to draw things out, and he loves that.

“I think we’ve made as big a dent as we’re going to,” he says eventually. He eventually has to say, because really, they’re at the point where he’s pretty sure that she’s been sneaking utensils back to the table just to have something to do. He knows he has, so he cracks a grin. He presses a button. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Damned right I am.” She snaps him in the chest with a table napkin, and the way she straightens her shoulders and turns her blushing face away at the same time is just a devastating combination.

“Tell me about it.” It’s a non-response from him. It’s his version of an eye roll, because she’s gotten just a little bit competitive about the whole who’s-saved-whom—and-how-many-times? thing. She has proposed a quality-over-quantity scoring system that had kept Alexis and his mother pounding the table with laughter all evening long as they egged the two of them on.

Tell me about it. It’s the ultimate in offhand comments, but she’s stalling tonight. She’s working at this, and so is he.

“It was awful.” She sets down the slotted spoon in her hand. She sets down the napkin she’s been wielding as an occasional weapon, and the whole tone of the room changes. He’d swear the tone of the entire world changes. “It was a nightmare.”

“Tell me about it,” he says again. He swings up the door of the dishwasher with an air of finality. He rests his elbows on the counter and folds his hands. He takes a breath and makes himself ready to listen. This is an untouchable, slightly unreal moment. It’s an artifact of a trying, extraordinary day, and it’s not that at all. It’s work, so he makes himself ready to listen. “Really. Tell me about it.”

“I wasn’t in charge.” Her cheeks go seven kinds of red. He can see even though she hangs her head. He can see, even though she buries her face in her hand, the scarlet spots of residual fury and pink fingers of embarrassment creeping toward her temples. “I had to wait. And talk. And take orders.”

She’s laughing at herself. He’s laughing at her laughing. He’s biting his tongue, because if he were telling her about it, this would be a very different story of her running the table, capturing the fancy of the head bad guy with her bedroom voice and her hellcat claws. It would be a story of her finding a way inside and ultimately making good on the promise he’d made everyone from the very start—my partner is going to get us out.

But he’s not telling her all about it, not at the moment. Maybe the night will go that way. Maybe they’ll tell each other about it until the sun comes up, because tonight has been a win and then some. But that’s not what’s happening right now.

Right now, she’s telling him. She’s been stalling all this time because she wants to tell him a story he hadn’t dared to hope he’d get to hear. She’s been stalling all this time because she doesn’t want to keep all this to herself anymore—the fear, the awful feeling of helplessness, the constant, terrifying threat of loss and more loss. She wants to to tell him, and he wants to listen.

“Nightmare.” So he shakes his head with exaggerated empathy. “Absolute nightmare.” He’s teasing her a little. He’s coaxing, because this is work. It’s a team effort. “Then what?” He nudges the back of her hand with his knuckles. “Then what happened?”

A/N: Uh. Do I even need to point out the complete lack of morphousness in bebes clearing the table together and aimlessly talking? I do not. There's going to be another pause for a few days. I have a rough trip to make. I will try to at least get some chapters of Season 3 up to AO3.

images via homeofthenutty

#Castle #Caskett #Castle: Season 4 #Castle: Cops and Robbers #Kate Beckett #Richard Castle #Fic #Fanfic #Fanfiction #Fan Fic #Fan Fiction #Writing #Tell Me More

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airiervessel · 4 years

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When One Stops The Kiss To Whisper “I’m Sorry, Are You Sure You-” And They Answer By Kissing Them More with logince?

also combining this with an anon’s request of 57 and logince! // prompts are open! (list)

67. When one stops the kiss to whisper “i’m sorry, are you sure you-” and they answer by kissing them more 57. Breaking the kiss to say something, staying so close that they’re murmuring into each other’s mouths

Word Count: 2241 Pairing: Logince Content: high school au (i’m imagining them as juniors or seniors? so they’re both 17 or 18), childhood best friends, asexual logan, so much pining, healthy discussions of feelings

Logan and Roman are best friends. Logan always acts awkward around their friends who are couples, and he has an asexual pride patch on his favorite jacket, alongside the various NASA and other nerdy patches he has all over it -- many of which Roman helped him sew on. Once, a couple of years ago, during a sleepover when they were staying up late talking about everything, he told Roman that he didn’t think he could ever see himself in a committed relationship. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to do it.

Logan and Roman are best friends. Logan isn’t interested in dating. Neither of these facts stopped Roman from falling head over heels in love with him.

He reminds himself every time he finds himself staring at Logan’s face, every time he realizes his heart is nearly beating out of his chest whenever Logan laughs. He pinches himself in the thigh when he feels Logan’s shoulder brush his, or when Logan’s hand passes over his as he reaches for a certain book or pen. He acts as normal as he can, flopping down dramatically onto the sofa next to Logan and throwing his legs over his lap like his stomach isn’t full of butterflies, and tries to ignore the way Logan’s fond eye roll and careful adjustment around Roman brings warmth to Roman’s cheeks.

Everything Logan does makes Roman’s heart sing, and he wants nothing more than to confess his feelings because this is the one thing Logan doesn’t know about him, the one secret he’s ever kept from his best friend.

They promised, once, at Logan’s ninth birthday party, never to keep secrets from each other again. Roman had helped Logan’s parents and brother plan a surprise party for him, and he had been so excited to see Logan’s face, to see his reaction when he walked in his house after school to find everyone gathered there, ready to celebrate with him. But Logan had been scared by the noise and the number of people and had run off to their treehouse in a panic, and Roman had followed him and helped calm him down from his first-ever panic attack.

After, when Logan was sniffling into Roman’s shoulder, he asked Roman to always warn him about parties in the future. “I can act surprised,” he whispers, his voice thick from the tears. “But you know I need to prepare to spend time around a bunch of people.”

Roman had pulled back and offered his pinky, his expression serious. “I promise to never keep a secret from you again, Logan,” he said, and Logan smiled and hooked their pinkies together.

“I promise too,” he replied, his expression so trusting and open, even after Roman’s surprise had hurt him so much.

Thinking about that exchange now makes Roman roll onto his back in his bed with a dramatic groan, covering his face with a pillow. Guilt burns in his stomach -- they’d promised never to keep secrets from each other, and here he is, two months after realizing he has romantic feelings for Logan, and he’s kept it to himself. He hasn’t told anyone, not his parents, not his other friends, not even his cat. The first person to learn important things about Roman has always been Logan, and it makes the guilt boiling in his gut even worse to think about sharing this secret with anyone besides his best friend.

He rolls onto his side, tugging the pillow down off his face and frowning at his stuffed Winnie the Pooh on the other side of his bed. He has to tell Logan. He can’t keep going like this -- the guilt is already eating him up inside. It rises like bile along with the butterflies that appear every time he looks at Logan, the confession burning at the back of his throat before he clamps down and swallows it back.

Roman is terrified of ruining what they have, of losing his best friend. But he can’t keep breaking their promise, either.

---------

His resolution to confess to Logan turns out to be much easier said than done, as so many things are. He comes close several times over the next week, when they’re at lunch in their favorite spot in the courtyard, when they’re hanging out in Logan’s room studying, when they’re leaving math class and Logan laughs at something Roman says. Several times a day, the words burn his mouth, but his tongue feels like it’s glued to the roof of his mouth, and his vocal chords feel as though they’re tied into knots in his throat, and he can never say it.

It’s Friday evening, over a week after Roman’s decision to come clean about his feelings, and still he hasn’t done it. He and Logan are in his bedroom, Logan reading a chapter in their history textbook aloud as Roman works on his current cross-stitching project. He focuses on the needle in his hands, on poking it through the fabric over and over again, the mostly-mindless work with his hands and eyes helping him process the information Logan’s lovely voice is reading.

Logan stops, apparently having come to the end of the section, and Roman smiles even as he doesn’t look away from his stitching. “Alexander the Great sounds pretty awesome,” he says. “He actually listened to his men when they said they were ready to go home. That’s a pretty good leader, if you ask me.”

Logan usually argues with him on points like this, usually brings up some horrible thing the person did or the stupid way they died to counter Roman’s point, but he’s silent this time. Roman knows he’s not entirely right, knows Logan must have some kind of argument to make, so he looks up, turning his head to look at his best friend, tilting his head to the side in concern. “What’s up, Sir Nerds-a-Lot? You don’t usually let me admire historical figures without bringing up their flaws. Is anything wrong?”

Logan opens his mouth, then closes it, his eyebrows furrowed. Roman lowers his stitching to the bed and turns to face him fully, really concerned now. It’s rare that Logan is at a complete loss for words, and Roman is already running through the events of the afternoon, trying to find something that could have upset Logan.

“Specs? Are you-” he begins, but he’s cut off by a mouth on his -- by Logan’s mouth on his. Logan is kissing him.

Roman is so shocked he can’t even respond, his eyes wide open as his hands flutter uncertain over Logan’s shoulders. He can see one of Logan’s eyes squeezed shut, and just when Roman is about to melt into the kiss, Logan pulls away, already rambling. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that without asking, I-” but Roman cuts him off as well, taking Logan’s face gingerly in his hands and capturing his lips in another kiss.

And oh, is it amazing. He always wondered if the books were exaggerating when they described fireworks, but it really is like fireworks are going off in his chest, like bright spots of color are dancing behind his eyelids, like he’s never done and will never do anything as wonderful and amazing as kiss Logan Sanders. Logan’s arms wrap around his neck, his hands wrapping into Roman’s hair, and he hums into the kiss, feeling Logan shudder in response.

He finally pulls back slightly, though hardly puts any space between them, his lips still brushing Logan’s as he whispers into the small space between them. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time now,” he breathes, and his stomach does a flip when Logan chuckles quietly in response. He presses another kiss to Logan’s lips, and the other returns it for a moment before pulling back, further this time, and stroking his hand through Roman’s hair as he meets his eyes.

“Why didn’t you?” He asks, his expression open and so clearly happy that Roman has to look away, his eyes drifting to the side as something that feels suspiciously like shame crawls up his back, settling on his shoulders like a lead weight.

Logan’s thumb traces back and forth over his cheekbone, though, and he brings one of his own hands up to cover Logan’s closing his eyes and smiling slightly at the sensation. “I thought….you have the ace pin. You told me that one time that you didn’t think you could ever be in a relationship. I thought you weren’t interested.” He turns his head slightly, pressing a feather-light kiss to Logan’s palm before opening his eyes, his lips still brushing Logan’s skin as he continues. “I didn’t want to ruin anything. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Now it’s Logan’s turn to look away, looking sheepish. “When I said that….” he clears his throat, and Roman squeezes his shoulder where his free hand is resting on it. Logan looks back at him and smiles, seeming encouraged. “I didn’t mean that I did not want a relationship. I have, in fact, wanted one very badly for several years. With you, specifically.”

Roman lets out a gasp at that, tightening his grip on Logan’s hand. “Lo…” he breathes, amazed that Logan’s felt that way about him for so long.

(Then again, Logan has always been a genius, has always picked up on things faster than Roman, or anyone else, for that matter.)

Logan strokes his thumb over Roman’s cheekbone again, looking amazed that he’s being allowed to do it. “When I said that, I was actually speaking of my belief of my own inability to properly perform in a relationship. Being in a relationship with someone...it requires a great deal of emotional intelligence, which we both know that I do not possess. And…” he trails off again, looking away and pulling his hands away from Roman, who ardently wishes he would do anything but that.

“And as you said, I am asexual. I would be….unable to. Perform. In that capacity. If we were to date.” Logan looks at his lap, clasping his hands together there and looking as if he’s about to cry.

“Logan,” Roman chokes out, leaning forward and taking Logan’s face in his hands once again, tilting it up gently and stroking it with his thumbs as Logan just did for him. “Logan, I-” his voice breaks, and he leans his forehead against Logan’s, feeling the other’s hands resting lightly on his waist as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to sift through the roiling emotions in his chest.

After a moment, he opens his eyes to meet Logan’s, one of his hands moving to brush his hair back, cradling his head as he leans back slightly, just enough so he doesn’t have to go cross-eyed to maintain eye contact.

“I love you,” he says finally, his voice and heart barreling forward even as his mind struggles to catch up, as usual. “I love you just as you are, and all that you are. I would never-” his voice breaks again here, and he shakes his head, stroking Logan’s hair back again. “I would never make you do anything, anything, that you’re not comfortable with,” he finishes in a whisper. “I would love to be with you in any way that you’ll have me, whether it’s as a best friend, or a boyfriend, or a partner, or...or if you want to--to never see me again, that’s okay too,” his voice cracks once again, and this time tears spill out of his eyes and down his cheeks.

Logan’s hands fly up to wipe them away, and his head is already shaking in Roman’s gentle grip. “No, no, no, I--of course I want to see you again, you idiot, you’re my...you’re my Roman.”

Roman can’t help but laugh wetly at that, and Logan surges up to kiss him again, and they fall silent for a few moments. When they pull back, Logan resumes wiping at Roman’s face, his expression soft. “I love you too,” he whispers. “And I’m yours. In any way you’ll have me.”

Roman laughs and kisses him again, pecking him three, four, five times on the lips, then all over his face, drawing giggles out of Logan as Roman moved down to blow a raspberry on his neck.

Later, they’ll order a pizza for dinner, and sit on Roman’s bed eating it and talking about everything they’ve always talked about, and everything they’ve never talked about. They’ll discuss their own boundaries, and who they want to tell about the relationship, and who’s going to plan their first date. Roman will joke about celebrating anniversaries weekly, and will immediately resolve to do it when he sees how the idea makes Logan blush.

Later, Roman’s parents will come home and find Logan there much later than usual, and they’ll see how the two of them smile at each other and know that they finally worked things out.

Later, they’ll fall asleep with Big Hero 6 playing in the background, snuggled close together under Roman’s comforter.

But that’s all for later. For now they laugh, and kiss, and tickle each other, and bask in the glow of the new step of their relationship.

Logan and Roman are best friends. They both spent a long time believing their feelings for each other are unrequited, that saying something would ruin their relationship forever. They were both wrong.

#logince #sanders sides #logan sanders #roman sanders #i think i'm most proud of this one so far tbh #ellie writes #fics #this one is more than twice the length of the other ones #but it's also two prompts so oh well i guess

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ibijau · 4 years

Text

Age reversal AU: part 1, part 2, on AO3

Wei Wuxian is dead, and the world moves on

warning that this runs a bit long (8K)

However bad the reputation of the Yiling Burial Mounds, nothing could have prepared Nie Huaisang for the stench of death and the oppressive atmosphere. Lan Wangji, who had visited the place once, had described it as oddly homely once past the barriers, insisting on how Wei Wuxian had tried to make something of the place, how he had been working on purifying it.

On that matter too, Lan Wangji must have been deluded. There was nothing pure about this place. Even demons would have refused to take such a nasty place as their domain.

Because of his weak cultivation, Nie Huaisang found himself advised against joining the army set to enter the Burial Mounds and attack the Yiling Patriarch. Instead he remained at the foot of the mountain, helping set up a camp to welcome those who would be wounded.

And there would be many, Nie Huaisang suspected. They had caught and interrogated some of those rogue cultivators who had shamelessly proclaimed themselves disciples of the Yiling Patriarch until recently. Most had been trying to run away, terrified by the defences that their supposed master was building to protect his den. It promised something more terrifying than what he had come up with during the Sunshot Campaign, something worse perhaps than even the slaughter at Nightless City, now that he was on his own ground. Nie Huaisang would have preferred to stay out of this mess, but Nie Mingjue had left him no choice.

Among those who remained at the foot of the mountain to heal the fighters or cover a retreat, Nie Huaisang soon found Lan Qiren. It was the best company he could hope for on such a gloomy day, so he went to his side. The older man barely acknowledged his presence, his gaze turned up toward the place where already their people had to have started fighting.

"How is your nephew?" Nie Huaisang asked to break the heavy silence.

Lan Qiren tore his eyes from the mountain and glared at him. "After what happened in Nightless City, Lan Wangji decided to enter seclusion to improve his cultivation so he would not be this powerless again, should an enemy this strong rise again. The planned duration of that seclusion is three years."

Nie Huaisang blinked a few times, then grimaced.

"Master Lan, I have to tell you I am not a forgiving man. So with all due respect, I have lost all interest in Wangji’s life. I meant your other nephew. How is Xichen? Did he recuperate well? Will there be sequels? I'd never seen someone in that state, he was trembling so bad the entire time I carried him, and…"

"He is well," Lan Qiren interrupted in a gentler voice, instantly allowing Nie Huaisang to breathe more easily than he had since arriving in Yiling. "It was only exhaustion, his body will bear no ill effects. His heart is still affected by what happened that day, though. I thought it better if he didn't come."

Nie Huaisang nodded. It would have felt wrong for someone like Lan Xichen to come to such a place. In truth, he would also have left Nie Mingjue home if he could have, but that had proved impossible. One of them had to go, and neither of them could have allowed the other to go alone.

"I still don't understand how it came to this," Lan Qiren sighed, looking up once more. "Why waste a mind this brilliant in this way?"

"People make their own choices," Nie Huaisang huffed, thinking more of Lan Wangji than Wei Wuxian. "He must have known what to expect. At this point, I’m just glad he left so early when the boys were all in your care, and that Mingjue didn’t get too close to him. To see a friend turn out like this… and did you see Jiang Cheng earlier?”

Nie Huaisang shivered at the memory, while even Lan Qiren had trouble containing his horror… or perhaps it was pity more than horror. Jiang Cheng had looked like a man ready to set himself on fire if it meant the world would burn with him. Jiang Cheng, much like Nie Huaisang, was a man who lived for his family, and so to lose his sister as well as the man he’d treated as a brother…

Nie Huaisang wondered if Jiang Cheng would make it out alive.

He doubted it, not unless some miracle happened to give him the upper hand against Wei Wuxian.

And a miracle was exactly what they were granted, or so it seemed.

Nie Huaisang never managed to get a clear story of what happened on that mountain. Most of his disciples were fighting on the sides when it happened, so they did not see it themselves. Nie Mingjue did, but whatever he saw left him so shocked that he would not speak about it. All that was certain was that Jiang Cheng, sword in hand, had launched himself at Wei Wuxian to make him stop his demonic music. Nie Mingjue had confessed to running after him, terrified for his friend, and then…

And then it was anyone’s guess.

Some said that upon being attacked by Jiang Cheng, Wei Wuxian had lost control of his army of corpses, only to be torn to pieces by them right before the eyes of two men who had once been his friends, leaving nothing but shreds of flesh and fragments of bones, his very soul dispersed to the winds.

