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sobeautifullyobsessed · 14 days

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A Khan By Any Other Name

a prequel to Star Trek: Into Darkness

mystery, suspense, danger ~ romance & NSFW material to follow

summary: Seraphina DiPietro is wise in the ways of the world; she has to be, as she travels the California coast as a torch singer in pubs, bars, and nightclubs. She knows how to take care of herself and stay out of trouble--most of the time. When trouble comes, it's usually because she lets her kind heart overrule her common sense. Stopping to check on a handsome stranger stranded roadside in the Mojave Desert, her curiousity is piqued as much by his classic, mint-looking Mustang, as by its driver--a tall, dark, mysterious drink of water, whom she quickly learns is so much more than he appears.

characters: Khan Noonien Singh (aka: John Harrison), Seraphina DiPietro (OC)

words: 1.9k

Chapter Two

“Drop it now,” he repeated, with the sure authority of a man accustomed to having his orders obeyed, “And I promise I will not hurt you.”

Despite his iron grip, Seraphina struggled to pull her arm away, hissing through teeth gritted against the pain, “Won’t hurt me? You’re hurting me now.”

Harrison’s hold on her arm loosened some; she was still tightly caught, but the pressure of his grasp, the pain, had receded a fair bit—although she knew she’d find dark, finger-shaped bruises there in short order. If she even lived that long. “Forgive me,” he told her, his voice low and even, “I’d forgotten how fragile your bones can be.”

What an odd thing to say, she thought, straining for release from his clutch and realizing it was all too impossible; she was no match for his strength, and even if she could manage to trigger the mace, she had no sure way to aim it properly. She felt desperate, frightened tears well up in her eyes, but squeezed her eyes shut against them—for she would not give her assailant the satisfaction of her despair, nor would she beg for mercy.

He must’ve read that quiet resignation on her face, for he tugged her fist close and covered it with his free hand, urging her to see reason, “You cannot win this struggle, Seraphina. Your resistance is futile; surely you understand this?” Harrison’s voice was silk persuasion, rich and dark and seductive—at complete odds with the very real threat he presented. “I could easily break your wrist and prize your little weapon from your fingers—but I honestly have no desire to hurt you. Just let it go.” And then, to her great surprise, he added, “Please.”

Blinking through the tears that fell against her will, tears that betrayed weakness when she wanted to be strong, Seraphina met his eyes again. His beautiful, deadly eyes—and saw in them an unexpected sincerity that matched his gentle “please”. She bowed her head and opened her fist, leaving her key and the can of mace to fall onto the passenger seat.

“There—that wasn’t so difficult after all, was it?” Why was his voice so soothing? Fear of what he might do to her next coursed through her veins, yet Seraphina thought she could easily crumple to the ground, curl up into a fetal ball, and let his voice see her into untroubled darkness. The heat, the fear, the adrenaline, the struggle—all of it had sapped her of the will to face whatever might come next. She’d always believed it wasn’t in her nature to fall apart so quickly, but she felt that way now, all the same.

True to his word, Harrison released her arm, but Seraphina remained in place, braced against the passenger side door, shaking in the aftermath and considering her very limited options. She might try to make it to her hovercraft, but the stranger now held her key; and even if she had the strength to run and the speed to outpace him, to flee into the desert at her back would be equally as brutal as anything he might do to her. She'd have to make her stand right here, then--and though she was no match for his size and strength, she knew enough to leave him hurting before he took her down for good.

Taking stock of her condition--mentally preparing to fight him off as best she could--Seraphina flexed her left wrist carefully, wincing as she explored her tender forearm with cautious fingers. Nothing broken at least, though she felt a bone-deep ache; but it would not be enough to hamper any effort to defend herself.

Strangely, Harrison was ignoring her at the moment; having retrieved her keychain, he had torn the can of mace free with no effort, before hurtling it carelessly into the desert. Seraphina had a vivid image of her own broken, half-naked body flung just as easily and left upon the sand for carrion-eaters to feast upon. She shoved the idea down deep, knowing such fear would only cripple her--and was immediately dumbfounded when he held the key out to her.

"Did I not say I have no wish to harm you?" Harrison's eyes bored into her own, searching for calm and reasoned understanding. "In spite of how it appears, we are equally vulnerable in this place and situation. We must find a way to trust one another. " Sera only continued to regard him warily. "Take this," he insisted, "If I judge you correctly, simple concern for a traveler in need motivated you to stop. And in keeping with your nature, I believe that you will not deny me the help that I need."

Sera studied his face, looking for signs of deception, skittish to trust him but accepting his peace offering nevertheless. "You lied," she said, defiant yet holding her anger at bay, "This car isn't yours..."

Harrison nodded, his full lips pressed together against a small placid smile, "I never claimed that it was..."

"It's stolen," she fumed, irritated with herself for allowing him to so easily mislead her when her first instinct had been correct after all.

"An act of desperation, I assure you..."

"Just as this was," she exclaimed, extending her bruised forearm to him, "I have to wonder what happens to people who truly stand in your way, Mr. Harrison. "

Unruffled by her outburst, Harrison closed his eyes a moment and breathed deeply. When he looked to her again, he was the picture of patience. "I swear I have no desire to cause you--or anyone else--harm. But you must understand, I am in dire straits and as we linger here, my family is in imminent danger." He paused, weighing the effect of his words upon her. "Such a thing will make a man act beyond the measures of polite society."

Seraphina narrowed her eyes, skeptical of his revelation of a family, but suspending her disbelief for the moment, "How then? What sort of danger is your family in?"

"Their very lives hang in the balance, threatened by a powerful man who seeks to manipulate me into working for him." Embers of hate flashed in his eyes, and he gave a bitter huff as he added, "Forcing me to work toward the most nefarious of purposes."

Sera shook her head, clearing the double vision that had crept up on her; she cupped a trembling hand against her forehead, which came away slick with perspiration. It was the heat getting to her, obviously. She felt parched, although the thought of putting anything into her roiling stomach left her feeling even more nauseous, and her head was pounding in time with her racing pulse. She needed to get out of the goddamn heat before she collapsed from heat exhaustion--while the man before her looked completely unaffected by the desert climate. "And...and I suppose this mysterious man is so powerful that you can't seek help from the proper authorities?" Sera leaned all her weight against the car door, wondering if Harrison had noticed her current state of distress.

If he did, he gave no sign of it, a mix of pain and rancor coloring his strikingly handsome features. "So powerful that it would be in your best interest to remain ignorant as to his identity and position." Anticipating her next question, he warned her, "Do not ask--for I cannot reveal that information."

Though stymied by his vague replies--and sensing a much more complicated tale behind what he'd already admitted to--Sera read blunt honesty in his voice and body language. And the fact that he had willingly returned her key while asking for--rather than demanding--her help, seemed a testament to some underlying truth. She realized that she likely had only a few more minutes until she passed out, leaving her completely at Harrison's mercy. "Then how...how did you end up here, stranded in the Mojave," Sera asked, panting softly, "How does any of this help your family?"

He was watching her closely now, so that he had to aware that she was fading fast. "That is a rather long and complicated tale, Seraphina." His voice had again taken on a lulling pitch. "One which I believe would outlast your capacity to remain on your feet."

She held on to the window frame, white-knuckled but determined to remain upright long enough to learn his hidden agenda. "I'm fine...I...I'm just a little light-headed..."

"Step aside now, Seraphina." Again, that tone of a man whose orders were obeyed without question. "You have little time left before you lose consciousness." His hand was already on the door handle, and she stumbled back in time for him to swing the door open.

Then he was looming over her, a tall, cooling shadow, reaching out to brace her. His touch this time was firm, while surprisingly gentle. "We need to get you out of this heat." Unexpected concern in is stunning eyes, calming concern in his voice. The man was a beautiful enigma.

"No...please...tell me. If...if you want me to trust you..." Her world was darkening around the edges, narrowing so that only his face remained in her field of vision. "If you want me to help...I need...I need to know..." Seraphina felt herself going, and as her consciousness fled, so did her fear and curiousity; only one need remained. She sobbed against him as he scooped her up into his arms, "But you promised...you promised not to hurt me again..." Her eyes fluttered shut as she slipped away from awareness.

Harrison strode swiftly towards her hovercraft, cradling her as softly as he could, knowing that the cool, dark interior was the quickest remedy at hand for what ailed her. "Oh, pretty little Seraphina," he murmured, brushing his lips against her dampened hair, inhaling the sweet scent of jasmine and honey, relishing how light and easy she felt in his arms. "Hurting you is the least likely thing I have planned."

(to be continued)

If you enjoyed this, please reblog ~ it's the only way others can see this work.💟

tagging: @icytrickster17 @ironstrange1991 @strangelockd @groovy-lady @aphroditesdilemma @stewardofningishzida @battledress @mousedetective @dearmrsstephenstrange @lorelei-lee @mckiwi @shinebrightlikeafanbase @cumberbatchitis @doctorhelm @strangeflashholmes221 @prulock @stargirl-designs @hajile10 @dancingmushu @iloveavengersblog @fireonmybones @osugahunnyicedtea @brayleigh14

(There were a few more blogs that I tried to tag based on the response to chapter one, but tumblr's messed up url search function kept telling me 'no blog found'🤨)

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shy-violet-soul · 2 years

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Heroes Make Me Tired

Summary: I’m just trying to do my job - keep my team safe, keep my bosses out of court…and myself out of the looney bin. One of those is too tall an order.

Characters: a very, very tired HR person (female), and assorted Avengers. Mentions of other fandoms (gold star to those that find them!)

Warning: Avenger shenanigans, and possible bad language words.

Word Count: 2,700-ish

A/N: This piece of ridiculousness is 100% inspired by and written for @thesassywallflower. As someone who’s worked in HR for over 20 years, and has dealt with more than my share of ridiculousness, I can personally attest to the fact that the struggle is REAL.

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It’s only 7:45am, and I can already feel my blood pressure rising.

I cricked my neck to keep my phone against my ear as I juggled my laptop bag, security access card, and glasses. Finally swiping the card against the access plate, I jammed my elbow against my floor button and sagged against the wall as my coworker screeched out the latest calamity.

“...and now they want us to pay for a new set of tires. An entire set - four freaking tires - AGAIN!”

“No. Absolutely not. I don’t care what monster did it this time. You go back and tell them that the benefits handbook clearly states that damages to personal items in the course of performing your job duties are only eligible to be reimbursed up to an annual maximum of $1,000.00. Total. Not each incident. TOTAL. They used all of that up with that thing, that monster in Oregon? With the pennies?”

Julia’s sigh groaned through my ear. “A Nachzehrer.”

I closed my eyes, dragging in a deep breath. “Whatever. You know what? I don’t even care. If they would have taken the stupid company car, just like everyone else, they wouldn’t have to stress so much about their precious Impala. Tell ‘em ‘no’.”

“Will do. You on your way upstairs to your 8:00am?”

“Yeah.”

I could feel Julia’s shudder from here. “I’ll be all ears when you get back. The meetings with that crew are always…entertaining.”

The elevator doors opened as I snorted my agreement. I paused to collect myself in the entryway, silencing my phone before tossing it in the bag and pushing my glasses up my nose.

Okay. You’ve got this. Don’t let them rattle you. Stay calm, stick to your talking points. Think positively - maybe they’ll be actually sorry this time.

So buoyed, I strode into the hall and towards the waiting conference room.

Avengers division employee Agent Natasha Romanov stood waiting for me, her face as fathomless as usual. The smile I offered her faltered as she extended a Starbucks drink in my direction. The smell of chai spices wafted upward. If this troublemaker came bearing gifts, that only meant one thing. This meeting was going to suck.

I grasped the venti-sized life saver, took an eye-watering gulp, and silently cursed the complete and utter imbecilic moron who proposed gathering all superhero, crime fighting, general population saving teams under one umbrella, which led to the creation of my department.

Human Resources to the Heroes.

It sounded so rewarding on LinkedIn. I couldn’t believe it when I made it through the first round of interviews. Meeting with the liaisons for the major players was nerve-wracking to say the least. Nick Fury is everything he’s rumored to be. Bruce Wayne is actually a little bit boring. And Mr. Singer is my favorite. Not that I would ever tell him. And truly, the job is rewarding…

But sweet baby Moses in a basket, some of these people have lost their damn minds.

I didn’t blink at the assembly before me as I entered the conference room, smiling professionally as I sat down. Sam Wilson practically radiated frustration where he sat with his forehead in his hand. I love Sam. He knows the way to an HR person’s heart - consistency and documentation. God bless the Army.

And then there were these three: Clint Barton. James B. Barnes. And Steven f-ing Grant Rogers.

Steri-strips ribbed across the bottom right of Barton’s forehead, I fervently hoped holding what’s left of his brains in. Barnes sat with his arms crossed over his chest, looking somewhere between nonchalant and put-upon. Rogers looked like he’d been caught stealing from the cookie jar.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” I dug out my legal pad, two pens, and a file folder.

“Good morning,” Sam and Steve replied. From Barnes, I got a chin lift. Everyone’s gaze turned to Barton. The famed archer sat reclined in his chair, head resting against the high back.

“Mr. Barton.” Nothing. My blood pressure ticked up a notch. “Mr. Barton,” with a little more volume, and a perfectly natural, not at all fake and threatening smile. Nothing.

Barnes banged on the table in front of the man, his metal fist clanging against the surface. Barton and I both jumped, my pen flipping out of my hand and flying across the table.

“Turn your fucking hearing aids on,” Barnes barked, pointing at his own ear when Clint turned confused eyes towards him. Sam sighed , eyes closing, as Steve slid my pen back to me.

“Sorry about that.”

I nodded my thanks, then folded my hands over my notepad once I had all their attention.

“So. Mr. Barton.” The file folder whispered as I flipped it open. “According to this incident report, it looks like you violated the same policies. Again.”

He scratched his head thoughtfully. “Which ones this time?”

My left eye wanted to twitch so bad. “Accessing secured areas without authorization, Employee right to privacy, and Sleeping while on duty.”

“Firefighters sleep on duty and no one gives them shit,” he groused. Twitch.

“Mr. Barton, we’ve discussed this. Firefighters are on duty overnight. This was at 1:13pm on Tuesday.”

“We do the life saving thing, too, you know!”

“It was your first day back from vacation!” I exclaimed, then sucked in a breath, trying to settle down. “All you were required to do that day was visit the armory and assess your equipment. And I’m not going to engage in a back and forth with you on that. Now - you’ve been counseled on the following occasions about your lack of compliance in these areas.” He glared at the list of dates I slid across the table to him. “With these additional incidents, we are officially placing you on a Performance Improvement Plan-”

“Hey! What about him?” he thumbed in the Sergeant’s direction. “He’s the one who shot me!”

This time, a muscle in my jaw tic’d.

“And I will address that with him in a moment. Right now, I’m going to ask you to review this document. Please sign and date it where indicated, and you can add any comments in the space below.” I chose to ignore the mutterings that followed as I fixed my gaze on Barnes.

“Sergeant.”

“Warden.” Twitch. Tic.

“You have also been counseled on the discharge of firearms on premises not in the course of your job duties.”

He rolled his eyes so hard, I’m sure he saw the inside of his skull.

“I thought it was an intruder!”

Reserve your chaos. Reserve your chaos, I chanted, pulling in another very deep breath. Calmly, I opened the folder again and withdrew a stapled packet.

“Sergeant Barnes. According to this file, your hearing is approximately 27% more acute than an average male of the same age, and your sense of smell is approximately 14% more sensitive-”

“Yeah, like a dog,” Sam murmured under his breath, earning a reproachful look from Steve.

“Is that from my medical file? What about the hippie law?”

I blinked at the righteous indignation on his face before the dots connected. “That’s HIPAA, not hippie. And as HR, I’m entitled to have access to the personal health information that demonstrates your ability to do your job.”

“Whatever. What’s your point?”

“My point, Sergeant, is that your physical abilities demonstrate that you did, in fact, know it was Mr. Barton. No intrusion alarms had been activated - I checked!” I cut off his budding interjection. “There’s no other way to interpret the evidence but that you knowingly chose to violate this policy and shoot him.”

“I don’t see what the big deal is. They were rubber bullets.” Barnes flopped back in his seat like a scolded kid, arms crossing sullenly over his chest. While from my seat, shock at the ridiculousness of his response nearly had my eyeballs falling from my skull.