Other claimed that it was Jiang Cheng himself who had killed him, or Jiang Cheng and Nie Mingjue together, and the power of their combined righteous rage had caused the villain’s corpse to combust into ashes.

It was true, certainly, that Nie Mingjue helped Jiang Cheng down the mountain, letting his friend lean on him even though he was wounded as well. And whenever they met after that day, if they could, they would isolate themselves from others for however long they could get away with, bearing together the weight of knowing what had become of Wei Wuxian.

Whatever had happened on that mountain with Wei Wuxian, though, the worst blow to Nie Mingjue’s remaining innocence came from their allies rather than their enemies. Jin Guangshan had lost no time in making a claim over Wei Wuxian’s research, calling it compensation for the loss of his son. Jiang Cheng, exhausted by what he had just gone through, still ended up having to argue in favour of destroying every piece of demonic cultivation that existed in the Burial Mound. A fight he lost, in spite of Nie Mingjue’s support. The Jins wanted proof of their victory, they wanted treasures to increase their glory… and perhaps they also wanted Wei Wuxian’s power, if some rumours were to be trusted. With Meng Yao arguing in his father's behalf, the Jins easily won that fight.

Nie Huaisang chose to let them all bicker like dogs over an old bone. Glory held no appeal, and his sect’s cultivation method was dangerous enough already without adding to it the rantings of a madman. As soon as it was confirmed that Wei Wuxian and his Wen followers had been exterminated, Nie Huaisang grabbed his disciples, his brother, and went home.

He’d had enough of sect politics for a lifetime, and intended to stay safely in the Unclean Realm for the entire year and a few months that remained until his brother could finally take the place that was his.

That decision lasted about a month, until Lan Qiren wrote him a letter that mentioned how Lan Xichen was working so hard to help him with sect business. It would be good for him to see a friendly face and relax a little, after all that he'd gone through lately.

Nie Huaisang, who had survived his early years as sect leader only thanks to the kindness and patience of Lan Qiren, found this to be a great idea. He immediately went to knock on his brother’s door and asked Nie Mingjue if he wanted to go South to Gusu, hinting that he'd be allowed to push as far as Yunmeng if it pleased him. Nie Mingjue flatly refused, because he did not want to risk running into Jin Guangyao while visiting Lan Xichen and having to be polite to him.

"That son of a whore knows what he's done," Mingjue cryptically grumbled.

That earned him a light slap on the shoulder.

"I'm the son of a whore as well," Nie Huaisang reminded him. "If you're going to insult him, at least do so over something he chose. Silver-tongued devil for example. This is still about the Jins convincing everyone to let them have most of the Yiling Patriarch's research, isn't it?"

Nie Mingjue crossed his arms on his chest, like the sullen brat that he was, and shrugged.

“You should have asked for a share of it, just so we could have destroyed it like Jiang Cheng did. A little less evil in the world wouldn’t have hurt.”

“It’d have been a lot of trouble for not much result,” Nie Huaisang pointed out.

“Yes, isn’t it funny how Jin Guangyao knew exactly what to say to make you give up?”

They glared at each other, as they had done nearly every time this particular topic came up. Knowing how easily it could devolve into a full blown argument, Nie Huaisang decided to quickly redirect the conversation to its original subject.

“A-Jue, you’re going to Gusu and that’s final. It has to be you. The only reason Xichen has ever put up with me was for the sake of my friendship with Wangji… and Wangji is still in seclusion for a long while.”

"You're an idiot," Nie Mingjue announced.

"Hey ! You owe me respect!" Nie Huaisang protested with another slap to his brother’s shoulder.

"Only when you deserve it,” Nie Mingjue retorted, sticking out his tongue before getting more serious than the conversation really necessitated. “Listen, Xichen respects you a lot. He's convinced that you're smart and funny, which shows there's no accounting for taste. And you rescued him in Nightless City when his brother left to pursue Wei Wuxian to kill him, right? So he'll be thinking even higher of you now, and he'd be happy to see you. You should take Lan Qiren’s invitation."

It was tempting, certainly. Nie Huaisang never had so much fun as when he could tease Lan Xichen, and he did like the Cloud Recesses immensely. It was one of his many regrets that he'd never had a chance to study there, like most young cultivators of good birth did. It would be so lovely to spend perhaps a week or two there, getting to chat with Lan Qiren, walking around with Lan Xichen, maybe even taking him for a day out in Gusu…

He wanted it so much.

"I just don't have the time for it," Nie Huaisang decided, opening his fan to distract himself. "There is so much to do around the Unclean Realm, I can't possibly go away like this. No, you should go, A-Jue. It'll be more fun for him like this. You're his actual friend instead of some creepy old man. And you need the fun as well!"

"I could look after the sect while you're gone," Nie Mingjue suggested. "It'd just be a few weeks."

His brother startled at the suggestion.

"Not until you come of age," Nie Huaisang reminded him, closing his fan with a snap. "I'm not letting you waste your youth. No, you're going to Gusu and you will have fun, that's final."

“Da-ge!”

“Go pack your things,” Nie Huaisang ordered. “Ah, you’ll have a great time, I’m sure. Do make sure to bring me back some Emperor’s Smile, or else your Da-ge will be very cross!”

Nie Mingjue went to the Cloud Recesses, and spent a few weeks there. When he returned, he carried twin messages from Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen, who both insisted that Nie Huaisang come visit them too.

“They’re just being polite of course,” Nie Huaisang said when they were alone in his room, opening the jar of wine that his brother had brought him, like the good boy he was. Of course it was only one, because Nie Mingjue disapproved of him drinking too much, but that he bought it at all was already something.

Nie Mingjue huffed, and snatched back the jar from him.

“No, Lan Xichen was really sad not to see you,” he grumbled. “And so was Lan Qiren. Da-Ge, you really should go. It would be good for you to take a break. You haven’t looked well since Nightless City.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Nie Huaisang objected, trying to get back his wine, only for Nie Mingjue to raise it high above his head, like the unbearable giant that he was. “Mingjue!”

“You work too much. Take a break. Go to the Cloud Recesses. I’ll look after the sect. I don’t mind.”

Nie Huaisang hopped, but Nie Mingjue only had to raise the jar higher still. He’d grown so big, just like their father. Bigger, even. Nie Huaisang had never felt dwarfed by their father the way he did next to Nie Mingjue, and his brother was not yet fully down growing… which was the issue, of course.

“Mingjue, already you’re going to become sect leader so young! And I’ve failed you during the war because I had no choice, because nobody would have taken me seriously as a war leader, but now we have peace and I refuse to burden you again before your time. It’s my duty to you, I have to protect you.”

“What if I don’t want to be protected from this?” Nie Mingjue retorted. “What if I’m tired of seeing you like this all the time?”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

Nie Mingjue sighed and shook his head.

“I don’t think you’ve been fine a single day since father died,” he muttered. “And it’s been worse lately. I worry for you.”

“Don’t,” Nie Huaisang snapped. “It’s not your job to worry about me. Your job is to be young and enjoy your life while you can.”

“Can’t enjoy much when my Da-Ge only stops looking sad if he has a bowl of wine in hand,” Nie Mingjue pointed out. He hesitated for a second, then turned upside down the jar he was holding, pouring all its contents on the floor while Nie Huaisang cried in horror. “If you want Emperor’s Smile, go get it yourself. I’m sure Xichen would be delighted to spend a day in Gusu with you.”

“Mingjue!”

Nie Mingjue shrugged, and chucked the empty jar at his brother before leaving the room.

Nie Huaisang wanted to run after him to scold him, because he had been looking forward to drinking that with an excitement that few things provoked these days… but saying that would only have proven Nie Mingjue’s point, of course. So Nie Huaisang just sighed, and called for a servant to clean that mess.

His brother really was worrying for nothing.

He was doing just fine.

After a month of atrocious nagging from his brother, Nie Huaisang gave in and wrote to Lan Qiren to ask whether the invitation had been in earnest or just a matter of politeness. In case it was the second, he made sure to point out that he was writing at Nie Mingjue’s insistence, who seemed to want to get rid of him. To his surprise, he quickly received an answer that confirmed he was extremely welcome, the tone of which seemed to imply that Lan Qiren thought he had made that clear already.

Attacked on all parts, Nie Huaisang surrendered and headed South.

It was early spring when he arrived to the Cloud Recesses, which was not a bad season to be there. A little muddy, and a little cold still, but the first flowers were coming to life, and some birds were starting to return from their winter quarters. It really was such a pretty place. Every time he came there again, Nie Huaisang was struck by how much he enjoyed it, how peaceful it was compared to home, how elegant in a way none of the other sects could ever achieve.

It soothed his soul to be there, though he would never have admitted it out loud.

The company helped make his stay particularly pleasant, of course. Lan Qiren, when he could find a moment of freedom, was always a delight to chat with, cultured in a way that Nie Huaisang could only dream to be, with always a book or poem to recommend. And it was always nice to chat with a fellow sect leader who not only valued Nie Huaisang’s experience with the job, but understood his values and choices.

Mostly though, Nie Huaisang spent his time with Lan Xichen.

He had feared, when he arrived, that the younger man would want to talk about Lan Wangji. But the most Lan Xichen ever said on that subject was to give more details about his brother’s punishment, and to explain his recovery and subsequent seclusion were taking place in their mother’s old house. Nie Huaisang mentioned that he found it in poor taste, to which Lan Xichen, although clearly agreeing, said that it was his brother’s choice. Once they had said that, neither of them spoke of Lan Wangji again, still too shocked by the choices he had made.

Although deeply impacted by what had happened in Nightless City and a little more sombre than he used to be, Lan Xichen was still the same young man as before, and his company as much of a delight as ever. If Nie Huaisang had still had any doubt that his presence was wanted, it would not have lasted long under Lan Xichen’s attentive care. The young man had made many plans for the two of them, so Nie Huaisang could make the best of his time in the Cloud Recesses. When the weather allowed, they went on long walks to see rare flowers, wild birds, or beautiful landscapes hidden away in the mountains. If it was raining or too cold, Lan Xichen would give him an extended tour of the library, or sneak him into classes attended by guest disciples, so he could get a taste of what his father’s passing had deprived him of.

On a particularly sunny day, Lan Xichen offered that they go in Gusu to visit the market and to let Nie Huaisang eat something a little more to his tastes than the usual fares of Gusu Lan.

It was lovely to walk side by side in the busy street, stopping every time something caught their eyes, chatting carelessly about any inconsequential matter that crossed their mind. They tasted as many types of food as they could, with Nie Huaisang taking particular delight in buying meat and candies for Lan Xichen. The younger man protested at first, but as the day advanced he had relaxed enough to let Nie Huaisang spoil him, blushing beautifully whenever Nie Huaisang handfed him a piece of candied fruit or some roasted lotus seeds. Sometimes, on accident, Lan Xichen’s lips would brush against Nie Huaisang’s fingertips.

Neither of them would comment on that, but Nie Huaisang found himself very amused by this game between them, and by how daring Lan Xichen could be when he wanted.

It was an excellent day, through and through, which nothing could have ruined.

Nothing except a letter that had arrived from Lanling while they were out.

It was hardly proper for Nie Huaisang to have followed Lan Xichen to his room this close to curfew, but they were both still so giddy from their day out that they had decided they did not want it to finish so soon. So Lan Xichen had invited the older man to have tea in his room, arguing that the house in which he lived with his uncle had several unoccupied bedrooms, should they somehow miss curfew. Had it been anyone else but this very polite and dutiful young man making such a bold proposition, Nie Huaisang might have thought that he was the target of a seduction attempt. But of course, Lan Xichen already had his mysterious lover, whoever that was, and the Lans just did not do that sort of things.

Not that it mattered anyway, because the atmosphere changed when Lan Xichen, having finished that letter he received, silently passed it to Nie Huaisang. It was from Meng Yao, of course.

He was getting married.

Not only that, but the future bride, Qin Su, was the daughter of one of Jin Guangshan’s closest and most powerful allies. Nie Huaisang knew her. A pretty girl, sweet enough and a little romantic, and of course with a family that strong, she would make a great wife for a man whose father never treated with the respect he deserved.

A bastard could be easily dismissed and sent back into obscurity, but the son-in-law of a sect leader would be harder to get rid of.

"He's not coming back," Nie Huaisang realised, dropping the letter. The thought hit him so hard he had to quickly sit down on the sofa that decorated Lan Xichen’s room, lest his legs gave up under him. Alarmed by that strong reaction, Lan Xichen quickly joined him, sitting perhaps a little closer than necessary, not that Nie Huaisang was in any state to notice.

"What do you mean?"

"Meng Yao. Jin Guangyao,” Nie Huaisang hissed. “I was still hoping he'd return to us in time, but he really made his choice, didn't he?"

"It's what he always wanted," Lan Xichen gently pointed out. "Shouldn't you be happy for him that it's going so well?"

Nie Huaisang grimaced. All his good humour of the day had evaporated.

"I just thought he was smarter than that. I thought he understood, having seen my troubles. Maybe we're more different than I realised."

Lan Xichen frowned slightly. "How so?"

Nie Huaisang looked at him, at that sweet, wonderful young man who had never had to fight for anything in his life, and sighed.

"It's hard to explain. I tried with your brother, once. I think he understood a little, because of that situation with your mother, but… it’s too different, and you’d get it even less.”

Lan Xichen took his hand, startling Nie Huaisang.

"I want to try anyway. If it's something important to you, I want to understand."

Normally, Nie Huaisang would have teased Lan Xichen for being too sweet and too kind, before promptly changing the subject. But it had been one hellish year, and the realisation that he had really lost Meng Yao was hitting him hard. Harder perhaps than losing Lan Wangji. They had been best friends for years, but there was so much that Lan Wangji had never managed to get, so much that Meng Yao had understood without the two of them ever needing to talk about it…

And Lan Xichen’s hand on his felt like such a comfort that he lowered his defences, knowing his young friend would never judge him.

"I am the son of a whore," Nie Huaisang sighed. Instantly Lan Xichen's fingers squeezed his hand, but the younger man remained silent, for which he felt oddly grateful. "Actually my mother was a renowned dancer, and she usually slept with her patrons only if she chose to, which is more than other women of her condition could say. It doesn't matter though. I'm still the son of a whore, and I'll always be. I don't mind, by the way,” Nie Huaisang added after a pause. “She was a good woman, a good mother, and I've decided long ago that I wouldn't ever disavow her. But it's not always… easy to be in that position."

He glanced at Lan Xichen who nodded, an impression of sincere pity on his face. He understood about bearing the weight of a mother's legacy, even if Lan Wangji had once told Nie Huaisang his brother did not know the whole truth of that matter. Because Lan Xichen had never asked, Lan Wangji had thought it kinder not to volunteer any details. And of course nobody outside their inner circle knew the truth about Madam Lan, so their situation didn’t compare with Nie Huaisang’s, but… but he didn’t doubt Lan Xichen could get this, even if he wouldn’t get the rest.

"You don't get to make mistakes with a mother like that,” Nie Huaisang explained. “Because people always say it comes from your blood if you do. Say, Zewu-Jun, would you believe me if I say that as a young child, I was even more serious and stern than your brother?"

Lan Xichen's eyes opened wide in surprise as he shook his head, making Nie Huaisang grin.

"My mother knew she was lucky to have been accepted as a concubine, and my father's first wife couldn't have children, so it seemed I would inherit the sect. I had to be perfect. With a mother like that, you have to be twice as good to be treated half as well. I didn't like it, didn't care for cultivation and politics, but I was so lucky to be the heir. I wanted to please the adults in my life, and I worked as hard as could to make them happy. Then my father's wife died. He quickly found another one, and she gave him a son within the year."

"Mingjue."

"The very same," Nie Huaisang confirmed with a fond smile, squeezing Lan Xichen’s hand. "It didn't change much at first. Babies die so easily, but I had passed the most dangerous part of childhood, so I was safe, I was still the heir. Until Nie Mingjue turned three, that is, and everyone figured he probably wouldn't die either.”

He shivered at the memory.

“You see, Mingjue's mother was from the He clan, which is pretty big even if it's not Great, while I… Well. Eldest or not, I was the son of a whore, of a concubine. And suddenly, with a better heir in view, it started annoying some people that I was so serious and perfect."

He still remembered the way things had changed so suddenly. He'd been ten at most when the elders started looking at him like he was a vermin to be squashed under their boot, when a week prior they'd been praising his hard work. It made him shiver again, prompting Lan Xichen to take his other hand as well as if to comfort him, sweet boy that he was.

"My mother was a clever woman,” Nie Huaisang chuckled darkly. “She encouraged me to become… less serious. I never had much natural skill for cultivation, so once I stopped putting in the work, I quickly fell behind. I avoided the training ground in favour of painting and running after pretty birds. It was a very weird few years. People scolded me and called me ungrateful and lazy, but I could tell they liked me better like that. The son of a whore has no business being skilled in anything serious. Before long, Nie Mingjue was declared the new heir, with a provision I'd still rule Qinghe Nie if our father died before Nie Mingjue was old enough."

Nie Huaisang laughed again, tasting bitterness in the back of his throat.

“It was only a precaution of course. Father was a strong and healthy man. Even with our family’s history of Qi deviations, it seemed very unlikely he would die until Mingjue was well into adulthood.”

“But he did,” Lan Xichen whispered. “And I know you’ve encountered some… opposition when that happened.”

Four murder attempts that Nie Huaisang knew of, the first of those two weeks after his father's death when he'd been just sixteen, at least one of which had been against both him and Nie Mingjue, while another had poisoned his mother instead.

Opposition indeed.

“Nobody wants to be ruled by the son of a whore,” Nie Huaisang muttered. “I think that’s what Meng Yao is aiming for now that Jin Zixuan is dead, but it won’t work for him any better than it did for me. In fact, it’ll work worse for him than for me, because Jin Guangshan isn’t my father, and he knows Meng Yao isn’t me. My father trusted that if it came to that, I really would only rule in Mingjue’s name until he was of age. He was a good man, and he believed the people he loved were good too.”

A belief most elders of Qinghe Nie had not shared, no matter how much Nie Huaisang had dedicated himself to his brother to prove his good faith.

“You think Guangyao-ge wouldn’t act like you?” Lan Xichen cautiously asked, clearly upset that anyone would think ill of his friend. “That he would still Jin Ling's place for good?”

Nie Huaisang considered the question a moment before shrugging.