“Seriously. You don’t see the big deal that you shot your coworker, injuring him, causing the ceiling tiles to break and him to fall through said ceiling, causing more injury?” I barely tracked Steve’s wince as my volume increased with each word, too focused on maintaining my slippery grip on sanity.

“Hey! At least they weren’t real bullets. He’s the one who told me to switch to the rubber ones.” With zero hesitation, he threw Steve under the bus. Friends till the end of the line, my ass.

Whatever Steve saw on my face…I literally watched him try to choose between defensiveness, betrayal, groveling, and ‘kill me now’, all at the same time.

“That might not be entirely accurate,” he stumbled out. Bucky turned on him like a top.

“‘Not entirely accurate’? You bought me the damn box! You even said, and I quote, ‘you don’t want to technically,” he air quoted, “violate the policy again ‘cuz that HR broad will be pissed and get all up my ass’!”

I heard a sound that I was fairly convinced was one of my blood vessels bursting. Or a molar cracking. But no, it was just Barton cackling as he scribbled his signature on his stupid PIP. Sam was trying to clandestinely scoot himself as far away from the potential strike zone as possible. Bucky looked like Steve was single handedly responsible for everything up to and including global warming. And the look on Steve’s face? Apparently he’d finally picked an emotion, settling on ‘whattya gonna do about it’ defensiveness.

My pen clicking sounded like the pin being pulled from a grenade. Fire in the hole, bastard.

“Tell me something, Captain. When the battlefield on which you’re engaging the enemy is rugged terrain, who has your six?” Any other normal person wouldn’t have caught the flick of his gaze towards the Sergeant. Good thing I’m not normal. What HR pro is? “Because you need a trained sniper watching your back. Correct?”

“Affirmative.”

“And when the unfriendlies are aerial, who’s your six then?”

“That would be me,” Sam carefully interjected. I didn’t so much as blink my straining eyelids as I stared down the Captain.

“Because having someone with countless hours of training and operational experience is critical. Isn’t that right? Captain?”

Barnes’ spidey-sense must have finally realized how perilously close to death they all were as he unfolded his arms and straightened in his seat. Rogers, apparently, was dumber than I gave him credit for.

“I think the answer’s pretty obvious. Even for a civilian.”

The sag of Barnes’ shoulders at the unmitigated, galling sass of his bestie had the weariness of decades behind it. The weariness of a bestie who routinely chose death as his destiny. But that’s fine.

Captain Rogers knew not with whom he fucked.

“And when you’re not on the battlefield, who has your six?”

Captain Sass-pants blinked at me.

“Ma’am?”

Slowly putting my pen down, I got to my feet with blessedly unusual grace. “Suppose that a recruit in the new agent training class alleged that you stole funds from the organization?”

If Barton snorted any harder, his sinuses were going to hit the table. Rogers looked horrified. Saint Sam smirked.

“I would NEVER-” came the barking indignation.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t. But let’s say she did. Who has your six? Or, let’s say Wilson here says he hasn’t been compensated at the appropriate overtime calculation for the last year? OR,” I cut off the Captain before he could think about interjecting, “what if the Rumlow family sued you, stating that former S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Rumlow had been harassed during his tenure, leading to emotional distress that caused his change in philosophy. Who’s got your six, then?”

“What, harassed him into those ugly-ass scars?” Barton chortled out.

“Shut up, bird brain!” Barnes hissed at him, scooting both of their chairs away from Steve. I would have laughed, but I was too busy realizing that the whole ‘vision going up in a red haze’ thing was real.

“I have a Bachelor of Science in Psychology, a Master’s degree in Organizational Behavior. I have certifications in benefits administration, training and development, and change management. I’m required to do hundreds of hours of continuing education every year. And I have over fifteen years of experience in Human Resources. Technically speaking, I have more education and operational experience than Torres. A team member you trust your life with.”

Now, Steve was squirming. That’s right, squirm, you star-spangled ass! But I wasn’t done yet.

“Oh, and then there’s the matter of all the agencies. The Department of Labor, OSHA, the Wage & Hour Division, the Employee Benefits Security Administration, the Office of Workers Compensation Programs, the Equal Opportunity Employment Commission. And those are just the big ones. Then there’s all the insurance laws, compensation requirements. And, since some of our divisions are tied to the government, we have whole different record keeping requirements. Did you know that, Captain? That the records I keep for you and your team are different from the ones I keep for the supernatural division?”

He didn’t even bother speaking, just mutely shook his head. I plowed on, my blood pressure pounding in my temples as I slipped the leash on my chaos.

“No. You didn’t. Because all you need to worry about is a battle strategy, right? Mr. Star Spangled Man with a Plan?” My volume increased with every word, as did the size of Rogers’ eyes. “All I’m asking, Captain, is that you try, for the love of all that’s holy, TRY to follow the damn policies just once in a while. And trust that this ‘HR broad’ might actually know what she’s doing. And realize I’ve got your fucking six everywhere BUT the battle field. OKAY?”

My rage-sweating hands slapped against the conference room table as I leaned forward, shouting at the man. Months, months of diplomacy in the face of his and his team’s mulish obstinance went up in a flaming glory.

They could hear Steve’s gulp of terror out in the hall. He nodded jerkily in the silence that followed.

“Do we all understand each other?” The chorus of instantaneous ‘yes, ma’am’s’ did their mamas proud. I yanked myself to stand straight, knees trembly. Wow, post-battle adrenaline really is a thing.

“Excellent.” Bucky flinched - actually flinched - as I snapped my folder so hard, the paper bent. I snatched the PIP out of Clint’s hands so forcefully, the paper ripped, and I didn’t even care. That’s why God made tape. I stuffed the innocent document and the folder into my bag with a crunch that would have Julia hating me later when she had to scan it for filing.

“Is…is that all, ma’am?” Captain America just about cowered.

“Yes. No,” I swiveled back towards them, causing the three troublemakers to reel back. Clint actually fell out of his chair when he rolled back with a touch too much fear. “Captain. Pick three federal laws from Section 2 of the employee handbook. One for you, one for the Sergeant, one for Agent Barnes. Each of you will write me an essay on why that federal law is so important to your division. I want it in my email inbox by 8:00am tomorrow. Any questions?”

“Why doesn’t the other birdbrain have to do one?” Bucky asked with tentative sullenness. My left eye twitched in time with the vein bulging in my forehead.

“Because, Sergeant,” I tossed at him as I tugged my bag over my shoulder and snatched up my precious comfort chai, “he knows how to follow policy.”

I didn’t see Agent Romanov’s impressed gaze or the dinner-plate-sized eyes of the other employees hovering in the hall. I didn’t hear the elevator bell that heralded my floor. All I knew was the onslaught of chemicals in my body as I flopped into my chair - fight-fueled cortisol, and victory-induced dopamine.

There just isn’t enough chai in the world to make up for my need for a vacation.

A tentative tap-tap-tap at my door heralded Julia. “Um - you okay?”

My throat burned as I chugged back some latte, then sighed huge and straightened up to look at my comrade-at-arms. “No.”

“I…I really hate to tell you this, especially now. But the bard from the convergence division called again. He wants to file another harassment complaint on that mage.”

All my stalwart battle-readiness left me, and my spine Slinky-d forward until my brow thunked down on the desk blotter before me.

“What’s our motto, Julia?” I mumbled out with a groan. My colleague and fellow-sufferer sighed.

“Heroes make us tired.” Rubbing my temples, I avoided thinking of the likelihood that Captain Rogers’ potential tattling on me would result in my unemployment.

“So. Fucking. Tired.”

#Steve Rogers #captain america #Bucky Barnes #sam wilson #falcon #clint barton #hawkeye #natasha romanoff #black widow #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #clint barton x reader #sam wilson x reader #shy vy writes #Heroes Make Me Tired

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cassandraclare · 3 years

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The Whispering Room: James’ POV

Here it is finally — James’ POV of the Whispering Room scene from Chain of Gold. I wanted to wait until Chain of Iron was released to give more people a chance to read the book, and also because what we learn in COI does inform the scene. I hope you enjoy!