“I don’t know what he’d do,” he admitted. “But I know what Jin Guangshan believes, and that’s more important. He only accepted Meng Yao into Lanling Jin because it would have been difficult to turn away the man who killed Wen Ruohan. And then… you said it yourself back then, it would have been difficult to get rid of Meng Yao once he became the sworn brother of two youths as famed as you and Mingjue.”

Even at that time, Nie Huaisang had thought the brotherhood had been a bad idea. This only confirmed it. Without it, perhaps Meng Yao would have returned already. Without it, Nie Mingjue might have had more space to navigate his resentment, and found a way to forgive Meng Yao.

Not that Nie Huaisang would ever have said that to Lan Xichen, for fear of hurting him. Sometimes, the truth was not worth sharing.

“Men like me and Meng Yao just aren’t meant for this,” he sighed. “There is no place for us in the cultivation world.”

“There is!” Lan Xichen protested, squeezing his hands so hard it was nearing on painful. “Nie zongzhu, you are such a great sect leader! Uncle always says how well you’ve been doing even when everyone was against you, how Qinghe Nie is just as strong as it was in your father’s days. And you’ve taken such good care of Nie Mingjue! He’s a very upright person who always stands for what’s just, even when it’s not easy. And he’s very happy to have you as a brother. He really loves you a lot, and he knows you love him and that you’re… you’re always going to take his side.” He sighed, thinking of his own brother perhaps, then smiled brightly. “Nie zongzhu, you’re an amazing person.”

Under such heavy praise, Nie Huaisang’s cheeks started burning. Usually, when he chatted with Lan Xichen, he was the one to give compliments until the younger man was redder than cinnabar. To be given a taste of his own medicine was impossibly uncomfortable, especially when he knew Lan Xichen never said anything he did not mean.

“And you’re too sweet with this old man,” Nie Huaisang laughed, awkwardly pulling his hands away so Lan Xichen wouldn’t feel how hard his heart was beating. “Ah, I shouldn’t have bothered you with all this, you don’t care about my life. And as for Jin Guangyao…”

“Nie zongzhu, you didn’t bother me at all,” Lan Xichen protested, daringly putting one hand on Nie Huaisang’s knee. “I am truly happy that you trusted me enough to tell me these things. I’ve told you, if it’s important to you, I want to understand it, because… because you are very dear to me.”

Nie Huaisang’s eyebrows rose in surprise at that declaration, at that bold gesture, his heart racing in his chest. If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought…

But Nie Huaisang had not survived this long by entertaining silly fantasies, so he buried that idea as quickly as it had appeared, and focused on what was truly there: the friendship of a very accomplished young man, who he apparently trusted enough to share what he had never told anyone before, not even Lan Wangji or Meng Yao, and who had listened with more patience than his ramblings deserved.

“I’m glad you think of me so well,” he told Lan Xichen, patting the hand on his knee. “I don’t have a lot of friends, especially now that your brother is… absent. But what I lack in quantity, I seem to make up in quality. Any man would be lucky to have the affection of the great Zewu-Jun, and I am grateful to know you.”

Lan Xichen smiled at him so fondly that for a moment, Nie Huaisang forgot how to breathe.

He quickly recovered though, and in spite of their earlier discussion that he could stay the night in one of the spare rooms if need be, Nie Huaisang left soon after so he would not have to risk breaking the curfew. Lan Xichen looked disappointed, but it was the best course of action.

If they had stayed up, if they had kept exchanging confidence in the cover of darkness, Nie Huaisang feared he would have gotten more of those stupid, fanciful notions into his head. He simply could not risk that, not when, as he’d said, he had so few friends left already.

Very soon after learning of Jin Guangyao’s engagement, Nie Huaisang left the Cloud Recesses. Although he told himself and others that he had neglected his responsibilities too long, the truth was that he suddenly did not feel as comfortable as before around Lan Xichen. His traitorous mind kept wanting to read too much into the younger man’s smiles and warmth, which could not be tolerated. Lan Xichen deserved better than to have a creepy old man paying too much attention to him for all the wrong reasons.

When one morning Nie Huaisang found himself internally debating whether a six year difference really made him too old to flirt with Lan Xichen, he knew he had to leave.

It was nice to be home again, anyway. Certainly the Cloud Recesses were great, but home was home, and Nie Huaisang had missed his brother dearly. He was pleased to find that in his absence, his brother had done a great job with everything, dealing with daily affairs quite easily, turning to some trusted elders when something unusual came up that required more seasoned opinions. Nie Mingjue really would be an amazing sect leader when his time came, and Nie Huaisang, for the very first time, found himself sincerely looking forward to that. Up until then he had always felt guilty about it, thinking that his brother deserved better than a youth wasted in councils and paperwork, but Nie Mingjue was so proud of what he had managed during that month and a half, so eager to do more…

It was obvious that Nie Mingjue enjoyed that position, enjoyed having the power to help others. He was made to be sect leader in a way that Nie Huaisang wasn’t.

Nie Huaisang had to quickly wipe a few tears of emotions when he realised that. His little brother really had grown into a good man, and Nie Huaisang was proud to have had a hand in that, however small.

Because Nie Mingjue had done so well during those few weeks, Nie Huaisang gave in when his brother requested that he continue helping with sect business. Nie Mingjue was allowed to sit at more and more councils, even accompanying his brother when he had to go meet other sect leaders to discuss this or that matter. Nie Huaisang had originally intended that this would give Nie Mingjue a chance to learn a little diplomacy, but he quickly realised that it would likely not happen. Whatever other qualities he had, Nie Mingjue did not believe in compromises, and he refused to treat with fake deference anyone who he thought had not earned it.

It made Nie Mingjue surprisingly popular with the leaders of a number of small sects. Used as they were to Jin Guangshan’s empty politeness, or to Nie Huaisang barely concealed indifference, they usually appreciated the way Nie Mingjue would actually listen to their complaints, as well as the way he often bullied his brother into action. In particular, Nie Mingjue paid great attention to their complaints against certain new Jin guest disciples who showed little respect for anyone during Night Hunts, and seemed to use unusual methods.

There was little to be said against their use of special compasses to track evil creatures. In fact, many sects and rogue cultivators were showing great interest in that new invention, hoping that Lanling Jin would either reveal how they were made or, more likely, sell them. Even Nie Mingjue could not disapprove of that, and gladly accepted one which Jin Guangyao gifted to him.

But there were other less savoury things happening in Lanling Jin, rumours of fierce corpses captured rather than put to rest, only to be then released against other creatures to see if the two evils could be pushed to mutual destruction. And that was without getting into the problem of Xue Chengmei, a vicious boy who got into fights left and right, with allies and enemies alike, but remained under Jin Guangshan’s protection no matter how much he misbehaved. Rumour had it that he was the only person Lanling Jin had found who could make sense of Wei Wuxian’s notes, that he was the one who had recreated his compasses of evil and now worked on deciphering his other inventions.

The more time passed, the more rumours against Xue Chengmei’s behaviour reached them, the angrier Nie Mingjue became. If he had been sect leader already, it was clear that he would have confronted Jin Guangshan about his protégé. It was taking Nie Huaisang a lot of diplomacy to keep the situation manageable, fearful that his brother would accidentally start a war for which they were not ready.

Things escalated further at Jin Guangyao’s wedding when Nie Mingjue escaped his brother’s watch and confronted Xue Chengmei about some stories he’d heard recently that concerned a group of cultivators who had vanished during a Night Hunt. Nie Huaisang, who had been happily chatting with Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen, had to rush to his brother’s side to stop a fight. Nie Mingjue refused to share what Xue Chengmei had said to upset him so much, and he refused to apologise as well, so Nie Huaisang had to do it for him. Jin Guangshan, already clearly unhappy at being forced to spend any money on the wedding of a bastard he despised so much, had spent the entire apology glaring at Nie Mingjue with such hatred that Nie Huaisang found himself truly fearful.

After that day, Nie Mingjue stopped coming with him on visits to Lanling. He could still accompany him anywhere else if it pleased him, but it seemed unwise to bring him to Carp Tower until things had settled down a little.

A month or two after his marriage, Jin Guangyao came to visit them in the Unclean Realm, bringing Lan Xichen with him, and he made it clear that he entirely agreed with Nie Huaisang’s decision.

It was pleasant to be all four of them like that, something which hadn't happened in a long while. They had settled for tea in Nie Mingjue’s quarters, the three young ones insisting loudly that Nie Huaisang absolutely belonged with them when he’d tried to leave them alone, forcing him to sit next to his brother, right across the table from Lan Xichen. Nie Huaisang had grumbled about being too old for their company, as he always did, but it had not taken much effort to convince him to stay. It was a very pleasant moment spent with three of the people he loved best in the world, up until Nie Mingjue made a remark against Jin Guangyao, spoiling the mood entirely.

“Mingjue, you should not antagonise my father so much,” Jin Guangyao warned with what sounded like sincere worry. “You will soon be sect leader, in less than a year now, and it is not reasonable to let personal quarrels come in the way of politics.”

“My issue with your father is entirely political,” Nie Mingjue casually retorted. “On a personal level, I have too much disdain for him to ever bother arguing with him.”

Nie Huaisang gasped, and slapped his shoulder.

“A-Jue, please behave. You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not? You say it all the time. I’m sure Guangyao-ge knows exactly what you think of his father. Damn, I’m sure Guangyao-ge thinks the same, even if he’s too polite to ever say it.”

Nie Huaisang gasped again, while poor Jin Guangyao looked down at his tea with a pitiful expression, refusing to either confirm or deny his opinion of his own father.

“A-Jue, you’re awful,” Nie Huaisang complained, reaching over the table to grab a few candied fruit that Lan Xichen had brought with him. “A-Yao isn’t wrong, a little diplomacy wouldn’t hurt you. I was so looking forward to retiring from being sect leader, but if you’re going to pick fights with every single other sect, I’ll have to stay with you instead and help keep you safe. Ah, you’re really ruining all my plans, you ungrateful child!”

Nie Mingjue shrugged, as if it did not concern him in the least that perhaps Nie Huaisang had hoped for a break from all that political mess.

Brat.

“And what are your plans then, Huaisang-ge?” Lan Xichen quickly asked to distract from politics.

Nie Huaisang smiled at him, unable to help himself.

“Well, if someone can stop making trouble for just a moment…” he poked his brother in the rib, to which Nie Mingjue only rolled his eyes. “Then I would really like to travel for a bit. The world is vast, and full of beauty that I wish to see, perhaps even to paint if I manage. I used to paint a lot as a youth, though I haven’t had the time in years.”

“I think I’ve seen some of your work,” Lan Xichen said with a nod. “You’d gifted them to my brother, and he hung them in his room. There’s a beautiful view of mountains…”

“Yes, I painted it the first time I came to the Cloud Recesses with my father. Ah, I miss painting so much… though I’m sure I’ve lost what little skill I had, after so long.”

Nie Mingjue frowned, as he did sometimes when Nie Huaisang forgot himself and became too nostalgic over his long gone youth.

“I’m sure you’d figure it out again,” he said. “And at worse, Er-ge could probably give you a lesson or two. I’m sure he’d like that.”

“I would,” Lan Xichen eagerly agreed. “And perhaps… you know, my brother’s seclusion will end not too long after A-Jue can take over Qinghe Nie. What if… Huaisang-ge, what if you came to stay in the Cloud Recesses until then, so I could give you lessons, and after maybe I could accompany you for a time in your travels?”

Nie Huaisang stopped breathing and stared at the young man. Lan Xichen’s face was quickly turning very pink, his expression fearful and hopeful all at once. The way he looked at Nie Huaisang bore such intensity that the older man had to drop his gaze, unable to withstand it.

Whenever he’d allowed himself to dream of travelling around the country, he had always pictured himself entirely alone. It was the only option, when his few friends all had so many responsibilities. And yet, it was impossibly easy to add Lan Xichen’s presence to that little fantasy of his. It would be quite nice to spend so much time together, walking or flying side by side, sharing meals, visiting beautiful landscapes, asking to meet wise men or renowned poets. Out of everyone he could have considered as a travel companion, only Lan Xichen was someone who Nie Huaisang could imagine spending months and months with and never get tired of.

It would have been so nice, and Nie Huaisang suddenly found himself desperately wanting it, now that it had been suggested to him.

“Ah, Zewu-Jun, I wouldn’t be opposed, but I doubt it’s very wise,” he replied with a weak laugh. “First of all, your uncle would never agree to let you leave.”

“I think he wouldn’t mind,” Lan Xichen protested softly. “Not if I’m going with you.”

“Oh. But then… what about that lover of yours?”

Stunned silence fell around the table, three pairs of eyes staring at Nie Huaisang as if he’d grown a second head.

“Aren’t you still waiting for him to be free from other obligations?” Nie Huaisang insisted. “I don’t know what sort of agreement you have with that man, but you have to consider that he might take it the wrong way if you travel around with someone else. I’m not saying it cannot be done as friends, of course it can, but some people might make wrongful assumptions about our situation, and your lover first of all.”

From the corner of his eyes, Nie Huaisang saw his brother and Jin Guangyao exchange a disbelieving glance, as if both were thinking they’d never heard anything so stupid in their lives. And certainly, nobody could seriously accuse a Lan of misbehaving, least of all Lan Xichen whose reputation was so excellent, but a lover’s jealousy was not something to be dismissed.

Before Nie Huaisang could say so, Lan Xichen reached over the table to take his hands in his.

“Huaisang-ge,” he said shyly, “if we travel together in the future, then I can only hope that the man I love will come to the right conclusions about it.”

Nie Huaisang opened his mouth, ready to say that of course, for Lan Xichen’s sake, he also hoped that man would not read too much into the situation.

That was when it finally hit him.

The warmth of Lan Xichen’s hands on his.

The way he blushed at Nie Huaisang’s compliments, how he wouldn’t stop smiling around him.

That story about a man who wasn’t free yet but was certain to be one day.

How everyone, for months, for years even, had been trying to make him notice this.

Lan Xichen wanting to travel with him, knowing how others would perceive it, wanting that perception to be the truth…

Seized by a sudden panic, Nie Huaisang jumped to his feet and left the room.

He did not go far, stopping right on the other side of his brother’s door. He wasn’t running from whatever had just happened, but he needed a moment to compose himself and accept that it had, in fact, happened. That Lan Xichen, for reasons known only to him, had decided that the man he loved was Nie Huaisang. That Lan Xichen, who could have had anyone, wanted a lazy and politically indifferent son of a whore, with a cultivation so low that his own juniors had to rescue him during Night Hunts sometimes.

It made no sense, though it did confirm that those Lans really had terrible tastes in partners.

Not that Nie Huaisang found anything to complain about. If this was true (and it had to be true, Lan Xichen wasn’t the sort to play cruel pranks) then it was everything Nie Huaisang had told himself he shouldn’t want for months now. If he really was this lucky…

Just as Nie Huaisang was starting to calm down enough to consider returning inside, the door to his brother’s room opened again. Lan Xichen came out, looking rather dejected, and gasped softly when he saw that Nie Huaisang was right there. The young man hesitated for an instant, then walked closer to Nie Huaisang, his head hung low.

"It's fine if you don't feel the same," Lan Xichen whispered. "I've been happy as your friend this long, I don't mind leaving it at that."

It was too much. For once in his life, Nie Huaisang was left speechless. It had been incredible already to realise that Lan Xichen might truly want him. But to think that this brilliant young man could think himself unworthy of having his affection returned, that Lan Xichen might not have noticed how much Nie Huaisang had struggled not to abuse the friendship given to him...

If words failed him, actions would have to do. Since Lan Xichen was standing so close to him, all Nie Huaisang had to do was to extend his arm and he was able to take the young man's hand in his. It felt right, as so many things did where Lan Xichen was concerned.

They remained like that a while, silent side by side. It would have been unreasonable to make promises anyway. Nie Huaisang couldn't afford to waste time on his own life until Nie Mingjue was where he belonged.

Still, this felt like the promise of a promise, and it was already more than Nie Huaisang ever thought he would get.

After a while they went back inside, still holding hands. Nie Mingjue rolled his eyes at the sight, complaining that he’d suffered so much from the way they wouldn’t stop looking at each other, so they’d better become less annoying now that they knew where they stood. Even Jin Guangyao teased them a little about it.

“And you’ll have to get your brother under control now,” he joked. “You can’t run off to be a rogue cultivator with Xichen if Mingjue keeps getting into arguments, so please teach him to keep his temper in check.”

“It won’t be my problem,” Nie Huaisang retorted cheerfully. “It’s your sworn brother and your father. You can deal with them, A-Yao. I’ll be far away in the mountains with Xichen, painting and watching him fight whatever monsters we encounter.”

All four of them laughed at that declaration, thought perhaps Jin Guangyao’s amusement sounded a little less earnest than theirs. At some other time Nie Huaisang would have taken note of that, but he was simply too happy to do so.

For the first time in many years, the future felt like something worth waiting for, and nothing else mattered.

#nie huaisang #lan xichen #nie mingjue #mdzs #xisang #tbh this chapter is 90% xisang #also it is the last happy chapter so lol consider this the end if you don't want to deal with sad stuff #jau writes #age reversal au

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mego42 · 4 years

Text

so, you’re kind of a weirdo about the blanket me scene in 1x09, what’s up with that?

@foxmagpie made the foolish mistake of asking me to breakdown why I like the Blanket Me scene in 1x09 so much (much more politely than my version above, for the record) so now I’m going to foist my ramble on all of you so it doesn’t die in the bowels of tumblr’s wonky messages non-archive. sorry/not sorry

Listen, I know I’m a touch, mmmm, unhinged? for the scene, but I really do think it does a lot of truly excellent unspoken storytelling, both through the character work in the scene itself, but also on structural level through its placement in the ep and if you want to come on the journey with me it’s under the cut.

Okay, breaking down the chain of events:

Getting pulled over in the truck was, I think, very clearly the first time Beth had ever truly felt the weight of the potential consequences of what she was doing and the fact that she could very easily, through a total freak accident (which is what i thiiiiiink is the significance of her getting pulled over for no plates outside of the loyalty test? idk, that whole bit is a touch murky) end up leaving her kids without their mother.

Immediately after that, she goes to see Rio who, whether she consciously realized it or not, I think made her feel some degree of protected, or at least grounded, in the crime world. He was a steadying and somewhat familiar force while she waded into crime, and I think she relied on that more than she probably realized or wanted to admit. He was a threat, sure, but one that I think she felt she understood and could manage.

But then he breaks up with her. He pulls the rug out from under her which, combined with her earlier reality check and the confirmation of poor Eddie’s fate, leaves Beth feeling extremely unmoored, disposable and deeply vulnerable. It kicks her control issues and her desperate instinct to act when she feels threatened into high gear and she takes a detour into a little fugue state on Ruby’s couch while it all kind of settles in and comes to the conclusion that Rio is officially A Threat.

(A conclusion I don’t know if she necessarily would have stuck to so hard if it weren’t for the chain of events that lead up to it, but a poorly times series of communication issues leading to catastrophe is kind of Their Thing)

Still with me? I’m not breaking any new ground here, but it’s all context for what makes the Blanket Me scene land so hard for me (aside from the fact that the song is a gorgeous whatever the heart-wrenching version of a bop is, which is nearly enough, tbh).

So now we arrive at the blanket me scene. Beth—reeling from a horrifying glimpse at a future where she’s not around to take care of her kids, and finding out the thing she’d sort of maybe kind of been thinking of as a safety line was actually a snake (and still confusingly hot? but that’s just...not for dealing with right now)—tries to exert control over her abruptly, once again topsy-turvy and absolutely terrifying circumstances through a drunken maniacal midnight crafting of a ridiculously overstuffed calendar.

Now, I know sometimes people dismiss the significance of the lyrical content overlaying what’s on screen (which is fair! as with everything, it’s v easy to go overboard) but the end of the day someone specifically chose what part of the song to use, so there’s generally something about it that drives that choice (and sometimes it really is idk I just think it’s dope for sure). How much you read into it is up to you, but here’s the part that’s playing over that scene:

shame on you / shame on me / I blindly blame you / when truly / you're my guardian / I'm your sail / a boat in your harbor / gone under, capsized and sinking / blanket me, blanket me, blanket me, blanket me, blanket me

I always kind of absorbed that as the duality of Beth: she wants to shield and protect her family, but she's also the one dragging them/herself under. Either way, the end result is she’s created her bedazzled last will and testament and the next day gathers her troops and declares war on her perceived enemy.

Was he actually her enemy at that point? Personally I am inclined to say not really. I think if Beth had sat on her hands and dealt with the loss of his attention (another key factor, I think, but that’s a Whole Other Post and one I am 99% sure I have seen several versions of floating around already) he would’ve left her alone, but see the point about about timing and communication and repeat.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. Beth's in full circle the wagons, shoot anything that moves mode and by breaking up with her, Rio has stepped away from the campfire and become one of the scary moving shapes in the darkness.

And to wrap it up, on an episode structure note, I really love how the blanket me scene ties in so many of the previous threads but it’s also a sort of intermission moment that gives all of it a chance to breathe and sets it up so the closing scene hits like a hammer.

IT DOES SO MANY LEVELS OF HEAVY LIFTING OKAY?

Thank you for coming to my TEDtalk. BYE.

#gg 1x09 #i am assuming this has all been thoroughly covered #but i'm new(ish) here #so allow me to indulge myself #I JUST REALLY LIKE THE SONG AND THE SCENE OKAY #this is not a meta tag #this is a one off #leave me alone #nbc good girls #beth boland

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have-each-others-six · 4 years

Text

time will tell, she’ll see us through (pt. four)

***

part one

part two

part three

***

“It looks smaller on our days off,” Cathy comments, looking up at the marquee of the theater and stepping back to take in the building. “Doesn’t it look smaller now than it does on show days?”

Aragon shrugs, laughing a little bit at the intense concentration in Cathy’s squint as she tries to compare the theater’s appearance to the last time she saw it. “It looks the same to me. Maybe I’m just not observant enough,” she says, looking up at the way the sun is peeking out over the top of the building.

After another few minutes, Aragon nudges Cathy lightly. “Come on, weren’t you just saying how we absolutely need to find your manuscript? Let’s go inside.”

“You’re right,” Cathy says, swallowing hard and coming out of her reverie with a quick shake of the head. “You’re… you’re right. Let’s go in.”

The theater doesn’t feel like a theater without all the people inside of it. The startling silence, in combination with Cathy’s dread about the loss of her one testament to her legacy, makes the entire space feel ghostly. They see a few of the janitorial staff that make the rounds on days off, but the energy of everybody bustling around, shouting out requests for food and info on mic changes and the time till shows, is jarringly absent.

One of the staff lets her into the greenroom after she confirms it’s nowhere among the rows of seats, and her heart starts to beat faster in her chest and in her ears because this is her last chance to find it- this is the last possible place it could be.

She feels desperation through her whole body, tugging her in all different directions as she runs through the dressing rooms, looking and looking and hoping against hope that it’ll be leaned up against something or on a side table or next to a pile of scripts, her mind inventing new places one after the other, but each one is refuted.

Eventually, when all of the possibilities have been exhausted, Cathy ends up in the middle of the stage, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her eyes darting everywhere like maybe if she looks away and looks back the manuscript will reappear.

She’s lost without that manuscript. She had told Aragon earlier today that it was everything, and that isn’t far from the truth. This story is a part of her- or maybe all of her at this point.

This is all she is, all she knows how to be, because for such a long time it was her sole purpose. She was the only one with the means to do it, one of the few women with the ability to read and write and the platform to make her ideas heard, so she vowed to write something powerful that would change the world. If the manuscript is gone, it means that power is gone too.

There’s a gentle hand on her shoulder, and it nearly makes her jump out of her skin.

“It’s not here,” she says softly without turning around to face her godmother, and she hates, hates, hates crying in front of people but now she’s hiccuping through her sobs, feeling snot and tears on her face and not much caring because she doesn’t know if there’s any care left in her. “It’s not here, it’s not here, it’s not here, and if it’s not here it’s not anywhere- there’s nowhere else it could be. It’s lost, Catherine, it’s lost.”

“Come here,” Aragon says, and it isn’t soft and overly sweet, which Cathy would’ve hated right now, instead it’s gentle and it’s sincere, and when she collapses into Aragon’s arms and cries so hard her chest hurts the queen just rubs her back in a slow, steady motion.

“It’s lost,” Cathy repeats thickly. “It’s lost…”

“Listen to me,” Aragon tells her quietly, and her voice is a murmur but somehow cuts through the blaring, screechy panic in Cathy’s ears. “You will come back from this,” she promises.

“No, I won’t,” Cathy spits, even though it isn’t Aragon she’s angry at. She doesn’t know who she’s angry at, actually. It might be herself, for ever letting that stack of paper out of her sight. Or maybe she’s angry at God, the prick. God took Mary from her, has He now seen fit to take her manuscript as well, her only connection to her fragile little baby girl?

“I’ll never be able to write again,” she says bitterly, pushing away out of Aragon’s hold. “I won’t trust it- my writing’s going to be awful for the rest of my life, because I won’t be able to invest any sort of hope in it. I poured everything into this manuscript, this curation of my memory, and I lost it. Who’s to say I won’t lose everything I ever write?” She swallows hard. “Who’s to say I won’t lose all of my memories?”

“That won’t-”

“It happened to Henry, near the end,” Cathy interrupts. “I watched it happen. He started to call me the names of all of you- of his other wives- when he was speaking to me. Once, he thought I was Anne, and he flew into a rage- called me a witch, a harlot, a useless hag, over and over until his face was purple. He forgot the names of his favorite lords, he forgot what he believed in… he forgot until he wasn’t himself anymore, but a shell of who he once was.” She looks at Catherine with a glassy fear in her eyes. “I can’t become like that.”

“You won’t,” Aragon tells her gently. “You’ll have us- we’ll remind you every day of who you are if we have to.”

“But what if I forget who you are?” Cathy asks, in a voice so soft and terrified it’s clear where her worries lie, and it also helps Aragon to finally fully understand why the manuscript is so important to her and why she’s so broken because it’s gone.

She sits down on the steps of the stage, Cathy sitting next to her, and as Aragon puts her arm around her they can hear the muffled noises of the city though the walls of the theater in their silence.

“You still have that last page of your manuscript, right?” she asks quietly, indicating Cathy’s pocket, where the folded piece of notebook paper is.

“Right,” Cathy answers sort of thickly, a little confused as to what Aragon’s getting at.

“Read it to me, will you?”

“It’s incomplete, though,” Cathy tells her. “It’s just the last page, there’s nothing else lef-” her voice cracks. “If the rest of it is lost, what’s the point of the last page?”

“I want to hear it,” Aragon replies gently. “It’s still the last page of something you worked very hard on- it’s the culmination of your story, of all of our stories, and you might’ve lost most of it, but you still have this page and I would like to hear what you wrote.”

Cathy pulls the piece of paper out of her pocket, and it seems too neatly and nicely folded for everything it holds. “It’s not very long,” she says softly.

She leans against Aragon as she flattens out the last page on her knee, and she feels like it’s been a hundred years since she finished writing it yesterday, sitting in almost the exact same spot. She can see the whole auditorium from here- the dim lighting that they turn on to clean the aisles illuminates it just enough that she can see how big the theater really is.

Suddenly, she feels very small.

“Our lives are not limited to the scope of Henry’s reign,” she reads quietly. “They never should have been. Placing us in a miniscule box of marriage and labeling us with words from a rhyme does not allow us our humanity- to have feeling, to have depth, to be complex and mutlilayered like every person on this earth deserves to be. We have had the extraordinary, improbable privilege of getting a second chance at life, and the gift of being allowed to tell our stories on the stage, but we have to look at other lives the way people are learning to look at ours- as something whole, not as something incomplete.”

She looks over at Aragon, taking herself out of reading her own words for a moment, and the woman’s eyes are closed. She’s genuinely listening.

“History is complicated. History is not just looking at people through the lens of what is told about them, it is searching for the truth in their existences. We often ignore either the good or bad in people to paint them as one simple thing, but everyone is human, and we need to appreciate people in their entirety.”

Her handwriting got messy here. It’s hard to read as it slopes and scrawls, like it’s bending under the weight of the emotion in the words- her words. She thinks she might be crying- these are her words, this is the end of her story. This is the end.

“Our opportunity will not be wasted. We don’t know how long we have, but we know that we have a story to tell, and we will tell it in its complete and true nature for as long as we can.” She swallows, hard. She doesn’t need to look at the paper for the last two sentences, because those aren’t just on the page- they’re in her heart, her lungs, in every breath she takes. She feels these last words in her chest every time she puts her pen to paper. “We should all be given the chance to share our story. I am grateful to have been given the chance to share mine with the people I love.” Her next breath shudders when she exhales it out of her lungs, and when she looks over at her godmother again the woman’s eyes are open and flooded with tears. “You are brilliant,” she whispers, smiling, and cups Cathy’s cheek in her hand. “You are brilliant.” “Well, that’s all there is,” Cathy says in a weak sort of voice, and gives a watery laugh, one that doesn’t have a whole lot of humor in it. “The rest is gone.” Aragon rubs her thumb over Cathy’s cheek and looks her in the eye, sincerity and pride evident in her gaze. “Your brilliancy isn’t dependent on the manuscript, darling. You have always been a writer, and you have always had your words. The words in your manuscript may have been lost, but you have so much more in you,” she says, and a tiny smile flickers over her face, her joy showing itself in the small action. “This is not the only story you have to tell, I can feel it.”

“I don’t know if I have any stories left in me,” Cathy says quietly, sincerely, and her voice is fraying at the edges. “What do you mean?” Aragon asks gently, her eyes soft. “Of course you have stories left in you. The historians might say this is the most important one- this is the one that talks about what happened from the perspective of people who actually experienced it, it talks about our feelings on being left out of history from our very unique position of having been reincarnated- it’s a good story to tell, and I think you should try to write it again. But it is not your only story.”

“How do you know?” Cathy demands, still shaking. “How can you say that if you don’t know?”

“You love to write,” Aragon says simply. “You are made of stories, my dear. Every writer is. The way they see the world is through a lens of words. You could write an absolutely incredible story about something as simple as the way the stage looks in the lights right now because of that.” She looks over at Cathy after a few minutes of quiet. “You’ll find a new story.”

“I wish I was as sure as you are,” Cathy mutters. “You don’t have to be. Just don’t give up.” Cathy goes back to leaning against Aragon’s shoulder, and they stay like that for a long while, the smaller woman curled into her godmother’s side, but eventually, in silence, the two of them stand up, leave the theater, and get in the car, Aragon driving them home to the house.

Before they open the door, Cathy has to breathe in and lean against it. She has to acknowledge the piece of her heart that’s been lost along with her manuscript for a moment before she goes back to her family- before she has to really face what’s happened and let it sink in.

She really, really doesn’t want to go inside. But she turns the doorknob anyway.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Jane says, visibly relieved when they walk in the front door, getting to her feet. She checks over Cathy first, then Aragon, looking them up and down with quiet worry in her eyes. “Can you tell me what’s going on yet?” she asks softly once she’s done making sure they’re both all right, and Cathy hates herself for being the reason that there’s that anxious crease between her eyebrows.

She looks over at Aragon and then back to Jane, who always pokes her head in and checks up on Cathy if she’s been upstairs too long, who makes her tea or coffee when she stays up late with a story, who offers up synonyms when she’s scared she’s using a word too many times. “I don’t know how to tell you,” Cathy murmurs, because that’s the truth. She’s fairly sure Aragon means what she says about not feeling let down by the loss of the manuscript, but she’s not sure that Jane will- Jane’s put so much hope into this, both out of love for Cathy and out of a wish that people will read her story.

Jane nods, chewing on the inside of her cheek and crossing her arms tightly over her chest- a sign that she’s nervous, trying to protect herself. “Are you… can you at least promise me that you’re safe? That you aren’t in danger?” “I’m not in danger,” Cathy answers sincerely, holding Jane’s worried gaze. “Really, I’m not.” “You’d- you’d tell me if you were?” Jane asks. Her eyes are soft and gray and fragile. “I would.”

“All right,” Jane replies, and she looks conflicted as she watches Cathy turn to head upstairs. “I… I think it’s really wonderful that you’ve let Kat write some pieces of your manuscript,” she tells her quietly. “It’s good that you’re giving yourself a bit of a rest.” Cathy turns back around, confusion apparent in her expression, but it’s Aragon who speaks. “What? Do you mean the interview? Katherine didn’t write anything for that, she just answered Cathy’s questions.” “Oh,” Jane says, brow furrowing. “I must’ve heard her wrong, then- this morning, when I went into her room, she had your manuscript, Cathy, and she said she was just checking her edits over when I asked her why she had it.” Aragon realizes what that means at the same time Cathy does, and Cathy grips her godmother’s arm. “This morning? Are you absolutely certain it was this morning?” the last queen asks. “Yes, just after you left,” Jane replies, confused. “Why?”

Cathy feels too many different emotions flood her system, and her heartbeat sounds too loud in her ears.

“Excuse me,” she hears herself say in a voice that doesn’t quite sound like her own, and she turns around and strides towards Kit’s bedroom.

Her mind is always filled with thoughts- Aragon was right, she does experience the world through words, and her brain is usually crowded with perceptions, but this is different than her normal, slightly helter-skelter stream of consciousness.

She is being bombarded with feelings of betrayal, the dizzy realization that her manuscript might not be lost, and the no, no, no, it can’t be my Kit thoughts all at the same time, because it can’t be her Kit who would cause her this much pain.

The girl was there when Cathy woke up from that nightmare this morning, she knows how important the manuscript is. She would never intentionally cause Cathy pain, and especially not by targeting her writing.

Right?

As she walks slowly down the hallway, she feels like she did when she was a child taking deportment classes and balancing books on her head, only instead of books it’s the weight of trust and loss and fear, and if she loses her balance she might lose her mind.

Aragon and Jane are staring after the sixth queen in a sort of shock, and Jane looks to Aragon in fear and confusion.

“What’s going on?” she asks worriedly. “Is Katherine in trouble?”

“If Cathy’s right,” Aragon starts, not elaborating on what that means, “she’s going to be.”

***

taglist: @thenicestnonbinary, @soultastic

#the angst is strong with this one #and it will only get stronger #six #six the musical fanfiction #time will tell she'll see us through #catherine of aragon #anne boleyn #jane seymour #anna of cleves #katherine howard #catherine parr #six the musical fanfic

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sabineelectricheart · 3 years

Text

Duchess Fraldarius

Summary: In Spring, Imperial Year 1181, Mercedes von Martritz finally wed.

Rating: R - Content features heavy themes. Not suitable for most audiences. Consult warnings before proceeding.

Graphic depictions of rape, domestic abuse and confinement. Reader discretion is highly advised.

Words: 2700

Notes: Due to absolutely no-one’s request, I am proud to present another disturbingly dark fanfic. Usually, I only put out MC fics, but this one does not fit Byleth at all, but it is perfectly befitting Mercedes’ card if she does not return to the monastery in 1185.

Margrave Gautier would much more befitting for the role of abusive husband, but I have already done one about his sick tendencies and I am to understand he is still wed. So Rodrigue it is.

Remember, you were warned.

The snow falls steadily out the window. There is grave silence in the grounds, the people out that grand, ornate, thick double doors are hungry, tired and worried for their future, but none of it ever came inside. Inside, there was no cold, no darkness and no want. Only happiness and tranquillity.

Mercedes, Duchess Fraldarius, is sprawled out on the plush mattress of the Castle’s master bedroom donning a thin, silk sleeping dress, one of the many she kept on the trunk by the foot of the bed. She wore little else, other than a pair of shoes and stockings, for meals.

In Spring, Imperial Year 1181, her stepfather finally settled on a marriage contract with a nobleman. Rodrigue, Duke Fraldarius, who was in dire need of gold to fund the resistance effort against the Empire, once the Kingdom fell. Her stepfather wanted to buy himself some nobility, and so the deal was closed.

“Daddy.” The blonde cleric whines, pouting at the man before her.

He had undressed her, kissed along her neck, and commanded she get on the bed, leaving her incredibly turned on. Now, Rodrigue stands at the foot of the bed, slowly folding up his sleeves, not touching her. He is not even looking at her, and that just will not do.

Her husband has been married before. Mercedes remembers, very faintly, Ingrid commenting that, despite being a regular fixture at Castle Fraldarius, she had never met her mother-in-law, even before her untimely death, six or so years ago, before Glenn’s passing. The first wife was kept just like the second, she concludes, it is just her husband’s way of life.