*art by Cassandra Jean

Cortana wove with her words, underlining each one with steel. She turned as her sword turned, and her body curved and moved like water or fire, like a river under an infinity of stars. It was beautiful—she was beautiful, but it was not a distant beauty. It was a beauty that lived and breathed and reached out with its hands to crush James’s chest and make him breathless. — Chain of Gold

James had felt a strange emotion when Daisy first took the stage at the Hell Ruelle. It was a mix of several feelings...

worry on her behalf, annoyance at Kellington, curiosity, and admiration for her bravery and poise. It was unfair of these Bohemians to force her to caper for them, and, he thought, a bit insulting to Shadowhunters in general. He supposed that Matthew had given them a rather unusual view of what the Nephilim were like in such circumstances.

And then she had begun to dance. And suddenly she was not Daisy, his old friend. She was Cordelia, whose name meant heart, whose every gesture was fire. Every earthly worry he’d had had been swept out of his mind. He was conscious only of Cordelia, whirling back and forth across the small stage. Cortana danced around her, shedding light like embers. The dull glow of the lamps illuminated her body, describing her every movement, her every curve as she danced. Her scarlet hair whipped around her in time to the music, and the golden light of the lamps in the Ruelle slipped across her skin, slow and hot, like beads of honey. The cadences of her voice, rising and falling, seemed to weave a cage of silken thread about her audience, and James was no exception.

Later, James would think it was odd that he had not compared her to Grace. Grace had never entered his mind at all. Cordelia danced, and by the end of her performance, James’s entire life had been disassembled and put back together in a new and different shape. He was conscious of Matthew, beside him, also staring as the crowd cheered, his sharp cheekbones flushed. He looked dazed; James couldn’t blame him.

Cordelia descended the stage and slipped through the crowd to come back to them, blushing at the looks and murmured comments she was drawing from the audience now. James could see the desire in the eyes that followed her. Everyone wanted her. He felt a dull fury. They had no right. They did not know Cordelia. She was more than just that dance.

When she reached them she let out a long breath of relief and smiled. She glowed with the exercise of dancing. Sweat beaded along her collarbones, shimmered between her breasts. Her eyes were bright as Cortana’s blade, strapped to her back.

“Bloody hell,” Matthew exclaimed. “What was that?”

A look of uncertainty crossed Cordelia’s face. James said, “It was a fairy tale, Math,” and Matthew nodded. His dark green eyes searched Cordelia’s face, as if looking for the key to a locked room he had only just discovered.

Cordelia looked uncertain. James couldn’t bear that. She’d been magnificent; she should know it. But he couldn’t say that, of course. It would only make her self-conscious.

“Well done, Cordelia,” James said instead; when he unfolded his arms; his wrist hurt and he wondered if he’d been clenching his hands.

Cordelia. He hadn’t called her Daisy, and she looked a little surprised. It seemed inappropriate, somehow. Daisy was Lucie’s friend, the Merry Thieves’ compatriot; he found it a smaller name than she deserved. Cordelia, though—she had been a queen, hadn’t she? Queen Cordelia, daughter of Leir, ruler of Britain before the Romans had ever landed on those shores. Like Boadicea, a legendary warrior queen. A blazing white fire behind fathomless black eyes.

“Anna has disappeared with Hypatia,” James said, noting the empty settee, “so I would call your distraction a success.”

Cordelia’s lips twitched into a smile. “How long does a seduction usually last?”

“Depends if you do it properly,” Matthew said, with a wink. James felt it as a spark of relief, a bit of lightness amid the feeling that something heavy was sitting on his chest.

“Well, I hope for Hypatia’s sake Anna does it properly,” James said. He registered, with the reflexes of a parabatai, that Matthew had gone still next to him, and wondered what was wrong. “Yet for our sake, I hope she hurries it up.”

All hint of Matthew’s jocular tone from before was gone. “Both of you,” he said urgently. “Listen.”

Did he mean all the muttering about Shadowhunters? Was he only noticing it now? It had followed them since they came into the place. But when James followed Matthew’s gaze, he found Kellington staring with an expression of vexation, not at them but at the door. All questions were answered as through the door came Charles Fairchild, looking around him with a haughty expression. He looked like was about to raid the place; so much for whatever work Matthew and Anna had done for Downworlder-Shadowhunter relations here.

Matthew narrowed his eyes. “Charles,” he sighed. “By the Angel, what is he doing here?”

Charles was, James thought, probably looking for them. He was making his way through the crowd and gazing around him. Luckily for them, the crowd was not interested in letting him through, and he was moving very slowly.

“We should go,” James said. “But we can’t leave Anna.”

In one way, at least, Charles’s arrival was helpful; it threw a bucket of cold water on the roiling heat that had gripped James’s heart since Cordelia had begun her dance. Back to the matter at hand: a demon, a Pyxis, a plan.

“You two run and hide yourselves,” Matthew said, still keeping his eyes on his brother. “Charles will go off his head if he sees you here.”

“But what about you?” said Cordelia.

Matthew shrugged, but James could see the tension in his jaw and his shoulders. “He’s used to this kind of thing from me. I’ll deal with Charles.”

Not for the first time, James wished that his parabatai wasn’t in such a hurry to sacrifice his own reputation. He exchanged a long look with Matthew, but Matthew was sure, and determined, and his desire to rush into his own humiliation was an issue that would have to wait. Nodding, he turned and caught Cordelia’s hand with his own. “This way,” he said, and she nodded back in acknowledgement. As he pulled them into the crowd he heard Matthew’s voice calling, “Charles!” in a hearty tone of pleasant, if entirely false, welcome.

James didn’t know his way around the place, and the crowd made orientating himself even more difficult, but after some trial and error he and Cordelia managed to get behind Kellington and slip into a corridor leading away. This wasn’t safe in itself, since from the main chamber one would have a clear view down the entire corridor. In fact, they were temporarily more exposed than before, and James’s hope for the hallway to take a quick turn or to contain large statuary to hide behind was quickly dashed. He continued to hold onto Cordelia’s hand, not that he needed to; she seemed to know her way better than he did.

Partway down the corridor, James caught sight of an open door — its silver plaque labeling it the entrance to THE WHISPERING ROOM. Swiftly he drew Cordelia inside, out of sight. He slammed the door behind them, causing a loud noise, but he thought it couldn’t possibly be heard over the crowd in the main chamber. Only then did he release Cordelia’s hand and take stock of their surroundings.

The room was dimly lit, but not cold: a scented fire burned in the grate, filling the space with the smell of sandalwood and roses. It was a study, he guessed, based on the gigantic walnut desk against the wall and the bookshelves opposite, but it was too richly decorated to be solely a place for studious contemplation. Phoenix feathers and dragon scales danced across the gilded wallpaper; there were no windows, but the walls were hung with patterned tapestries, the floor covered with a rug so thick James felt his boots sink into it as he moved further into the room.

Cordelia had leaned her back against the wall next to the door. Her eyes were closed and she was taking deep, full breaths, calming herself down. Cortana gleamed gold over her shoulder; the firelight gleamed a deeper gold on her skin, which seemed to take and hold its warmth. James curled his fingers in against his palm.

He wanted to touch her. He half-turned away, pretending to study the books on the wall. Any other time, he would have been fascinated by the titles. Now they seemed distant, neither immediate nor imporant. He could have sworn he heard his own heart hammering. He said, “Where did you learn to dance like that?” surprising himself with the roughness of his own voice.

His gaze snapped back to Cordelia as she opened her eyes and gave a little shrug. There was something magical about the dress she wore: it followed the shape of her own body rather than the shape of corsetry or whalebone petticoats. It slid softly against her skin as she moved, just as her dark red hair tickled the bare skin of her throat, her shoulders. “I had a dance instructor in Paris. My mother believed that learning to dance aided in learning grace in battle.”

The word grace pierced James like an icicle. He could not quite picture Grace at the moment, it was true; could not quite envision her face. He had given Grace his heart — that was an immutable fact, something he knew as he knew that two plus two equaled four. But he had to admit that at the moment his heart did not feel given. It felt like a thrumming machine inside his chest, pumping blood and heat.

“That dance,” Cordelia added with a quirk of her soft mouth that struck James like a blow to the stomach, “was forbidden to be taught to unmarried ladies. But my dance instructor did not care.”

“Well,” James said, keeping his voice steady with practiced control, “thank the Angel you were there. Matthew and I could certainly not have pulled off that dance on our own.”