No-one, other than her husband, her stepfather and Margrave Gautier, knows she is here. Sometimes she hears Felix’s voice, sees his teal hair running on the grounds, but he does not come to visit her. No letters arrive, either. It was disturbing at first, but now she finds comforting.

“Daddy!” Mercedes repeats, giving a displeased kick of her feet.

She sees the beginnings of an amused smile tugging at his lips, the soft yet wicked turn of his facial hair, but he quells it, and instead looks at she with a raised brow.

“What is it, sweet pea?” Rodrigue asks with a chilling tone.

“I am waiting!” She grouses, narrowing her eyes slightly.

At that, he lets his amusement show clear on his face.

“You must be mistaken, dear. Waiting implies the presence of patience, and I do not believe you to be very patient.” He teases, finally putting his now exposed forearms down at his side.

She only whines, squirming on the bed. She rubs her thighs together as she gives Rodrigue her most pleading look.

“Oh darling.” His taunting voice only fuels her arousal. “Very well, I will give she attention. Since you are very clearly desperate for it.”

Their marriage is barren, and will remain so. Rodrigue himself brings her contraceptive herbs and charms. War or no war, estranged or not, Felix is his heir, and he is not about to have his House thrown apart by conflicts between half-siblings, like so many others all around Fódlan had. It was hard enough keeping his own brother’s prolific family at bay.

The Duke glances down at the apex of her thighs. “Take off your smallclothes for me.”

Though the command is gentle, Mercedes rushes to comply, lifting her hips so she can pull her underwear off under her skirt. She bends her knees, removing them completely, and toss them to the floor beside her.

“Good girl.” He praises, feeling his tights become too small for his virile, deviant manhood. “Spread your legs, let me see how aroused you are.”

The church girl side of hers takes over for a moment and the blonde blushes at that, suddenly feeling shy. She rubs her thighs together once more, looking down at her husband bashfully. He tuts.

“Do not get shy on me now, precious. Let me see that sweet pussy.” His posh accent, the finest High Imperial language, the likes of which spoken at the courts, but rarely at the church and never at home.

Perhaps it is a sick memory of Baron Bartels, that blond, cold man’s domineering presence and strong jaws, a combination of beautiful and terrifying that confounded and charmed many a maiden in Adrestia. Perhaps it is her admiration of Ferdinand and Lorenz from her times as a student, that sincere but entitled kindness, born not out of a public spirit but of an instinct to reinforce a social order that privileged them. Be as it may, that proper speech has her sex pulsing, drives her to comply with the wildest things. The woman draws her legs apart slowly, biting her lip in embarrassment. She is sure he can see her folds glistening with the evidence of her arousal.

He hums.

Is it wrong? Is it sick? Mercedes does not know anymore, but in any case, there is no escape from this castle. There was no more Church of Seiros or Holy Kingdom of Faerghus to grant her a divorce, and even if it were, she would not be able to reach Galatea on foot, trekking through forests and mountains. She escaped an abusive marriage once before, she does not have the strength to escape another.

She does well if she convinces herself she is happy in here. Where she is fed and protected.

“There she is.” Rodrigue steps closer until his thighs make contact with the mattress, eyes glued between her legs. “My little girl. Are you eager for daddy, dearest?”

Mercedes nods, expectantly.

“Look at that, you are dripping.” He murmurs.

She whimpers needily, and at the same time she draws her legs together, feeling exposed under his intense gaze. He grabs her ankles, yanking them apart.

“Keep them open!” He growls his order, looking at her sternly.

She nods, giving another pitiful whimper, lest she angers her husband.

The Duke brings a finger up, sliding it teasingly through her folds. The blonde lets out a breathy moan at the contact, angling her hips to invite him to touch her some more.

“So responsive.” He repeats his ministration and she squirms, careful to keep her legs spread as he had instructed.

Finally, after a couple slower drags, the nobleman’s long, calloused finger, bearing his signet ring, stops at her entrance. He eases it into her tight heat, and the cleric moans at the sensation, head falling back. Below her, she hears her husband inhale sharply.

“You are so tight for me darling.” Rodrigue brings his free hand up to rest on the base of her stomach.

He holds her down as he begins pumping his finger in and out of her, pace torturously slow. Mercedes whines, attempts to buck under the firm pressure of his hand failing. She tries to wait patiently for him to speed up, but he seems to have no problem taking it slow.

She, however, have a great problem with that, and decide to let him know.

Mercedes weighs she is rather happy with the situation. Her whole life had been about caring for others. She cared for Emile under the Bartels, she cared for her mother when they ran away, she cared for her stepfather in Fhirdiad, she cared for the students at the Sorcery School, and she cared for Annette at the Officers’ Academy. In Fraldarius, she is cared for, she does not have to lift a finger or concern herself with anybody.

It was freeing, in a way.

“Daddy, give me more.” Mercedes means to sound assertive and compelling, but her aroused state means the words come out a desperate whine.

Rodrigue raises an eyebrow, finally looking up from her pussy.

“That is not how one asks nicely.” He reprimands, continuing his excruciating pace.

The Duchess lets out a huff and roll her eyes before she can stop herself. Swiftly, Rodrigue’s hand leaves her pussy and comes down on her inner thigh, a sharp smack sounding in the room.

Mercedes gasps.

“Watch it, girl. That attitude will not be tolerated.” His voice is a low growl, and she quickly nods.

“My apologies, daddy.” She mumbles, cheeks burning at her little scolding.

The man hums, placated, and the blonde wife feels emboldened to rephrase her question.

“Please, can I have some more?” She corrects her earlier words.

“Much better.” He brings his hand back down to her entrance, sliding two large fingers into she now.

She moans, gripping the bedsheets, relishing in the delicious stretch. He pumps his fingers at a steady pace, a welcome change from that prior. Soon, he pulls his fingers from she once again, and she whine at the loss. He shushes she, thumb rubbing over her stomach soothingly.

“You will not be empty long, sweet thing, do not fret.” His free hand works open the fastenings of his trousers, pulling them and his smallclothes down enough to free his thick length.

She watches intently as it bobs against his stomach, wide eyed. Rodrigue chuckles at her reaction. He gives himself a few languid strokes.

No, Mercedes lied. She has much to concern herself about in this chamber. There are no books and no needlework, there are no sweets to be baked or wounds to heal. Her only pastime is wondering where her husband might be, when he will arrive with her meals and whether he will fuck her.

It might have been a minor concern of hers, if she had more to busy herself with, but her mind gives it proper weight since it has nothing else to think about. So much so, she has taken to sleep with one of his capes, one that smelled of him.

“Do you want my cock, darling?” Rodrigue murmurs, leading her to nod enthusiastically.

The Duke raises an eyebrow at Mercedes silently, and she quickly realizes what he is waiting for.

“Yes, daddy, please give me your cock” She slurs, eyes pleading.

He hums.

“Good girl.” He holds himself at his base and slowly guides his length into her waiting hole.

The blonde Duchess moans as he sinks into her, walls fluttering around him.

“That is my girl,” Rodrigue grits out as he watches her pussy devour his cock.

He hooks his arms under the crooks of her knees, pulling Mercedes so her ass is hanging off the edge of the bed. He begins to rut into her deeply, holding her thighs in a bruising grip. She moans at the rough treatment.

“Do you like that, sweet pea? Do she like when I pound your pussy?” His voice is somehow steady and his face unbothered save for his furrowed brows and a light sheen of sweat.

His composed posture is a sharp contrast to her moaning, writhing form below him. If one was to capture that moment on a painting, it might belong to the realm of grotesque, rather than romantic. These are two people who have lost themselves in their indulgence.

Mercedes does not care about any of it and nods desperately.

“Yes, daddy, it feels so good!” She moans loudly.

“Naughty girl.” He growls out. “Worry not, I will fuck you straight. I will bring out a proper Fraldarius wife out of you just yet.”

The blue-haired nobleman brings a hand up from her thigh to her mouth, sliding his thumb over her bottom lip before slotting it into her slack mouth.

“Suck.” He orders.

The blonde woman complies, working his thumb with her tongue and suctioning gently. Another growl leaves his lips.

“So obedient. Such a good girl for me. Just for me to fuck.” His hips snap into she all the more roughly, his pace increasing.

Mercedes moans around his thumb, squeezing her eyes shut. She feels herself climbing towards her peak, her walls tightening around Rodrigue.

“Open your eyes. Look at me when you come.” His voice leaves no room for argument.

Her doe-like blue eyes snap open, coming down to meet his. Cold, sick, vicious and lascivious.

“There is my girl. Come on, come for me.” He encourages.

Having been granted his permission, she allows her body to fall over the edge. She moans breathlessly around the thumb still in her mouth, legs shaking and pussy spasming with her release.

The tightening of her channel is enough to send Rodrigue into orgasm just after she with a muttered “yes, darling”. Despite his vehemence against a child of her own, he always releases inside her. She feels as thick ropes of his cum fill her, and she whimpers. Her eyes flutter shut, feeling spent and exhausted.

Rodrigue pulls his thumb from her mouth and his cock from her cunt after a moment of catching his breath. He goes over to the bedside table, grabbing a towel to clean himself with and tucking his length back into his trousers.

Then, he goes back over to her, handing her the same piece of cloth so Mercedes could clean her intimacy.

“Come on sweet pea, you cannot fall asleep just yet.” He pulls her further down the bed by her waist, sliding his hand under her back to guide she upright. “I am still voracious.”

The Duchess open her eyes, feet meeting the floor. Despite up straight, the woman stands on shaky limbs.

“I am tired, daddy.” She complains feebly, looking up at him.

Rodrigue coos, wrapping his arm around she for support as he guides her to the bathing area.

“I know, you can sleep right after I am satiated. For now, clean yourself, as you still have a duty to perform.” He murmurs, stopping by the tiled room door and nudging her forward gently.

“Would you cuddle with me afterwards?” She glances back at him with wide, pleading eyes.

He gives her a soft smile that makes her heart flutter with adoration.

“Of course not, precious.” Rodrigue responds instantly, with a soft voice of someone waxing poetry by their lover’s ear. “I would not sleep well here with you.”

Mercedes does not know why she bothers asking. He never stays. She still held on the hope that he would stay a night, that the loneliness on her heart will be dispelled, if only temporarily.

Oh. Is she lonely? She does not know. Either way, it is best not to dwell on those thoughts. As her husband pointed out, she still has a duty to perform.

She makes her way over to the toilet and Rodrigue goes back into the bedroom. He pulls back the bedding and her some tea as she relieves herself and washes her hands. She heads back into the bedroom, walking over to him.

“Would she like pajamas, are she cold?” He asks, handing she the glass of water. She take it, looking at him thoughtfully for a moment, before shaking sher head.

“Alright.” He gestures to the steaming, inodorous tea with his eyes. “Drink up.”

She obediently raises the teacup to her lips, taking a couple of sips, eyes on his over the rim. He raises an eyebrow at her, and she continue drinking until half the cup is empty before pausing again, looking at him once more. He nods, waving his hands, signalling he wanted her to drink it all. She would do well if she complied, she would not want to be forced to drink the rest.

“Good girl.” He praises, setting the ceramic down on the bedside table.

Mercedes climbs into the bed, facing Rodrigue, and nestles under the covers. He removes his coat and trousers, leaving him in his smallclothes, and climbs into bed beside she. He wraps an arm around she and she snuggles in close, resting her head on his strong chest. His thumb rubs soft circles on her arm.

She feels her head faint, as her husband touches her lower and lower. He might have tired of her voice. It does not matter, she will perform to his highest expectations, conscient or not.

The last thought that runs through Mercedes’ head is that it is the 24th of Eternal Moon, 1185. The eve of the Millennial Festival, of the oath she had swore to return to Garreg Mach.

It seems she is not going to make it.

*_*_*_*_*

Fire Emblem Masterlist

Three Houses Masterlist

#fire emblem #Rodrigue Fraldarius #mercedes von martritz

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iliketowrite1996 · 4 years

Text

Part 1/3- His Mistake

TRIGGER WARNINGS AND THEMES- Secret relationship, sudden kiss, fighting feelings- Set after Endgame except nobody dies and Steve stays where he is at lol

Steve Rogers is messed up.

Steve Rogers messed up, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

Steve Rogers messed up, he doesn’t know how to fix it, and he is currently, futile, pacing the floors of the Avengers Tower trying to figure out how to fix the thing that he messed up.

Normally, he’d just ignore it- move past it and forget all about it, as he does with most things.

It’s not that he’s never been in this position before. It’s that he’s never been in this position with the person that he is currently in this position with, and that’s what has him terrified.

Steve Rogers is no stranger to kissing. He may not have had much luck with women before the crash- he’d kiss one woman who’s name he ever had and Peggy.

Post frozen state, though, he has certainly been on his fair share of dates. The kiss with Natasha, for example- he brushed past that after it initially occurred, not having any feelings for his teammate.

The kiss with the waitress he went on a date with a few months ago, his kiss and fling with anyone else has never resulted in the sort of panic that he is feeling at this very moment.

‘’Hey, Capsicle, is there any reason that you’re currently running a rut in the floor,’’ Tony raises an eyebrow at the man as he enters the office for their meeting.

‘’Stark, not now. Just don’t,’’ Steve raises a hand, to which Tony shrugs, deciding to tease his teammate another time.

‘’Just don’t run a hole in the floor before Fury gets here,’’ Tony advises as the rest of the team file in,

Wanda, Vision and Pietro are first, followed by Sam and Bucky. Natasha is followed by Bruce, and Clint ambles in a while later with Rhodey. Thor and Peter are the last to enter, and the 13 of them patiently wait for Nicky Fury to enter.

‘’If he’s going to keep us waiting, the least that he could do is supply us with donuts,’’ Tony jokes, just as the door opens yet again.

‘’Please, Stark, with your wealth, you should be supplying the whole team with doubts, and cars, to boot,’’ you speak as you enter, coffee in a hand and laptop tucked under your arm.

‘’Ahh, he couldn’t be bothered with prepping us himself, so he sent his intern.’’

‘’Assistant, Stark. And now I see why Fury carries aspirin with him everywhere he goes, because you’re starting to give me a headache, too,’’ you deadpan, ignoring the snickers of the rest of the team, ‘’Anyway. Yes, he did send me to discuss with you the proper protocol for meeting with King T’Challa, also known as The Black Panther. So that we do not have another bowling incident like the one before.’’

You pointedly look to Bruce, who looks to Rhodey, who is smirking at the memory of what occurred over six years ago.

‘’And he sent you.’’

‘’Yes, he sent me. If you're not happy with that, Stark, you may remove yourself from this meeting as well as my presence,’’ you look to the billionaire, ‘’Now, I suggest that you remain quiet until after this meeting is over.’’

It’s enough to shut Tony up, and Steve appreciates your no-nonsense tone even more than ever, it no doubt being one of the reasons that Fury chose to train you to follow in his footsteps.

The meeting is brief by their standards- you’re a bit concerned that Tony is going to manage to get on T’Challa’s nerves or that will trip and embarrass himself (his own personal worry, as well) but they seem up to par on protocol of the royal palace and how it has changed.

‘’That is it for today, you are all dismissed. Except you, Captain. I need to speak with you at once.’’

‘’Looks like somebody’s in trouble,’’ Bucky smirks, earning a nudge from Natasha as the rest of the team disperses, leaving you alone with Steve.

‘’Mr. Rogers… Captain America. I was looking through your files,’’ you start as you close the door, giving the two of you some semblance of privacy, ‘’And I noticed quite a few interesting things. Your height and weight before being injected with the super soldier serum, your battles, your wins and your losses, and even quite a bit on Peggy Carter.’’

‘’Is there any reason that you are looking for those things?’’

‘’I always check up on the files to see if there’s anything new coming up for the Avengers,’’ you shrug, ‘’I know that Peter is graduating from high school soon. I know that Natasha is ready to assume another alias should need a rise, and has several already picked out. I even know all about Tony’s intentions to have another child, other than Morgan. What I don’t know… is why you kissed me last night.’’

Remember that big mistake that Steve was talking about earlier?

Yeah. This is it.

He kissed you, the person directly under Nicky Fury, who could very well become Steve’s boss in the next few years, should Fury retire.

You’d been lounging in the living room last night, after one of Stark’s infamous parties. You would consider Steve more of a friend than someone you are in charge of. He shares side-eye glances with you at meetings, and he’s had your back more than once on a mission. He’s the one who knows what it feels like to miss so much of your life, to try to connect the past to the future, and how hard it is to decipher who you are now with who you used to be and how the two are somehow combined within the two of you.

Last night at the party, after everyone had gone to bed, you and Steve had been talking- about your pasts, your futures, and everything in between. You confessed that you wanted a family some day, and so does he. You hadn’t really been out on the dating scene much, and neither has he. He knows your favorite food, song, animal, color, and you know his favorite dance, book, memory, author.

What you still don’t know is why he cupped your face, leaned in and kissed you last night.

‘’What do you want to hear from me,’’ Steve questions.

‘’I want the truth. I know that you’ve kissed several members of the shield before. Is this just… was that just because you do that? Is that your thing,’’ you fold your arms over your chest, ‘’Because if that’s the case, I’ll drop it like Natasha dropped hints that she is interested in you.’’

‘’It was a spur of the moment thing, but it had nothing to do with you the only one around me.’’

‘’It seems like that’s what it was,’’ you shrug again, ‘’Because in the two and a half years that I have known you, you’ve never done anything like that.’’

‘’You do not get it,’’ Steve lowers his voice, taking your face in his hands ‘’ Do you think this is what I want, to dance around you? You are a very beautiful woman. You are intelligent and courageous and I have had feelings for you for a long time.’’

‘’Then what’s the matter,’’ you stare up into crystal blue eyes, closing your own when Steve presses a kiss to your forehead, ‘’Because I care for you, too.’’

‘’We both know this is not such a good idea,’’ Steve shifts so that his arms are around you and he is holding you close, ‘’We work together. Our line of work is so dangerous.’’

‘’Which is why we should at least give this a try, Steve. I’m not opposed to trying something new if something good can come from it,’’ you smile gently, exposing Steve to a bit of who you are under your toughness, ‘’I think you know that.’’

‘’I do,’’ he sighs, pressing another kiss to your hairline, ‘’So what does that mean?’’

‘’I would like to give this a chance, Rogers. I’m done not going after what I want I know sometimes you just have to let things be, and let them fall into place. And if this doesn't work out, then it doesn't work out. No regrets if we actually try, it, though.’’

Steve is sponsoring this as you speak, the only sound the voice of Tony walking past, which prompts you to say, ‘’And my dad doesn’t have to know.’’

Steve tenses then, you having brought up the very thing that he was worried about, ‘’I don’t want you to think that I am hiding this, so to speak.’’

‘’I know you’re not,’’ you pull back to look at him, ‘’Listen. I’m the first one that doesn’t want him to know. So we will keep this to ourselves- that means you won’t tell Bucky, and I won’t tell Wanda..’’

He considers this. He’s kept so many secrets, hurt people, and lost people. This would be like opening a fresh wound, all over again,

Perhaps, though, he’s thinking too far into the future. Perhaps there’s a chance that this could actually turn out well for the two of you.

So it’s with a grin that he kisses you again, taking a chance on something that could actually be good for you.

Even if it has to be a secret from others for the time being.

And so it goes for three months. You and Steven for lack of a better phrase, sneak around. It’s kind of invigorating, kind of irritating. You steal kisses before and after every meeting that Nick directs, spar together when no one else using the training facility, have dates down by the river whenever the two of you can manage a free moment away from the others.

Three months of glances at each other, secret dates, and never blurting a word of the truth to anybody, lest your dad figure out that the two of you are more than friends.

Even as you sit across from him now, dressed in your blouse the color of a ripe eggplant and your dress pants, hair slicked back into a low bun, he tries not to stare. You, for your part, try to ignore how good he looks in a suit at this moment.

‘’And please, I am begging of you,’’ Fury sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, ‘’Stark, keep your sarcasm to yourself upon this meeting with Dr. Strange and Mr. Wong. I am begging you.’’

‘’I’ll keep him in line,’’ you look over to the billionaire, who places his hands in the air in faux-surrender.

‘’I’ll behave.’’

‘’Of course you will- your wife and Ms. Romanoff will be there. Captain, and you,’’ Fury looks to you, ‘’Please hold back a second. I need to brief you two on your next mission.’’

You and Steve share a look of confusion while the others leave, preparing for their meeting with Stephen Strange.

‘’It seems the two of you enjoy spending time together, so I would like the two of you to work together on this- would anybody like to be so bold as to help me understand why the two of you,’’ Fury points between you and Steve, ‘’Really thought that you could sneak around behind my back and no one would know?’’

Your eyes widen, and Steve begins to sputter out an answer, ‘’Director Fury, we-’’

‘’Do you know whose daughter she is, Captain? Do you know that there are direct orders for herm’’ Nick turns his gaze back to you, ‘’Not to date a part of this team?’’

‘’Those are not official orders, and might I add, you have no say so in this,’’ you stand, ‘’We keep this relationship from affecting our work. To my knowledge, you don’t seem to have a problem with the fact that Vision and Wanda are together, that Pietro was practically flirting with the news recruit last month, or that Natasha and Bucky most definitely have feelings for eachother. I expect to be treated as a member of this team.’’

‘’You know that you are not like the rest of this team, and you’ve disobeyed director order,’’ he snaps, causing you to stand and slam your hands against the desk of the conference room.

‘’I am not a child anymore Nicholas!,’’ you seethe, ‘’I am not a little girl, you don’t get to tell me what to do outside of official orders.’’

‘’You seem to forget your place, agent. No matter- you’re right. You’re an adult. Do whatever you want to do, and when he,’’ Fury motions to your boyfriend, ‘’Gets you hurt, don’t you dare come to me. You know that not everybody loves Captain America.’’

Fury is storming out of the room then, leaving an air of his daistate and your anger behind him as he does.

Steve waits until he is sure that Fury is at least on the elevator before approaching you, wrapping his arms around you to comfort you, ‘’Honey, are you alright?’’

‘’I need some air,’’ you loosen yourself from his embrace, grabbing your things and making a hasty exit, but not before calling out, ‘’I’ll call you later, Steve.’’

Steve looks at the door after you are gone, not sure if he regrets this decision that the two of you made, this choice to be with eachother even after all of the consequences had been weighed that night by the both of you.

And all he can think about is that this is his fault because of the mistake he made three months ago.

Because if Steve Rogers could go back in time, if he could change anything from the past 70 years…

He never would have dared to kiss Nick Fury’s daughter.

DISCLAIMER- I don’t own any Marvel characters or their fictional worlds, planets, galaxies, cities, etc.

@ashanti-notthesinger @destinio1 @afraiddreamingandloving @airis-paris14 @syreanne @chaneajoyyy @90sinspiredgirl @shemiahsmelanin @zillmonger @skysynclair19 @marvelpotterlove @constantlycravingtheunknown @imaginewhoever @wakanda-inspired @pocmarvelworks @theunsweetenedtruth @dreampovx @adrioola21 @supremethunda @thisiskayesworld @mcusocialimagines @priya212 @kumkaniudaku @airis-paris14 @alexundefined @fonville-designs @dramaqueenamby @mellowjellow6 @oceanscorazon @nerd-lovely @fonville-designs @akimi-youngblood @yoyolovesbucky @fd-writes @areubeingserved-too @areubeingserved @thisbrokencapulet @squeackygee @melidris1 @honeydew-melanin @id-rather-be-an-outsider @andreasworlsboring101

#steve rodgers x reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers reader insert #steve rogers imagines #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #marvel imagine #Marvel Imagine series #reader insert fanfic #reader insert

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redrose-arrow · 5 years

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Frozen Fire

I am posting this now because it adds to the depression support post going around. Obviously, @uncanny-accuracy started the petition for me to (re)write this fic a while back, but I never got around to actually finishing it because I wanted to do it justice. Now, I’ve taken a small fraction of my homework time to dedicate to this fic. I have included as many of the Will-post-warmweed headcanons as I could, thus resulting in a much longer fic than I had originally intended. It’s pretty heavy, at some points, and because I’m not familiar with everyone’s limits, I am including a trigger warning for the following: anxiety, depression, selfharm, and suicide. But also: friendship, love, persistence, and the hope for a better future.

He was wearing himself out, desperate and forlorn.

Halt sat watching from under his cowl, thankfully making use of the shadows casted on his face to hide the worry and concern he knew were glistening in his eyes.

It had been three months since their return from Skandia. Two months since they came home. And in those two months, his apprentice had done nothing but practice, practice, practice, and practice.

Halt sighed and shifted the papers in his lap. He was restless. The boy was pushing himself farther than he liked, but so far he had remained unable to stop him.

Will was now almost buckling under the weight of stones that he was carrying through the obstacle run and Halt grimaced. When the apprentice stumbled, then fell, the grey-bearded mentor jumped up. He recognised the symptoms way before Will even knew they were there.

The panic started like a tightening of the chest, as if the muscles were trying not to let another breath in, but instead die. Then the breath came, shallow, lungs unable to move much against the suddenly heavy ribs. And then Will’s mind became as static, thoughts making no sense, replays of horrors never forgotten. But sinking to the ground, limbs giving up on movement, it was no option. Will was small and so the only way to go was up. Up in a tree, higher and higher and higher, up until the tiniest of branches that were out of reach of the tall bullies from Battleschool. Out of reach of the Skandians.

A sigh escaped the mentor’s lips, but it was one of concern rather than annoyance. He glanced up, but the boy was far gone. Barely visible through the densely grown branches of the top, the deep brown eyes gazed into the woods, seeing nothing but the horrors locked inside his mind.

Halt made himself comfortable underneath the tree that Will had chosen to hide in. It would take some minutes, hours maybe, before his apprentice would be ready to come down. Until such time, he would sit there with him, a token of the support he found himself unable to provide. Just sit there. So far, the older Ranger had found nothing that prevented the unexpected episodes of panic and anxiety. Despite the many sleepless nights, the songs, the talks, and the hugs, the attacks had not grown any less frequent. But he would continue to sit here, under the tree, until such time that his apprentice was ready to come down, and never climb back up again.

>>>---------->

[two days later]

The tall figure moved unseen. Even despite the fact that he was riding a horse, the couple was practically invisible from more than a couple of meters away. As soon as the trees widened, however, and they rode into the clearing, the mysterious rider shook his cowl off. His horse neighed a greeting. Two replies came, but the enthusiastic greeting that the Ranger had grown used to stayed put. Gilan frowned but shrugged it off. His visit had been requested, he was no surprise.

What was a surprise, however, was Halt’s greeting.

“Gilan!” the grey Ranger exclaimed. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

Said Ranger raised an eyebrow, but he had learnt not to ask questions. Except for one.

“Where’s Will?”

Halt’s message had been cryptic, to say the least, but had mentioned ‘Will’ combined with ‘not doing well’. The tall Ranger had half and half expected his young friend to be slowly bleeding to death, but so far the cabin and its surroundings seemed rustic and peaceful.

Halt gestured vaguely.

“He’s out in the woods with Tug. I told him I wasn’t comfortable with him going out so far on his own, but the boy’s too stubborn to listen. Why don’t you put Blaze with Abelard and come inside. I’ll pour you some coffee, then we can talk.”

Halt sighed deeply.

“I’m worried about Will. Ever since we’ve been back he’s been pushing his limits, trying to regain was he supposedly lost in Skandia.”

Gilan was confused.

“Isn’t that good, in some ways? He’s moving on-”

But Halt shook his head.

“He’s sixteen, for God’s sake! He shouldn’t have to move on if he isn’t ready.”

“And I take it he isn’t, even though he thinks he is?”

That did earn a nod as reply.

“It’s all just too fresh. Everything’s a trigger at the moment; if he accidentally cuts himself, if a couple of arrows to make it to the target… he shuts down, starts shaking uncontrollably. Couple of times he seeked refuge up in a tree. He hasn’t slept well, hasn’t eaten well. I can sit with him, talk with him, and he’ll nod and agree but a few minutes later he’s at it again. He keeps on pushing.”

“But now Arald has been receiving reports from up north in the fief, about robbers going around pretending they own the place. He’s asked me to put an end to it, but I just don’t dare leave Will alone. I was hoping you’d keep an eye on him while I’m away.”

The story seemed finished, the request openly on the table. But Gilan had a feeling that he hadn’t been told the full story.

“Anything else?” he asked.

There was a hint of hesitation, before Halt answered. He shook his head.

“No.”

But he corrected himself mere moments later.

“Actually, there is. But I’m not going to tell you, on the grounds that he will know if you know and that will… complicate matters. Just… keep an eye on him, okay?”

Gilan nodded.

“Of course.”

But it wasn’t enough for Halt. He grabbed him by the arm and looked him deep in the eyes. This time, the dark eyes were filled with something even more unfamiliar.

Desperation.

The grip on his arm grew tighter.

“I mean it, Gilan. Please keep an eye on him - at all times. I - and you - we - don’t know what he’ll do to himself.”

>>>---------->

“I’m not hungry.”

Gilan frowned. The weight loss was unmissable.

“When did you last eat?” the Ranger asked, concern evident in his voice. But Will didn’t know. His appetite had just gone, like a switch had been flicked. He shifted in his chair, restless. The bags under his eyes seemed to grow darker.

“When did you last sleep a full night?” the Gilan continued, and Will shrugged.

“I’ve… been busy,” he said, “so can I… can I just go now? I still have some practice-”

But Gilan remembered Halt’s words, he remembered what he’d said about the limits pushing and the breakdowns. He wrapped his arms over each other.

“No.”

The brows came together in frustration.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

Gilan shrugged.

“I just don’t see any necessity as to why you should go out and practice right now. Why don’t we have a night in? We can play games if you like.”

Will opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again. Instead, he stood up, calmly walked to his room.

And firmly shut the door behind him.

Silence remained.

The tall Ranger paced the room, unsure of what to do. He filled the kettle with water for coffee he had no intention of drinking, kept throwing worried looks to the door that refused to open.

He was almost happy when he heard Will’s voice mumbling something from the other room. But it was closely followed by the heavy thump of a body jumping out of bed. The door was slammed again, open this time, and there stood a bewildered Will, woken up from what Gilan assumed had been a terrifying nightmare. He lightly laid his hand on Will’s shoulder, in an attempt to calm him, but his younger friend flinched. Will moved back, fear evident on his face. Then he turned around. The apprentice ran outside and his friend followed. Gilan called his name, again, and again, but to seemingly no avail.

Then suddenly Will shot around. When he talked, he was spitting out the words. The breakdown came out of nowhere.

“Sometimes I miss it, okay?”

When he saw the shock on Gilan’s face, he continued. He snapped.

“That’s right, I miss it. I miss leaves melting on my tongue as a warm feeling spreads out through me. I miss having something to look forward to every night, even if nothing else mattered. I even miss the coldness because it meant warmth was near.”

He pulled at the basket with practicing knives that Gilan recognised from his own apprenticeship, grabbed a handful. And with every ‘miss’, sent another knife flying down towards the specially designed target in one of the trees lining the forest. Moving his arm back, then forward again, the blade between his fingers, Will threw out all the anger, frustration, and anxious that had been building up inside him.

“I miss being just another ordinary face in the crowd.”

Knife.

“I miss not having to flinch every time someone unexpectedly comes near.”

Knife.

“I miss not trembling every second of every waking hour.”

Knife.

“I miss being able to think about anything without my mind twirling back to that place, sending me into the so-manieth panic attack.”

Knife.

“I miss not feeling ashamed.”

Knife. He sniffed.

“But most of all-” He bowed down to get a hold of more knives.

“I. Miss. Not. Having. To. Care.”

Will’s words were reduced to sobs as he rapidly threw the last six knives, each throw emphasising a single word. All knives hit the tree, but only a few of them ended up in the target.

His trembling and shaking were now out of control and he stood swaying on his legs.

When he turned around and Gilan could see him in the pale moonlight, tears were streaming down his face.

“I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment,” he whispered, words half blocked by the lump in his throat. His limbs missed any form of muscle strength and he fell. Thankfully, Gilan was there to help him, and together they sank to the ground.

Softly Gilan pulled back the fabric, revealing the scars he’d noticed before. The fresh scars. Horizontally, from wrist to elbow. Each deeper than the one before.

“Sometimes, when I’m asleep,” Will stammered, “I know that I’m dreaming, but I can’t seem to wake up. I’m usually subconscious enough to grab one of the knives that’s laying on the nightstand. Cutting myself, it… it wakes me up and makes me realise that I’m no longer there - I’m home now. I find it to be easier to live with the physical pain because… at least I know that will heal.”

Gilan ran his fingers over the scars, his touch warm against the cold skin.

“You’re living the life of a Ranger, Will. A life that is filled with happy peaks, heroic events. But it’s also filled with terror, filled with horrific touches. It’s what you chose for, when Arald offered you the chance to go to battleschool, and again, when Duncan offered you a place in Castle Araluen. And it was the right choice. Because you are a Ranger, Will. I know it, Halt knows it, and Crowley knows it too. They didn’t give you that bronze oak leaf for nothing, you know.”

Will swallowed audibly. When he spoke, there was a lump in his throat.

“What if… what if I said that I’ve thought about how much easier everything would be for everyone if I… if I was dead?”

“Don’t speak like that!” Gilan said. The authority of a full-fledged Ranger sounded in his voice.

“I’m not going to tell you to get over your struggles and simply continue your apprenticeship, because you shouldn’t be expected to after all you’ve gone through the past year. You’re allowed time have troubles, you’re allowed to take more time to get somewhere. But don’t you ever be ashamed of yourself, what you’ve gone through or what you’re struggling with!”

“But it’s not Ranger-like!”

Gilan sighed. He rolled up his own sleeve to reveal a long scar, running down from his shoulder to his elbow.

“It’s not always cutting, sometimes it’s deliberately not dodging the cut,” he explained, gentler now. “We’ve all done that.”

“Everyone?”

Gilan chuckled.

“We’re Rangers, Will, not inhuman. No one said it would be easy. But we’re fighters. We fight evil and sometimes, that evil is inside us. We stumble and we fall, but in the end, we stand back up again.”

They sat together, for a few minutes, in complete silence. Gilan had wrapped his cloak around the boy for comfort. It was still early, and the warmth of the day hadn’t quite disappeared yet. A summer breeze was softly blowing. With it, came the sound of voices.

Will looked up, to see four figures approaching them.

His friends.

Gilan winked.

“Why don’t you get a fire going? You still know how to do that, don’t you?”

The boy smiled through his tears. It was a weak smile. But a smile nonetheless and he sniffed but wiped away the tears with the palm of his hand.

His jaw was set as he waited for his friends, gathering a few wooden sticks that would come in handy.

The five wards sat around the fire, enjoying each other’s company and each expressing their support in a different way. George rubbed his back. Jenny hugged. Horace softly bumped against him on multiple occasions. Alyss looked at him, and any time their eyes met, smiled.

When, at one point, their eyes distantly met over fire, Gilan saw it. It was small and faint, but there really was the hint of a twinkle lingering in the brown eyes.

>>>---------->

[a few months later]

His exams had been pushed back as promised. Now he stood in the middle of the woods surrounding the Gathering grounds, ready to finish off his final exam. He’d done well so far. Overall speaking, his arrows and knives had hit the targets. Not always perfectly in the middle, but close enough to eliminate an opponent. He’d had a short moment of panic during his combined strategy and mapping exam, when his assignment had been to find a location for a group of archers in the midst of war. His mind had flashed back to the battle in Skandia. To his archers, Horace and Evanlyn, as they stood behind the frontline but with the arrows flying around them. He remembered the fear, the blood, the muted thump of a body hitting the ground… But he’d breathed slowly, like Halt had practiced with him, and Crowley had muttered soft phrases of support to keep his mind from swirling back to that place. And so line by line the idea had come together. Now all that there was left was getting to the improvised shelter hidden in the bushes underneath Crowley’s latest hiding point.

Will slowly slipped forward, closely following the movements of the shadows. He brushed a twig to the side, but the twig was covered with a layer of snow and now it all came tumbling down on him.

Will froze. He just stood there, eyes squeezed shut. His breathing grew rapid and he shuddered.

Out of sight for the young apprentice, stood the Halt, Crowley, and Gilan. Halt’s face was grim and set. Crowley knew that his friend was itching to move, ready to dive in and save his apprentice. But if he did, if the mentor interfered with his apprentice’s exam, failure was imminent. The rules were strict.

Gilan glanced sideways, seeking the smallest form of confirmation. The tiny movement of Crowley’s head going up and down was enough. He jumped in. Gilan made sure to keep his footsteps quiet and precise, as not to interrupt the flow of the exam, but he knew Will would hear him approaching. He did so from upfront, and slowly reached out to him. He made sure not to startle him. Nothing unexpected, nothing close to the shoulders, nothing from behind him.