Cordelia turned away from him, the smile still on her face, as though she were keeping it secret from him. She trailed her hand along the top of Hypatia’s desk. At one end was a stack of papers held down by a large copper bowl of fruit, and she brought her hand up to trace its rim.

James may have been distracted beyond the capacity for distraction he’d known before, but he was still a Shadowhunter. “Be careful,” he said warningly. “I suspect that is faerie fruit. It has no effect on warlocks—no magical effect, at least. But on humans…”

Cordelia pulled her hand back as though stung. “Surely it does not harm you if you do not eat it.”

“Oh, it does not. But I have met those who have tasted it. The say the more you have of it, the more you want, and the more you ache when you can…have no more.”

Cordelia was looking at him now, and though it took a great summoning of courage, he returned her gaze. In her dark eyes the silver and blue flames of the fireplace danced. James could not catch his breath. He had never felt this before, this breathlessness. It was like pain, but with a sweet, sharp edge. Like licking honey from a knife. He said, in a low voice, “And yet. I have always thought…is not knowing what it tastes like just another form of torture? The torture of wondering?”

The door shook on his hinges suddenly, making a clatter that made both he and Cordelia jerk their heads around to look at it. The knob was starting to turn.

Cordelia paled. “We’re not meant to be in here —“

James’s world closed down to just this: Cordelia was here, she was with him, and she looked frightened. He would do anything to stop that look on her face. He caught her in his arms, and the relief was incredible — he had not realized how much he wanted to be touching her until he was. Until he was holding her, and her strength and warmth and softness were all pressed against him, and her face was so beautiful it hurt, and her lips were parted in surprise and without another thought he kissed them.

He could feel her sharp intake of breath with his hands, clasped together at her lower back. She gasped, but did not draw back, or away — he thought he would have died if she had — she leaned into him, her full lips opening under his. She was kissing him back. He tasted honey, smelled jasmine and smoke. His hand slid up her warm cheek and into the soft fall of her hair.

Time stopped.

Cordelia’s arms were around his neck. Her lush mouth opened a little against his, and the kiss deepened. He moved his hand to the back of her neck to bring her closer. Her teeth grazed his lower lip, and he couldn’t help it; he moaned, and felt her tremble against him.

Very far away, a voice chuckled and the door closed with a soft click. This whole thing had been intended as a ruse, he knew, for the benefit of whomever was trying to get into the Whispering Room. Probably some Ruelle attendees, Downworlders most likely, who had snuck off for a rendez-vous.

Ruse accomplished, then. With intense regret, James drew back from Cordelia. Her hand, warm and soft and wonderful, was against his neck; her fingers stroked his pale white scar. Her eyes were fixed at the level of his shoulder. He could hear himself say her name — Daisy, my Daisy — instead of responding, she whispered, “I think more people are coming.”

He knew it wasn’t true. He didn’t care. He knew what she was saying: that she was asking and giving permission at once. All James’ life, he had struggled for control: control over his sudden falls into shadow, control over the dark world he could see, that was invisible to everyone else. He had worked and fought and trained for control every day, and for the first time in as long as he could remember it deserted him.

The walls he had put up burned to the ground in an instant as he caught Cordelia to him. He groaned against her mouth, his hands slipping over the silk of her dress, the hot satin of her skin. He undid the strap that held Cortana, got rid of it somehow — carefully, he hoped — and let himself fall back into delirium.

He did not ask himself why he had never felt desire like this before. He could not. He was lost in the feel of her, the incline of her waist, the flare of her hips, the rise and fall of her chest as she gasped. They were kissing wildly, uncontrolled; they fetched up against the desk, Cordelia’s back to it.

Her body bent backward in an impossible arch, her hands going behind her to brace herself. Her eyes half-closed, her head fell back, revealing the bare column of her throat. He pressed his lips there, eliciting a gasp of surprised pleasure.

His hands trailed up the sleek material of her dress — he could feel the heat of her skin through it — from her waist to the neckline of her gown. His palms followed her curves until the tips of his fingers were pressing into the bare bronze skin just above the neckline of her dress. She was sleek and soft and hot all at the same time, like nothing else he’d ever touched. He heard her whimper; she was saying his name, and his heart beat in time with her words: James, James, Jamie please.

The please undid him; shrugging off his frock coat, he caught hold of her around the waist, lifting her until she was perched on the edge of the desk. The material of her dress bunched around her knees, her thighs, as she took hold of his shirt by the starched front and kissed him. His mouth drove against hers, hot and demanding, even as he clambered onto the desk after her. She reached up her arms for him and he sank down on top of her, bracing his weight with a hand above her head.

He paused, just for a moment, looking down at her. Her scarlet hair fanned out across the desk, her eyes glazed, her full lips red from kissing. He was cradled by her body, her legs on either side of his hips, her skirt rucked up nearly to her waist. She wrapped her long, bare legs around him and he shuddered. What was in him, what he wanted, was inchoate but insistant, a force he’d never known. A yearning like hot wires in his blood, the pain-pleasurable ache of unbearable wanting that drove him to kiss her again, kiss her harder. She tangled her hands in his hair, pulling at it as he kissed her breasts, flicking his tongue over the sensitive skin until she gave a low scream and clutched at him with desperate hands.

He sank down against her and kissed her, hot and deep and hard. She arched into the kiss, her breath coming in gasps. He felt her through the thinner material of his shirt: the heat of her, the swell of her breasts against his chest, her hands smoothing over his chest, his sides.

His hands aching to touch her in kind, to find out what she liked, what made her gasp, and do it again and again . . . Nothing had ever felt like this, nothing. He’d known desire before; so he remembered, so he had believed. It turned out he had stepped into a puddle and thought it was the sea. As Cordelia moved in his arms, as her lips, he realized there was a depth to desire he hadn’t even guessed at: that it was more than just desperation, but joy and need and wanting and being wanted back. It was a fever dream, his hands sliding up under the heavy satin of her skirts, the salt-sweet taste of her skin, the soft sounds of her pleasure as she urged him closer, urged him onward, the desk seeming to spin beneath them.

He heard, as if at a great distance, the sound of the door opening. He lifted his head, saw the slim fair-hared figure in the doorway. Ice washed through his veins. Cordelia stiffened, began to scramble to sit up. No, he thought, but he couldn’t stop her, couldn’t blame her. It — whatever it had been — was over.

He slid off the desk. Already the fever was vanishing, that feeling —the glorious freedom from the burden of his own will — receding. Grasping at his control, he drew it around himself, reaching for his coat, turning to calmly meet the gaze of his parabatai.

“James?” Matthew said.

#the whispering room #james herondale #cordelia carstairs #the last hours #cassandra clare #cassandra jean #chain of gold

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lillotte17 · 3 years

Text

Tomorrow

Got hooked watching Word of Honor and Zhou Zishu's Sad Face Journeys in episodes 33-34 came for my life, so I wrote a little scene set after the whole Heroes Conference Thing. ...And then Wen KeXing showed up and just...*gestures vaguely* I don't know what happened here. XD

Zhou Zishu sits quietly beside the bed, watching Wen KeXing's sleeping face with an ache in his chest that has nothing to do with his failing body, and everything to do with the fact that he is about to die.

When his shidi had made a miraculous reappearance at the Heroes Conference, his first reaction was gut-wrenching surprise. It felt as though the ground had suddenly dissolved beneath his feet. His heart leaping so high in his throat that he forgot how to breathe. Dizzy with the overwhelming rush of joy and confusion. Uncertain whether to laugh or cry.

But once the shock had subsided, the anger had been hot on its heels. And he wanted to be mad about it. Wanted to take Wen KeXing by the shoulders and shake him so hard that his teeth rattled around in his skull. Wanted to scream and sob and rail against the now inevitably fast-burning candle of his fate. At the unfairness of losing his life just as he had found something worth living for again. Someoneworth living for. For a few moments, the fury had burned so brightly in him he thought it might be enough to kill him then and there. That the fire between his lungs would simply burst his chest open and engulf everything around them in a sea of red.

But when they had caught each other’s gaze, he had seen the apology roiling in Wen KeXing’s dark eyes, raw and miserable, even without a word being said. The apology, and the fear. That same fear Zishu had seen flicker across his face every time he had tried to coax him into confessing that he was from Ghost Valley. The same fear he had seen in him the night Wen KeXing had snuck out of the Four Seasons Manor to intercept Ye BaiYi and tried to prevent him from reveling his identity. And yet again, when Han Ying had died, and he had nearly killed himself in a blind panic trying to fix it somehow. The fear whispered that death was preferable to his hatred. That his blade would be kinder than his revulsion. That Wen KeXing would sacrifice anything to avoid being abandoned once again.