“Will?” he asked softly.

Quietly, the apprentice looked up again. When he opened his eyes, Gilan noticed the silent cry for help.

“Take my hand,” the tall Ranger whispered.

Will did.

“Let’s set out a fake trail now, shall we?”

Gilan led his young friend through the woods. There was no particular direction, just walking, without anyone knowing whereto. Instinctively, Will adjusted his movements to those of the shadows around him. Shaking and cold. But he kept moving forward. Until Gilan let go of his hand and Will - without interruption - moved all the way into the designated area.

Crowley clapped his hands. The exam was over.

Halt dove forward, pushed away branches and twigs until he’d found his apprentice. The boy sat hugging his knees, shaking, tears streaming down his face. The Ranger threw his arms around him, muttering words of comfort.

After a few minutes, Crowley joined them. He went down on his knees and laid a hand on the apprentice’s arm. Again, not his shoulder, not from behind him. They had all made sure to know and avoid the worst triggers.

The Commandant took something shiny from his pocket and held it out to him. Will stared at the necklace. Something within him was too ashamed to reach out to it, as if he didn’t deserve it.

Halt squeezed his shoulders and nudged him forward, urging him to accept. At last, a small shaking hand was raised, palm up.

The Commandant handed him the bronze oak leaf. As soon as the metal touched his hand palm, the shaking stopped.

Crowley knew from experience that the now third-year-apprentice had a long road to walk before he would be able to take on everything that the life of a Ranger brought with him.

He saw what Gilan had seen, months earlier. Except this time, it was stronger. The twinkle in the brown eyes.

If you ever feel like Will in ANY sort of way, don’t be afraid to seek contact, reach out. Like Halt, like Gilan, like Crowley and like Horace and Alyss and Jenny and George and Evanlyn - we’re there for you.

#ranger's apprentice #rangers apprentice

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stellar-imagines · 5 years

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SCENARIO REQUEST: ❝overflowing guilt.❞

[ Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia ] [ Characters: Bakugou Katsuki ]

「Everyone feels weak every now and then. It was normal that most tend to hide their weakness and push themselves so that others won’t find out. Bakugou slowly realizes that his lover was one of those people. He saw how hard they were working, until they were ready to pass out from exhaustion. He decides t confront them.」 [ S/O Quirk Details: Able to use black flames that can only be extinguished with iced water. Also has enhanced strength. ]

BAKUGOU KATSUKI

“One more please!”

“Uwaa.....[First Name]-chan is going all out today.” Uraraka muttered, watching you from a distance as you threw punches at the boulder which was at least 5 times your size. You were wearing weights around your wrists and ankles to strengthen your muscles. But from the others’ point of view, it didn’t look like it weigh anything. The skin on your knuckles were starting to get red a little after throwing punches so many times.

You activated your quirk at the last minute, dark flames burning the boulders into nothing. The people who were taking a break from training watched in wonder as the black flames burned everything to the ground with ease. Everyone was given a break, time to catch their breath and relax for a few moments before the real training starts. It lasted only a few minutes but it was enough time for you to replenish your lost energy. Aizawa begrudgingly abandoned his sleeping bag and pulled out a small board which had a paper attached to it. Iida, as usual, yelled out loud for everyone to gather around and you began making your way towards where he was motioning with your friends.

He began to announce the pairs for a one on one spar. After the events in Kamino, he wanted to make sure that his students didn’t lose their motivation. All Might had finally retired and that’s enough reason for him to train his students harder. Aizawa’s eyes trained over to you, watching you closely.

“All Might!”

Even the mention of his name was enough to make you shrivel and avoid eye contact. If only you were a little bit stronger, less stubborn, more cautious and aware of your surroundings, you wouldn’t be feeling this guilt. Being kidnapped was a terrifying thing, it was like standing at the edge of a building with someone threatening to push you down the edge. But seeing everyone’s hero, the number one hero and the symbol of peace break down was much scarier. No apology would be enough to erase the guilt within you.

All Might had come out victorious but at what cost? You were saved but you were nothing but a hero in training while he was the symbol of peace. He had the strength of ten men combined and he risked his life to protect someone like you. With All Might now watching over your training, you felt a little bit disturbed.

“[Last Name] and Bakugou. It’s your turn.”

Bakugou had to be one of the strongest in your class. However you were always able to fight against him well. He always trained hard with his quirk and his skills were top-notch, it was clear that he had full access to his quirk and was able to utilize it. The male never held back even if it was you and it was what you wanted. Now that the match was happening, the rest of your classmates was standing at the sidelines, watching as you and Bakugou fight against each other. You were able to defend yourself from his explosions and counter them.

The ground had patches of black flames here and there that would extinguish on its own soon and there were craters everywhere, result from Bakugou’s explosions. Maybe it was just them but they could see the desperation in your moves. You were moving fast, even a little bit too fast for Bakugou to counter your hits. You were stuck on offense, throwing punches while barely dodging Bakugou’s attacks. By the end of the sparring, you had Bakugou pinned down, one of your hands engulfed in flames. There were bruises and scratches all over Bakugou’s skin and it made you realize that you had gone a little bit too far.

"Sorry, Katsuki. I went overboard.” you offered him a hand. He clicked his tongue and pulled himself up. The male watched as you heaved a sigh, looking at the ground before walking away. This was the strongest he had seen from you and you managed to beat him. He expected you to be happy but instead, the sullen pout on your face said that you weren’t satisfied at all.

“Hey! I demand a rematch! I’m not satisfied with this.” Bakugou raised his fist and created small explosions.

He grumbled underneath his breath when you seemed to have lost all motivation to tease him over his little loss.

The day after, he approached you and dragged you to the gym for a spar. He didn’t see that excitement in your eyes anymore. Normally you would agree to this quickly, seeing this as a chance to be stronger and learn from him. But you only gave him a nod and followed him into the gym. There was no one there and that was how he liked it. As you both began exchanging blows, he realized that you weren’t putting as much effort as you did on the day you defeated him in the combat assignment.

When you threw a punch, he grabbed your wrist, narrowing his eyes.

“Hey, are you even trying?” he questioned. Bakugou couldn’t say that he wasn’t concerned but he was a little frustrated that you viewed him like he pose a threat. Did you see him as a weak person now that you managed to defeat him? He would never accept that.

“Are you looking down on me?! Do you think I’m some pebble on the street now that you’re all high and mighty? You think you’re hot shit now just because you managed to fucking beat me in training!?”

Bakugou got impatient when you kept silent. The grip around your wrist tightened and he clenched his teeth.

“You ignorant little―”

Before he could even finish his sentence, your sniffles reached him and his eyes widened to see you looking down with tears spilling from your eyes.

“You’re right.....I am ignorant.” the sight of your face made his heart drop. He had never seen you look so broken before and he couldn’t believe that he had such hurtful things to you. Guilt quickly consumed him and he cursed under his breath.

“Shit, I didn’t mean that, [First Name]. I’m sorry―”

“Don’t be sorry!” you yelled at him, raising your head to glare at him. It didn’t seem to be that threatening when you had tears in your eyes.

“I took it from everyone, Katsuki! The Symbol of Peace, All Might had to retire because of me! Thanks to me, there will be more villain attacks because they don’t have to fear him anymore. Everyone looked up to him so much.....you did too, Katsuki.....! If I were more careful and stronger, he would still have a few years in him!” you sobbed.

Bakugou couldn’t imagine the amount of guilt and shame you felt after everything that had happened. You were grateful that All Might saved you, but the gratitude wasn’t any old gratitude. It was because you know that All Might gave up so much to save you. He gave up his powers, his secret that he had been trying to protect for so long. It was obvious that All Might couldn’t talk about it, of course he couldn’t, he was the Symbol of Peace and he wants everyone to live in ease.

The man who inspires dozens of people all their life, the person that a lot of people wanted to become time, the man who’s tenacity pushes people like Bakugou and Midoriya to do their absolute best―has fallen due to his actions.

“It’s all my fault that All Might had to retire!”

Bakugou forced you closer, pulling you by the wrist and wrapping his arms around your form, feeling you bury your face into his chest. You were left shocked. You had known Bakugou for a long time and had gone through a lot to have him finally acknowledge you. He was never the one who showed a lot of emotion nor was he the type to take initiative tin situations like this. He felt your arms snake around his body and clutch onto his shirt.

“I’m shit at this. I know I am but you don’t need to feel so guilty about it. Then again, I don’t have any fucking right to tell you how you should feel.” Bakugou started.

“But, there was no way All Might regretted using his powers to save you. If you continue to live to the fullest, it will make him happy. It will make him damn proud to see that the life he had saved is still standing strong on this very day.”

“I’m also damn proud of you, you know.” he grumbled.

Total: 1442 words Published: 22.04.2019

Thank you for requesting! (ㅅ•᎑•) Supposed to be an angsty scenario but it didn’t turn out the way we wanted?? But we did out best, hope you liked it though, anon! ― author Lou

Thank you for requesting! We decided to give S/O a fire-related quirk. It’s unique, with the ability to burn anything and could only be extinguished with ice water. ― author Natsuki

We posted a birthday special for Bakugou! If you’re interested, have a look here!

Please do not mind the grammar mistakes and typos

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faintblueivy · 5 years

Text

Contradiction or Not - Izuocha fanfiction

Um, well, this was actually supposed to be a submission of Izuochaweek (maybe for prompt Strength/Weakness) which is now long over but maybe consider this as a small present from me for the new year.

HAPPY NEW YEAR! EVERYONE!

...

Contradiction.

The word itself represents ''difference".

It means - a combination of statements, ideas, or features which are opposed to one another.

Like the colour 'red'.

It is an emotionally intense colour. Full of life and spontaneity. It is the colour that denotes love, desire and passion. Though, It's noteworthy how at the same time it also signifies war, danger and bloodshed.

A contradiction. A severe one.

Same goes for him and his desire to save people.

His Altruism.

Izuku has always been the one of dash towards the forefront whenever someone was in danger. His smile made people feel safe and Ochako cannot even begin to count the number of times when his presence and and that upward curve of his lips has soothed her heart.

His desire to protect people from harm. Every failure becoming a personal loss forced him to move forward. Never to make the same mistakes again. When she looks up at him, she sees a man worthy of respect and admiration. A man, no, a symbol of hope and peace. But when she looks down at him, she sees a man, vulnerable and in need of love.

A contradiction again.

“Uraraka-san?”

She is pulled out of her musings when his voice rips through her thoughts. The pale walls of the hospital reflect the sunlight, making the room look even brighter. The breeze that blows plays with her hair as her gaze flicks towards him.

“Deku-kun?"

She asks, wondering if there was something he needed. Because...the condition he was in, would not enable him to perform even the menial tasks. It's a sad thing.

“Is everything okay?”

Ochako lets out a rueful smile. There was it again .

In a condition where he cannot even move his own limbs, he is still worrying about her.

Ochako forced out a loud laugh, “Of course! Everything is okay! Don't worry about it.”

Don't worry about anything. Only yourself. Just yourself.

Her eyes fell back on to the half peeled apple and then again on his green shining eyes. She gave him a soft genuine smile.

She can remember the day it happened as clear as today. The helplessness, the desperation, the fear - all clumped into one. Intertwined so fiercely that she could not bring herself to distinguish them separately.

After a long drawn battle with a quirk based terrorist organisation, they had won. He had struggled against several of them, defeating every single one of the villains, taking blow for the sake of his comrades and saving masses of people. At the end, his body was at its limits, ready to give up and collapse.

But the alarm of a bomb sitting in the middle of the city, capable of vaporizing miles and miles of living spurred him into action. Pushing past his every boundary, giving beyond of his best, he carried a live bomb on his back out of the city, as far as he could, supported by her weight defying quirk. He had been able to launch the bomb into space far away from the city, using every bit of his superhuman strength.

Even though the city was out of the range, the blast was massive. The shockwave had shaken up the entire town, the buildings rattled with its intensity.

But Ochako knew it. Just because the city had survived didn't confirm that he had too. She had been frantic, screaming, desperate to save him. They had raced to the obliterated site, only to find him in a mess of broken bones, bruises and blood. Barely tethering to the edge of life. Fortunately, they had been able to save him.

Now he was here, limbs still broken, but alive, slowly healing and she couldn't have been more grateful than that. Media, masses, all of them hailed him as their Hero. Their Savior . He was. Yes, definitely.

His altruism made him stronger. His innate will to save and help people constantly battled his body's limits in a race. And that made him the strongest. His strength beyond what anyone in the world had seen. His green eyes so full of life that even the terrified conscience would glow with happiness at the sight of them. It made him someone on par with All Might. Or maybe even greater.

But at the same time, his altruism was the one which reduced him to the most vulnerable state. When his body couldn't keep up with his need to protect others, it broke. It made him weaker. And it terrified her. To watch him transform himself to the same mess as All Might. The skeletal figure coughing up blood now and then haunted her dreams. And the slightest possibility to imagine him turning into that made her shiver with dread.

Contradiction? Most Probably.

“O-Ochako?”

A warm hand covered in bandages was placed on her thigh. And it took her a moment to process that he had called her by her name. And instantly, she blushed.

“Yes? If you're going to ask if I'm okay then yes, the answers is I am fine! So stop worrying!” She scolded him, trying to mask how pinker her cheeks were and how erratically her heart pounded in her ears.

“O-okay.”

But then a laughter bubbled up in her chest. After all, his altruism is the brightest feature that made him shine. That attracted people to him and that is what made her fall in love with this incredible person. The one who inspired him to be the best Hero she could be.

His altruism might be a contradiction but yes, she loves him. He's flawlessly perfect with all those overlapping, intertwining contradictions.

She floats a small piece of apple in his direction and his good hand catches it with slight difficulty. She leans over that instant because he's occupied and she cannot dare meet his eye. Not now. But she wants him to know that her love is not a contradiction.

It’s a real, undaunted truth even when he's at his strongest or even when he's at his weakest.

A brush of soft lips, a nose tickled by a bush of green hair. A forehead left tingling. A loud squeak is all and little of what follows her thoughts.

...

When I wrote it, I found it deep. And well, I liked the flow. And this ficlet actually reflects my thoughts and their resonation with Ochako's in the recent chapters. I really like the way things are going in manga. HAHA!

A cookie for your thoughts, please?

#Izuocha #izuocha Fanfiction #izuku x ochako #izuku midoriya #ochako uraraka #ochako #izuku #bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #dekuvity #dekuraka #adi writes

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qwertythepopstarian08 · 5 years

Text

JSAB AU Fanfic: So Cold...

Description: Chill invites Peach to stay over at his apartment over a weekend. Things go smoothly, but the blue shape soon realizes exactly how monstrous his “big brother” can be.

Warnings for slight violence, a tiny section of gore, and angst.

Peach belongs to @plaquebeat

When Chill awoke, he was cold. Even surrounded by fluffy blankets and pillows, he could feel a cold breeze hitting him. His tail swayed in slight annoyance, and he huffed, sitting up with a soft chirp.

His eye glowed softly, casting a pale blue light upon his surroundings. The curtains were opened just enough to allow a few beams of moonlight in, and combined with the shine from Chill’s eye, it provided just enough light to see.

A small, confused trill left the catlike shape as he realized that the bed next to his was empty… or at least, emptier than it had been. Peach was a large shape, barely able to fit comfortably in the air mattress that Chill had provided him. He’d arranged the copious amount of blankets like a makeshift nest of sorts, further adding to his ever-growing list of “animalistic” behaviors. Chill noticed that Peach was a relatively light sleeper, having trained himself to wake up at the drop of a dime in case someone tried to attack him.

Lately, Peach had been resting more soundly, though. It seemed that the reformed shape had become used to his surroundings; he had reached a relative sense of security, able to truly relax around Chill and his few other friends.

So naturally, Chill was shocked to see the empty bed. He sat up slowly, so as to avoid making too much noise. There was a small lump in the center of the mattress, much too small and rounded to be Peach’s Annihilate form, yet not quite as big as Peach’s Fresh form.

Chill’s ears flicked backwards, and he frowned a bit, sliding out of bed and walking over to the other side of the room. He kept his steps light, cautious even. His eye dimmed as he crept closer, reaching out for the odd mound.

It couldn’t be a pillow. He’d given Peach three of those, and all three were present, albeit scattered on the floor. And from the shape, the lump wasn’t a tangle of blankets, either. Chill’s heart quickened in pace. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was so afraid, yet as he walked closer, he felt a growing sense of panic.

Shaking his head, he squeezed his eye shut and threw the covers back, bracing himself. Before anything else, the pungent scent of blood hit him. He jerked back, nearly tripping over his own feet in terror. He stumbled, eventually slipping on the blankets and falling back, a ragged scream escaping him as his eye snapped open.

He hit the floor with a loud thump, a resounding crack ringing out as his tail was crushed under his own weight. His expression twisted into one of pain, and he jumped up, hitting the adjacent wall in his frantic scrambling.

His gaze landed on the shape… the body in the bed, and he shook his head frantically, in sheer disbelief. A second, stifled shriek left him as he stared at the corpse, taking in the details.

It appeared to be a small, most likely adolescent-aged blossom. A large chunk of flesh… a bite… was taken out of the flower’s side. Chill assumed that it was once a purplish hue, judging by the color of the blood. But the blossom’s damaged form had gone pale from blood loss, and he couldn’t even hear the beat of their soul, a chilling silence overtaking the room, save for the blue shape’s own frantic breathing.

He locked eyes with the blossom, a rush of bitter familiarity going through him. He backed away, shaking his head. “Oh Tree…” His ears folded down. His eye glowed with a terrified light, and he felt tears welling up. He recognized that blossom.

The corpse was that of the blossom whom he’d once called a sister. He hadn’t spoken to her in a few weeks, but he instantly recognized her by the faint glint of gold that shone between the tufts of her fur, visible even through her blouse. The golden hued gemstone and purple hue instantly clued Chill to who he was looking at, and a single, broken sob left him.

He shakily reached for the blossom’s face, wincing as his paw brushed against her cheek… she was deathly cold, just as he feared. He drew back, shuddering.

“Melanie…” He stifled his cries in his hands, which were hidden by his sleeves. He couldn’t stop shaking. He backed away from the corpse, confused as to why she hadn’t turned to shards or dust yet. “N-no… no…”

Chill let out a startled squeak as he backed up into… something. He froze, a shrill chirp leaving him as he felt a large hand land on his shoulder. He nearly snapped his neck, turning around briskly to lock eyes with the newcomer.

For a moment, he couldn’t recognize the tall, shadowy figure. He jumped back, nearly hitting the deathbed of his sister as he stared up at the shape.

A deep, intense panic filled him, and he let out a shriek, rushing at the tall being. His tail lashed, spikes ripping from the end as he tried to tear into the flesh of the intruder’s exposed stomach. The tall shape sidestepped, their glowing pink eyes narrowing.

Chill felt large, thickly furred paws close around his arm. He kept screaming, thrashing vainly in a pathetic attempt to escape his captor’s hold. He found himself being quickly turned around, his other shoulder being grabbed as the tall shape held him still.

He stared up at the being, shaking, tears rolling down his face.

“W-who are you?” His eye flashed a threatening pink. “Why did you-”

He was cut off as the shape’s eyes flashed brightly, illuminating their features just enough for Chill to discern who it was.

“P-Peach?!” Chill broke into screams again, before Peach pressed his paw against his mouth, stifling the yells. Chill’s eye teared up again, and he gave a muffled whimper, “Mrrf! Whu’s goin’ on?”

Peach spoke in a hushed tone. “I know it looks bad, but you’ve gotta trust me. Chilly.”

Chill’s eye narrowed and he thrashed, trying to get away. Peach’s hold tightened gently, and Chill screeched, managing to elbow him in the side, hard.

Peach winced, but he didn’t relent. Chill started to panic. He bit the larger shape’s hand, making Peach recoil just enough to allow Chill to scream, “Please don’t shatter me!”

That did the trick. Peach instantly let him go, letting out a shocked trill. Chill dashed away as soon as his captor’s grip loosened. The blue shape darted over to the other side of the room, staring at Peach fearfully.

The larger shape winced. “Chilly… I’d never…”

“Tell that to Melanie!” Chill glanced at the dead blossom, before he looked back at Peach. “You killed her! You killed my sister!”

Chill’s eyes were streaming with tears. Peach winced, stepping back. The large shape’s fur bristled, and he let out a small whimper. When he opened his mouth, Chill could see the faint stains of blood, and now that he focused, he could see purplish stains in Peach’s fur and clothes as well.

Chill screamed, “They were right about you… they were all right!” He picked up a glass from the table beside his bed. It nearly cracked in his vice-like grip, before he punted it at Peach. “You’re nothing but a monster!”

The glass shattered against Peach’s arm, cutting into his flesh. He gave a shrieking roar, instinctively thrusting an arm out, harmful energy filling his claws. Chill had only a moment to react as a barrage of hot pink energy blasts shot at him. He squeaked, narrowly ducking under the blasts, which seared the tips of his ears as he dodged. The blasts exploded onto the wall behind him, leaving dark pink burns… burns that still flared with a deadly energy. Chill glanced behind himself, fearful.

“And now you’re gonna shatter me, too…” He shook his head, raising a claw full of blue magic. “Get out.”

Peach whimpered,yanking his arm back. He shook his head, yelling, “Chilly, I didn’t mean-”

“Get. Out.” Chill’s voice dripped with a venomous disdain. The once hopeful light in his eye had hardened, fading into a faint, yet angry pink. “I don’t care where you go. Go back to that dark pit ya crawled out of for all I care. Just leave.”

Peach’s eyes filled with a distinct, betrayed shock. His eyes lit up with fear, and he took a staggering step back. His expression turned harsh, a scowl curving at his fanged maw. “Chill, listen to me. Please.”

Chill hissed, bristling. His tail swayed angrily. “Listen to what? A pathetic excuse as to why ya shattered Mel?!” Chill let out a screech, rushing at Peach, his fist clenched. “Just go away!”

Peach stepped closer. “You don’t understand… I didn’t mean to-“

“What?! Kill her?!”

“She’s not dead.”

Chill’s fist stopped just short of Peach’s jaw. He faltered, his ears flicking back. His eye glimmered with a tentative, incredulous hope. Said hope was quickly eclipsed by his confusion. He blinked owlishly.

“Wh...what?” He looked up, stepping back. Peach stared down at him with a distant, disconnected sort of calmness. Chill could barely even hear the other shape’s breathing, even when his own heartbeat stopped racing in his ears. He blinked, repeating himself, “What did you say?”

Peach’s eyes glowed softly, and he softly pushed Chill aside, walking over to the mattress. He kneeled, gently picking up Melanie and cradling her, staring down at her pale features. After a moment, he sighed, “She’s still alive. Just barely… but alive.”

Chill snarled, “Her heart isn’t beating. What kinda gullible halfwit do ya think I am?!”

Peach ignored him, his hands glowing with a clumsily summoned healing magic. He stared at Mel, his gaze full of a purposeful glow. He whispered, “Her core is still active. Her magic will heal her if she gets some medicine.”

Chill’s tail flicked in confusion. “Why..?” His once broke, his anger falling away in place of bitter, desperate sadness. He whispered, “Why would you leave her like that?” He staggered over, tripping over the glass shards in the floor. “Is she in pain?”

“No. Her body is in hibernation.” Peach shook his head, taking a moment to pick a few glass fragments out of his arm. As soon as the shards were removed, the wounds closed, a soft glow shining in the shape’s eye. The large being muttered, “She was attacked, nearly killed. I saved her.”

Chill growled, “Then why do you have blood on you?” He narrowed his eye, shaking with a tranquil rage. “Her blood.”

Peach placed Mel back onto the mattress, standing. “She would’ve bled out if I hadn’t carried her home. I was going to get some medicine so I could heal her before you got back, but…” He trailed off, letting out a bitter chuckle. “I guess that plan went south…”

Chill went silent, glancing at Melanie again. Even now that he knew she was alive, now that she wasn’t sitting in a pool of her own blood, she still looked… dead. Her petals were cracked and pale. Her face was pallid, as if all the life and energy had been drained right out of her. If he didn’t know better, he’d say that Peach was insane, that keeping Mel alive now was just prolonging her pain, and that she’d surely shatter soon.

And yet… there was a small part of him… that was willing to give Peach a second chance. They’d come this far. Why would Peach intentionally harm a kid? Why would he give him false hope?

“Is it true?” Chill breathed, “You we’re trying to help..?”

Peach nodded. “I couldn’t let her die… I’m sorry… I should’ve gone about it better, but…”

Chill shook his head, giving a shaky exhale. “O-okay….” He wiped tears from his eyes, looking up at Peach. “I believe you… but if you try… if you try anything to hurt Mel or anyone else…” He pointed towards the door. “Out.”

Peach flinched, before he nodded. “I should’ve expected as much…” He awkwardly fidgeted, playing with his shark tooth necklace. His fur seemed a bit less fluffy, obviously a side effect of his stress. “You’re not willing to trust me… just like everyone else.” His pastel hue flickered into a deeper, intense magenta. His eyes narrowed, filling with despair. “We’re back to square one, huh?”

Chill winced. “Hey… I didn’t mean…” He trailed off, unsure of what to say. He was they reason Peach had come this far. He was the reason Peach was here and not locked away somewhere. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from being… afraid. He shifted so that Melanie could lean against his shoulder, softly running his claws through her hair. “I’m sorry. I want to trust you, but…”

“I’m a monster. For all you know, this could be a trick.” Peach’s voice dropped back to its old, snarling tone. He looked away, hissing. “I could hurt you. Just a few months ago, I wanted nothing more than to crush you into shards. You have every right to be scared of me.”

Abruptly, Chill hugged him, shaking. Peach jolted, wincing as he heard Chill’s quivering breaths. Chill whispered, “You’re… you’re right.” He clung to Peach, quaking like a leaf. He was much smaller than the other shape, nearly being engulfed in Peach’s fur. His voice was muffled, but the beastly shape could hear the beginnings of a sob in his voice. “But… I made a promise… and I… and I won’t b-break it… not yet. Not ever.”

Peach’s eyes sparkled, and he inched back, pushing Chill away. He locked eyes with him, speaking in a hissing, shushed tone. “I could kill you without a thought.”

“I know. But I said I’d give you a chance.”

“I could hurt you, Chill. I have hurt you.” Peach whispered, “I’m dangerous.”

Chill’s eyes dimmed, and he subconsciously held his stomach, feeling the phantom ache of the scar that Peach had left from when he’d raked his claws across his chest… when they first met. Chill shook his head, dismissing the thought. That was over a year ago. Peach was practically a brother to him now. It had been a misunderstanding, and it would never happen again. He sighed, smiling.

“One last chance, okay..?” Chill felt tears welling up in his eye. He hugged Peach again. “We’re back to ground zero. If you’re still a good person… prove it.”

He felt Peach suddenly tense. For a moment, he thought he’d said something wrong. In the corner of his eye, toxic pink… faded into pastel.

#jsab #just shapes and beats #peach #CHILL OUT AU #chill #nexus #blixer #Melanie #Oh Look a Story Thing #jsab au #oops all angst

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thinkingaboutyoungroyals · 6 years

Text

On That Swing Set

(Also available to read on AO3.)

The chains holding the swing creaked with each kick of his legs. He moved in a gentle rhythm, one that he was used to. Although he had a taste of the exhilarating feeling of swinging higher, he still wasn’t comfortable attempting it on his own. Visions of flying off the swing and landing on his face was still a fear of his.

Nonetheless, Cyrus felt his anxiety calm with each swing. His heart still felt heavy but it was manageable. Such was the healing power of swings.

He had spent an entire afternoon at the Spoon watching Jonah and Andi make goo-goo eyes at each other. Although, normally, he would probably go “aww”, Cyrus had come to the point where he could no longer ignore the stab in his heart each time Jonah looked at Andi like she was the moon and stars combined. Sometimes, he wondered if Andi forgot that he had feelings for Jonah too.

Anyway, when Buffy decided she had enough of “JanDi” and left to go home, Cyrus had followed but he didn’t want to go home yet. His feet took him to the swings and he had been there, swinging in various speed intervals in the last hour.

“Hey, Underdog.”

Digging his heels into the ground to pause his movement, Cyrus flashed the familiar newcomer a smile.

“Not-so-scary basketball guy,” he greeted, simply.

TJ chuckled as he settled on the swing beside Cyrus. “Why is my nickname so long?” he asked.

Cyrus shrugged and began to swing again. “It suits you.”

TJ seemed to accept that with a nod and began to swing, lightly. “So, what are you doing here all alone?”

“Swinging my insecurities away,” Cyrus answered before his own words dawned on him.

It was too late. TJ had stopped swinging and turned to him with concern. “You wanna talk? I’ll listen.”

Cyrus slowed his swinging, setting a gentle pace as he stared at the ground, silent. TJ didn’t force him to talk, simply waiting for Cyrus to talk first. He appreciated that since he wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it.

But, TJ was a good friend. He would listen to him, right? Cyrus knew he could trust TJ. He had been nothing but a supportive friend to him all these months. The jock always listened to him ramble about one thing or another all the time with no complaints. He would bring him chocolate chocolate chip muffins when he knew Cyrus was down. And, sometimes, when Andi and Jonah were off doing their thing and Buffy was unavailable, he would let him Cyrus hang out at the Gym with the kids while he worked.

TJ had always been understanding of Cyrus’ “stuff”.

“I… I have a secret…” he began, slowly. “And… I don’t want you to think of me, differently.”

He snuck a glance at TJ. The jock flashed him a gentle smile. “I won’t think differently of you, Underdog. I promise.”

Cyrus swallowed the lump in his throat as his anxiety began to build up again, but he willed himself to try and calm down. He needed to at least say the words. It just occurred to him that he never really said them out loud before, not even to Buffy or Andi.

Cyrus swallowed again before blurting it out.

“I’m gay.”

And just like that, it felt like a weight off his shoulders, a thorn removed from his side. He could breathe.

All these months, he had been drowning in the overwhelming feelings of finding out that he wasn’t straight, that he had a crush on his best friend's boyfriend, that he was gay.

And now, some of that weight was gone. It was both terrifying and exhilarating.

Beside him, TJ had gone silent, his face unreadable as he stared at Cyrus.

The feelings of anxiety bubbled in his stomach again. But, then, TJ smiled.

“I don’t think of you differently,” he stated. “There is nothing wrong with you, Cyrus.”

He echoed Cyrus’ own words from so long ago. He remembered them.

Cyrus’ heart pooled with warmth and his anxiety slowly dissipated. TJ didn’t think differently of him. He accepted Cyrus. Anxious, accident-prone, gay Cyrus.

“Thank you, TJ,” he said, gratefully. “It means a lot to hear you say that.”

“Anytime, Underdog.”

TJ then looked at the ground, suddenly serious. He seemed to be contemplating something.

“Well, I have a secret too. Do you want to hear it?”

Cyrus’ eyes widened in surprise, but nonetheless, nodded. TJ was trusting him with another secret and he wouldn’t be a very good friend if he wouldn’t even hear him out. Besides, he was a little curious.

TJ scrunched his brows before taking a deep breath and turning his head to Cyrus. Their eyes met.

“I’m gay, too.”

Letting out an involuntary gasp, Cyrus could only stare back in shock at TJ.

TJ. Jock. Basketball team captain. One of the most masculine guys he knew. Was gay.

Cyrus was well-aware how stereotypically gay he tended to act so TJ... To know that TJ was just like him… it was definitely a surprise.

“I think… I’ve known for a while…” TJ continued, looking away from Cyrus now and looking off in the distance. “That was probably why I acted like such a jerk for a while and why I… was in denial about my dyscalculia.” He let out a sarcastic chuckle. “I was already… not normal… and a learning disability on top of that? I know that’s not an excuse for acting like a jerk, but… I was… so confused about everything. I felt… different.”

“You’re not different, TJ,” Cyrus said, as comfortingly as he could as he echoed Buffy’s words. “You’re still you. And… I’m still me. We’re still us.”

TJ turned to him with a small smile. “And I thought I was supposed to comfort you. But here you are, again, helping me, as always. You’re really something special, Underdog.”

Blushing, Cyrus laughed. “We help each other. I guess that’s what makes us great friends.”

TJ’s smile widened and he nodded. “Are you feeling better?”

“A little. It’s nice to that someone else is… the same as me.”

“Me too. I’m glad it’s you.” He cleared his throat. “So was that what you were worried about? That I wouldn’t accept you?”

Another lump formed in Cyrus’ throat. “Partly.”

He began to swing a little, not quite as high but just enough for the movement to soothe his nerves. He had already told TJ his biggest secret. He might as well go all out.

“You see… there’s this guy I like,” he began, eyes on the ground in front of him. “I’ve liked him for a while now. He’s so handsome and he has the cutest smile with the cutest dimples. Whenever I see him, I can’t help but feel all happy, like the world is just… bathed in sunlight. Oh god, that sounded so cheesy.” Cyrus let out a chuckle before sighing. “But… he doesn’t like me back.”

“How… How do you know? Maybe if you tell him, he might feel the same way.”

Cyrus released a humorless laugh, turning to the jock. TJ had stopped swinging and was watching him, carefully.

Cyrus could feel his lip trembling. “I like Jonah… but Jonah is with Andi.”

A tear fell from his eye. Surprised, he lifted a hand to wipe it away. He didn’t even realize that he had started crying. And just like that, more tears followed.

“S-Sorry,” he apologized to TJ as he wiped them away. “I… I don’t know why I’m suddenly crying. I mean… I knew from the very beginning that he would never like me back. That he was too focused on Andi to even notice me… But… It still hurts…”

A creak from the other swing reached his ears and through his tears, he saw TJ’s silhouette in front of him. He looked up just as the other boy crouched in front of him, so he was now looking down at TJ.

The jock reached up and wiped the rest of the tears away from Cyrus’ cheek, offering him a gentle smile.

“It’s okay,” he said, softly. “You’re allowed to cry.”

Sniffling, Cyrus willed himself to stop crying. Only because he felt really embarrassed crying over a boy in front of someone else.

“S-Sorry,” he said again.

TJ shook his head. “Don’t be, okay?” He wiped away the last of Cyrus’ tears before resting his hands on his knees. “You’re allowed to be upset if the guy you like wants to be with someone else. It’s painful for now, but… you’ll heal. I promise.”

Forcing a smile, Cyrus nodded before tilting his head to the side. “You sound like you’re talking from experience.”

At that, TJ laughed, softly as he stood up. “Yeah… I guess, in a way, I am.”

He made his way back to his swing and began to move, kicking his legs lightly in the air.

“You like someone?” Cyrus couldn’t help but ask.

TJ’s face appeared to fall and Cyrus realized how prying he sounded and was about to apologize when the jock stopped swinging. He turned to Cyrus and nodded, solemnly.

“I do,” he admitted.

“Does he know? Or have you told him?”

TJ shook his head. “No. And… I don’t think it’s the right time to tell him about my feelings either. He’s… not ready for me yet.”

Confused, Cyrus furrowed his eyebrows. “What do you mean by that?”

The other boy sighed. “He… likes this other guy. And he’s still really hung up on him and… I don’t think I have a chance. At least, not at the moment.”

“I’m sorry, TJ.” Cyrus reached out and patted the older’s boys knee. “If he can’t see how great of a guy you are, it’s his loss.”

Placing his hand on top of Cyrus’ on his knee, TJ managed a small smile. “It’s okay.” He smiled. “Maybe someday, I’ll be able to tell him. And I hope, by that time, he’ll give me a chance.”

“You’re a really great guy, TJ, and if he can’t see that and give you a chance, then it’s his loss.”

Laughing, he squeezed Cyrus’ and. “And Jonah is blind for not seeing an amazing guy like you. It’s also his loss.”

Standing up and walking in front of Cyrus again, the jock held out his hand.

“You want to get some ice cream? My treat.”

TJ had always said that he wasn’t the best when it came to expressing his feelings, but he was getting better at them. He had managed to calm Cyrus down, comforted him by telling him his own secret. They had shared their woes about love with each other and because of that, Cyrus believed that their bond had just strengthened even more, right there on the swing set where they had their first real conversation.

He couldn’t imagine his life without TJ in it anymore. And for that, he was grateful.

Grinning, Cyrus tilted his head in an affirmative. “It’s a date,” he piped, taking TJ’s hand.

For a second there, he could have sworn TJ’s lip twitched and his cheeks turn pink. But, before he could take a closer inspection, TJ was already pulling him away, presumably to lead him to the ice cream parlor and Cyrus had no choice but to follow.

Not once did TJ let go of his hand the entire way.

#tyrus #tyrusdrabble

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