Zhou Zishu was helpless in the face of it; as he always seems to be. The look that passed between them had been fast and fleeting, there and gone again with barely a blink, but it was enough to douse the flames of his anger with a tide of chilling and fathomless grief. The rest of the Heroes Conference passed before him in a daze. Vengeance, and justice, and pride. Wen KeXing blazing in the brightest and truest version of himself for all to see. Dazzling and mesmerizing and impossible to look away from. He does not know if he has ever loved him more, even as he felt his heart slowly sinking down into the pit of his stomach. The numbness of acceptance settling into his bones.

There will be no escape from death, this time.

He had been quiet on the way back to Jing BeiYuan’s Manor. Quiet enough to worry both Wen KeXing and ChengLing, who always seems to see more than he understands. He had listened to their reasons and excuses, and he had done his best to reassure them afterwards, but his own words sound hollow in his ears. The best he could do was to get Lao Wen hopelessly drunk, and pray that it made him less intuitive. The suffusion of elation and hope in the air had nearly been enough to choke him, though. He did not want to rob them of it, but he found he could take part in it either, no matter how much he wanted to. He could not bring himself to celebrate a future he can no longer share with them.

Zhou Zishu understands Wen KeXing. He understands that he is just as abysmal at properly conveying affection as he is himself, if not more so. The man only knows how to protect people he cares for by either sending them away from him or drowning them both in blood. It is how he had managed to survive all those years surrounded by madness and chaos and death. Zishu had done much the same, while he was working in the capital. Hiding all of their softer places far away from where the light could reach them. Playful banter has always passed easily between them, but tenderness is heavier, and vulnerabilities almost impossible to speak aloud. They are both trying to do better, struggling to pull their own humanity back into their hands where it can be shared freely, but Wen KeXing’s hurts are older and deeper. His path back to the world of the living inevitably more winding and complex. He still has not mastered the art of articulating his fears and concerns.

Zhou Zishu’s health was tenuous even before he had been kidnapped and tortured. As much as he hated to admit it, he had been in no fit state to fight an angry mob. Wen KeXing hid the truth from him because he knew that he would chafe at being told to stay out of harm’s way; that they would have argued about it until he was either allowed to participate in the scheme or he was spitting blood and passing out on the floor. Zishu cannot even say that this assessment of his character was a bad one, but it still stung to be kept in the dark, and the hurt was lingering. And yet, however deep the barb of this secret may have landed, however misplaced the caution may or may not have been, he knows without a shred of doubt that Wen KeXing’s deception was born of love, and he can hardly hold that against him.

Especially not now.

Wen KeXing turns his head slightly, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like an extremely slurred version of his name. His expression is smooth and peaceful, his hair a dark fan across the bed behind him. The rosy glow of happiness and alcohol still pinking the apples of his cheeks.

Zishu smiles despite himself. It is much easier to find traces of the little boy his master had planned to take for his second disciple when he looks like this; safe and sleeping and completely at ease for the first time in who knows how long. He wishes he could recall those few precious days they had spent together as children with more clarity, but the memory of it is like a silk brocade left to sit too long in the sunshine, its delicate patterns fading as the colors wash away in a flood of light. Zhou Zishu had been too young to fully comprehend the weight of death when his master had returned from his trip to collect the Wen family without his shidi or his parents in tow. That his master had been sad about it was enough to impact him, but in the grand scheme of things, the wounds to his own heart had been minimal.

What would have happened if they had kept looking for Zhen Yan, he wonders. If he and Wen KeXing had grown up together as best friends and martial brothers and soulmates? Would their master have found a way to soothe Zhen Yan’s rage before it consumed him? Would Zhou Zishu have made the same mistakes with the Window of Heaven if Wen KeXing had been at his side? Perhaps they could have saved each other before things had reached the place they were now. Or perhaps Wen KeXing would have died under Zhou Zishu’s leadership with the rest of their sect, and his failures would have tasted that much more bitter.

He sighs quietly. There is no sense dwelling on things he cannot change. He had been a child, and just as powerless to save Wen KeXing from his fate as the boy himself had been. Feeling guilty about it was meaningless at this point. It was enough to have him here and now. Enough that they had had any time together at all. Enough that Wen KeXing had fallen off of that cliff and somehow still managed to walk back to him.

It has to be enough, because it is all they have. All they can have. Even if he wants more.

“Ah Xu?”

The voice is thick with sleep, but marginally less inebriated than before.

“Mn,” Zhou Zishu hums in acknowledgement, his gaze shifting slightly to watch Wen KeXing blink himself back into wakefulness.

“You didn’t go to bed?” he asks, bleary and swaying slightly as he attempts to sit up.

“There is someone in my bed.” Zishu points out archly.

Wen KeXing looks murderous for a few seconds until he realizes that the person in question is, in fact, himself. When the clouds break, his expression immediately shifts to one of insufferable satisfaction. He leans precariously off the side of the bed, robes and hair both hopelessly askew.

“I am always willing to share everything I have with Ah Xu,” he declares with feigned sweetness.

“How kind of Philanthropist Wen to make a present of what he stole from me,” Zhou Zishu snorts, “Your generosity knows no bounds.”

“Ah Xu!” Wen KeXing objects. “How is it stealing when you gave it to me freely? You think I would come to your bedroom with the intention of sleeping?”

“I’m sure I don’t know anything about your intentions.” The reply is given with a smirk, but his eyes dart away from him. “You asked me to drink with you, but the jar you brought was empty. Besides, I am thinking about giving it up. I have been told that it is bad for my health.”

“Aiya, first Ah Xu accuses me of being a thief, and now he tells me such scandalous falsehoods!” Wen KeXing shakes his head, attempting to seem wounded despite the grin on his face. “I already accepted your punishment earlier, there is no reason to be cruel.”

“Who is a liar here?” Zhou Zishu inquires laughingly, gesturing back and forth between them. “Which one of us is the most scandalous?”

“It’s me, it’s me,” Wen KeXing acknowledges, his head bobbing up and down in agreement, “But Ah Xu, you cannot expect me to ever believe that you would willingly give up drinking good wine with me? And as for not understanding my intentions, well…I believe that even less.”

“Was your intention to make sure I could not get any sleep?”

Wen KeXing only smiles at him widely.

“…I regret asking such a question,” Zhou Zishu chuckles, reaching out to lightly slap the side of Wen KeXing’s face in both fondness and chastisement. “Ask a shameless man a question and you are sure to get a shameless reply.”

Wen KeXing grabs hold of his hand before he can pull it away, leaning into it with a sigh.

“What is so shameless about it at this point?” he wonders, something soft and shining igniting within his gaze. “Living together. Dying together. Watching as our hair turns gray with old age. We’ve already promised to share these things, haven’t we? Why give me your bed when we could share that, too?”

Zhou Zishu takes a long look at him. At the dark hair spilling across his shoulder in disarray. The front of his robes just rumpled enough to expose the elegant line of his throat as well as part of his collar bones. The flush of his cheeks and the promise burning in his eyes.

He cannot deny that he wants it. Even knowing it might make things more painful later on. He wants to be selfish. He wants to be greedy while he still can. While he can still hear Lao Wen calling for him and feel his skin beneath his hands. His sense of taste and smell have gone already, but can still see him, and that could be enough. More than enough.

But will it be enough for Wen KeXing?

This is the last thing they have to give each other. The last pieces of themselves they have been holding back. Mostly because there simply had not been time for it amidst the chaos swirling around them. It always seemed as though either their lives were in danger or one of them was injured. Up until now, even Zishu had been optimistic enough to assume they would have time for it later, though. Time to use physical intimacy as an almost second meeting. To learn how they need each other in the quiet and the dark. To learn the ways they can be gentle, and the ways they can be fierce. To burn each other up in desperation and desire.

It seems too heartless to have it be a farewell instead.

Zhou Zishu lets out a long breath.

“…Not when you are drunk,” he says quietly.

Wen KeXing blinks at him in astonishment, eyes blown wide and round as saucers, clearly expecting a flat-out rejection.

A moment later, the blankets have been hastily flung aside, and he is staggering off of the bed has fast as he can. Which, as it turns out, is not very fast at all. Zhou Zishu easily catches him with one arm, lightly pushing him back into a seated position.

“Lao Wen, where do you think you are going?” he laughs.

“I need to sober up,” Wen KeXing explains, looking so serious about it that Zhou Zishu cannot help but reach out and pinch his cheek. Lao Wen slaps his hand away, his expression mulish.

“Don’t pout,” Zishu scolds, still chuckling, “It is too late to be staggering around someone else’s house. With my luck, you would drown yourself in the fish pond, and then BeiYuan and Wu Xi would be terribly put out.”

“But Ah Xu, if you won’t let me leave, and you won’t share the bed, just what do you want me to do?” Lao Wen complains. “Even if you don’t want to have sex, you should at least lay down and rest properly. I want you to get well as soon as possible.”

Zhou Zishu’s mouth stiffens slightly.

“I know.”

Wen KeXing’s brow furrows in concern. He reaches out a hand, long fingers hovering just above his heart, when Zhou Zishu catches them tightly in his own. He is not certain if Lao Wen could glean the truth about his condition from his pulse while still tipsy, but he is not about to run that risk tonight.

“Are the nails bothering you again?” Wen KeXing asks, doleful this time.

“No.”

It is not a lie.

“Then come to bed,” Lao Wen cajoles, using their joined hands to tug him closer, “I promise not to molest you unless you ask me to.”

Zhou Zishu makes a sound of grumbling disbelief, but still allows himself to be pulled down next to Wen KeXing. The bed is big enough for two, but only just. Lao Wen retrieves the formerly discarded blankets from whatever corner he had toss them and bundles them up together like two caterpillars in a single cocoon. His face is close beside him on the pillow, warm breath fanning the side of his neck. An arm drapes loosely about Zishu’s waist, and he turns his head slightly, intending to shoot a warning glare in the other man’s direction.

This is a mistake.

Wen KeXing’s eyes are dark and intense in the moonlight, half closed with either sleep or desire, it is hard to say. His lips part slightly as Zhou Zishu turns to him, and the hand draped around his waist clutches faintly at his robes as if on instinct. Both of them seem to have forgotten how to breathe.

“…Ah Xu, you can kiss me, if you like,” Lao Wen whispers finally, so soft it almost seems like a dream.

“What makes you think I want to kiss you?” he means it to sound teasing, but it comes out in almost a sigh.

“Because I want to kiss you,” Lao Wen replies matter-of-factly.

“I never thought of you as a pillar of self-restraint,” Zhou Zishu huffs.

“I promised to be a gentleman.”

Zishu closes his eyes and lets out a deep, soul-rattling sigh. He is almost glad he cannot smell the oils Wen KeXing uses in his hair or the trace of alcohol on his lips. The proximity is staggering enough all on its own.

“…It would not stop with a kiss,” he admits aloud to both of them.

He does not open his eyes again, but he can feel Wen KeXing’s body tremble slightly as he laughs, and that is almost as bad.

“Ah Xu, I would hardly complain,” he replies, testing his luck by shifting close enough so that their foreheads are lightly touching. “But you want to rest, and I want you rested, so it is no great loss, either way. You will still be here with me tomorrow, after all. There is no need to rush these things. Sometimes, a slow spring is sweeter.”

“Yes,” Zhou Zishu manages to reply around the lump lodged in his throat, “I will still be here tomorrow.”

#Word of Honor #Wenzhou #wen kexing #zhou zishu #fic #this was supposed to be all angsty #but they are SO EFFING FUNNY #it's so fun writing their banter #askdjghasdfgk #i am sorry #i have no idea what emotions this actually conveys at this point #i just work here

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stardustincarnate · 3 years

Text

TOGETHER FOREVER // Asra x Reader

ASRA + A NON-BINARY MC

WORD COUNT: 2541

GENRE: Fluff

Water.

Flowing water, molded into ballerinas, swaying to the slow, dreamy rhythm of a harp, by a skilled magician, surrounded me as I stood in the middle of a vast, colorful oasis. It took me a while before I realized that I was in Asra's gate. How did I end up being there?

The plants sprung to life, engulfing me, filling my vision with a dancing of warm colors that reminded me of him as I closed my eyes. I could feel the phantom of warmth embrace me, and when I opened my eyes, I was greeted with those deep and sincere purple eyes of his.

The world seemed to have slowed down, every action taking some time as if it was to savor the moment. I found myself loosely wrapping my arms around his neck as he caressed my other cheek, and I leaned to the feeling.

I could see Asra's magnificent aura combining with mine, making a beacon of blinding light that went up to the sky.

His tender touch never fails to send me flying over to the moon, both our magic combined as if speaking to one another, my heart reacting to his own.

He pressed his forehead against mine, a blush creeping up his face.

"I love you."

With that, I had unfortunately awoken. I yawned, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, soon realizing that Asra was not beside me anymore. The smell of my favorite soup wafted out from the kitchen to the bedroom, causing me to blearily walk towards it. The sleepiness soon ebbed my system once the smell got stronger. Asra wasn't aware that I already woke up, so I sneakily went on to hug him from behind, earning an adorable gasp from him and making me chuckle.

"[MC]? You're awake. Did you have a good sleep?"

I nuzzled his fluffy hair. "Mhm I suppose. I had a really good dream."

"Oh? Why don't you tell me about it."

"We were in your gate. But it didn't look like before.. it was more magical that time. Well, just us doing some romantic things.. Involving magic too!"

Asra let out a chuckle, "Why don't we make it real then?" He turned around, giving me that playful look of his. I grinned. "Ooh, I love the sound of that."

Soon, I found myself being fed by him as we ate our breakfast. Faust kept on squeezing us alternatively. She seemed excited about something.

"[MC], what do you say we go out for a trip today?" Asra asked, wiping off some remaining soup droplets on my chin which I hadn't noticed.

"Where will we go?"

"I thought about bringing you to the magical realms, but then I thought of something better." He casted a wistful look on me. "Let's forget about the realms for the mean time. Let's just explore the city. What do you think?"

"You know I'm up for it! But you'll have to let me take a bath first!" I chuckled.

"Take your time. I won't mind." He playfully winked at me as I headed towards the bathroom.

Some time later, we arrived at the city market. Vesuvians were partially rowdy and quiet. Though some even came stumbling near the two of us, but it was alright. Asra held my hand tightly as I saw him grinning at something— or someone. The market seemed a bit more playful today. Maybe that's why he decided to take me here? The fun in the atmosphere was tangible, especially when I heard the strumming of guitars— and the next moment, all I knew was that Asra and I were dancing in the middle of the street, accompanied by some other couples until the beat had stopped.

It was fun while it lasted. It's as if my body had a mind of its own when I let myself dance to the rhythm. I didn't care about anything else other than the joyous music. I knew what felt right, and it felt right to let myself sway to the rhythm with Asra. Abstract magic bubbled around the two of us. How I love feeling that way.

However, right after the dancing session, the world suddenly dissipated into nothingmess. I was left all alone in a dark, fathomless land where no one seemed to hear me. No Asra... no Faust. I tried to connect to them using my magic, but something was intercepting it. No no, I didn't feel something ominous despite the situation. So what, exactly, was stopping me? I called out to my magic once more, and there I felt a recognizable aura somewhere. Asra's. He was nearby, I could tell, but it's as if he was hiding behind a veil which I didn't know where to find. I was in distress, but then something dawned me.

Asra must've been playing tricks with me. I should've known from the beginning. Ugh, I am so going to get that rascal! I let my magic surround me, and then I was back at the market— but I was alone. If he was pulling a prank on me, I'd give him credits for the effort of making the crowd disappear too. I clicked my tongue but later on grinned. What kind of prank was it? I got a little excited to know what to see at the end of the tunnel.

"Asraaaaaa!"

I called out for the nth time. I was aimlessly walking that I didn't realize I already bumped to a hulking figure. The smell of Myrrh...

"Muriel! Have you seen my sneaky magician?"

He looked away as soon as I met his eyes. He didn't reply. He just walked away. I followed him with my eyes but then he stopped his tracks, reluctantly beckoning me to join him. And I did. And I couldn't believe what my eyes were seeing. Asra really did execute a massive prank for me because the whole Vesuvia seemed empty of people. I was beginning to get confused when I still didn't see anyone, but when we turned to a corner, leading to which I presume is the docks, an enthralling scenery surprised me.

My fellow Vesuvians were scattered on the side. The middle was empty and I supposed I would be walking there, and I was right. I let out a confused noise when they suddenly started singing all together. Their voices were harmonious that it somehow made my heart feel lighter than it already was. I could spot a few familiar faces.

Selasi, our favorite baker, then came up to me, handing me something. I was surprised that it wasn't bread but a bouquet of my favorite flowers. I thanked him, but before I could ask furthermore, he hastily ran back to the crowd.

"Muriel, what's going on?"

What did I expect? He didn't even turn around. I guessed I wouldn't be having any answers until I see the mastermind behind all of this.

I spotted Aisha and Salim in the crowd. They gave me a meaningful smile, a sly look on their faces. I smiled back and proceeded to walk down the center even if I had no idea what was happening. Their attentions were all on me. It made me feel overwhelmed, as if I was the star of Vesuvia. And jeez, was the Countess and all the other courtiers somewhere in the crowd?

Speaking of, I soon found Nadia standing in a corner. Her elegant figure stood out the most. I was taken aback when she walked to me, and I received a bouquet of flowers once again. She gave me a playful look and then weaved herself through the crowd. I soon spotted Portia, and she did the same thing to me, winking afterwards.

And by the time I had reached Julian standing in the middle of the docks, my arms were already full of bouquets, but he gave a blind eye to that and proceeded to put another bouquet on top of the rest that I could barely see what's in front of me. And as I expected, the strain in my arms made the bouquets fall to the ground. I regretfully looked at them. But just as I was about to pick them up, Julian intercepted, swaying his long, lanky arms that almost hit my face.

"Whoops! No no no no. We can't have our main star doing the work here, can we?"

He flashed a shameless grin and started picking up the bouquets. I didn't argue and instead chuckled. Then as I lifted my gaze, I finally saw Asra, standing at the edge and giving me a look as if to tell "I'm expecting you."

He smiled at me as I ran into him, completely forgetting the fact that he's at the edge. One slight move and he would fall into the water. But something unusual happened. 'Asra' bursted into fizzy bubbles and tiny butterflies that soon engulfed me, making me giggle. And once they gave way, I was greeted by a bunch of tiny ballerinas which emerged from the water. They were careful not to get too close and drench my clothes. My smile grew even wider as I recalled my dream. There were also dancing ballerinas surrounding me, but bigger. Asra must had taken note of that to pull the trick off.

I pivoted, seeing 'Asra' give me another bouquet of flowers. But they were much larger than the ones my friends had given to me. The other half was drenched though since it was given to me by the water in which Asra shaped himself to.

"[MC]." I heard a boisterous call, making me turn around for the nth time, and that time I finally saw the real Asra. Solid and radiating an immense aura of magic. Joyous but somehow perplexed. I threw myself at him, and we bursted into giggles.

"My, my.. You really know how to pull a trick off your sleeves. Is this really the real you, or are you just another one of his illusions?"

"I'm the real one you know," His airy voice tickled my ears. There was a playful tone in his voice. "Want me to prove it?"

"N-Not in front of everyone!" I flushed but eventually cleared my throat. "Uhm, mind explaining yourself? Please tell me what's gotten into your mind to do this."

He only gave me a smug look, but later on evaded my gaze as a blush crept on his face. The crowd had already stopped singing. They were silent and watching us as if expecting something huge to happen. I looked at my friends, who were only giving me playful looks. I frowned, but then it hit me.

Or I might just be assuming things. It was just a massive prank, right? Asra didn't do it because of...

"[MC]."

"Yeees?"

"I.. You know how much I care for you.. Right?"

I heard someone in the crowd squeal.

"Yes. You told me about it when.. when we were at the fountain... during the most recent masquerade." I blushed as I reminisced the scene. It made my heart flutter when he told me that he loves me. It filled me with joy. We've been through a lot...

"We've been through a lot of adventures ever since we defeated the Devil. And I treasure the memories that we keep on making... I find it better to go on adventures with you by my side rather than going alone," He looked at me and smiled. It was my turn to look away due to our faces' proximity. "You showed me a different perspective of the world, [MC], and I can't imagine living a life without you anymore. I feel like as long as we're together, we'll be able to overcome anything."

My heart erratically beated as he said those words. A mixture of Aww's and other complements came from the crowd, but Asra didn't seem to mind. He was staring at me. And only at me.

"I love you, [MC]. And I'll keep on loving you.." He widened the distance between us a little, kneeling down and as if searching for something in his pocket. I didn't know how red my face was at the time. I felt like exploding.

He really was doing it.

He was proposing to me.

Asra stopped his search and shyly looked around, but he was somehow distressed.

"Now where did I put it...." He looked down, facepalming. "Faust, where are you? I told you not to play with it."

At the mention of her name, Faust slithered towards him, something shiny in her mouth. Asra chuckled and scolded her as she took refuge in his sleeve. Then, he averted his gaze back to me, his eyes gleaming with hope and love.

"I want to spend the rest of my life with you, [MC]. And I hope you do too... Will you marry me?"

He showed me the ring that flashed the colors of the rainbow before my very eyes. Milliseconds after he said that the crowd started cheering and squealing, and I didn't even utter my answer yet, and I couldn't due to all the noise. Portia took care of it though.

"HEY! Did we actually hear what [MC] said? QUIET!" And the noise dissipated.

The more I looked at Asra, the more I realized how nervous he actually was. Even with a brave facade, I could still see through him. We were blushing so bad as he waited for my answer. But I felt like I couldn't speak at the time. I was overwhelmed with euphoria that I couldn't bring myself to utter a single word or even move. It took me a few seconds to calm myself, responding to his question with a smile.

"D-Do you even have to ask?"

"Is that a yes?"

"Of course it is! Yes! I'll marry you!"

Asra stood up with a wide, genuine smile as he put the ring on my finger. It was filled with an intricate design, the pattern carved meticulously. I was so amazed at how detailed it was. I looked at it with awe. I couldn't believe what was hapenning. I might've swooned.

"Good. I was beginning to think you wouldn't.."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know." Asra laughed, pulling me into a kiss. His magic surged into me and when he pulled away, he immediately took me in his embrace. The crowd started cheering once again that I could barely hear myself over it.

"Did you make the ring?"

"Yes. Did you like it?"

"Like it? I love it!" I flushed against his chest.

"The ring only?"

"Psh, of course you too! I love you, Asra!"

He chuckled and intertwined our fingers. I blushed even more. If I could explode, I already would've.

"I love you too. I loved you ever since."

"Asra! Stop making me blush.."

"But I was just stating facts! Right Faust?"

"Right!"

He really couldn't fail to make me blush, to create butterflies and grow flowers inside me, and to make my heart feel light and filled with pure bliss.

We were engaged, and I couldn't wait to see what the future stores for us.

The future that includes him and I, completely contented with each other's presence.

#asra the arcana #the arcana #the arcana game #asra x reader #the arcana x you #asra alnazar #asra the magician #the arcana x reader #asra x mc #fluff all the way #ASRA = BEST BOI #reader insert #character x you #x reader #SPOILERWEGONMARRYOURBOI

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sasorikigai · 2 years

Note

" The first thing I noticed? Other than that hot bod? "

Aku chuckled, clearly joking. Not that he didn't adore that body, but that wasn't what he noticed first. No, a hand reaching up and caressing the other's cheeks in his hands, thumb stroking gently.

" No, the first thing I noticed was those eyes ... though they were dimmed at the time, it didn't hide the ferocity and strength that they gave. The stare that cut through and stared into the depth, seeing beyond what was on the surface, determined to push past barriers. They saw everything, showed everything, and I loved them from that moment till this and beyond. They're the most beautiful and powerful thing in the entire universe to me. "

what’s the first thing your muse noticed about mine? || @swordsxandxshadows || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || It may be excruciatingly difficult to forget bone-seeped and soul-embedded pain, but it may be even harder to remember sweetness, once mellifluous and empyrean, but now putrescent and withered like a plucked rose. All used to be phantom, as Hanzo Hasashi’s heart and soul, utterly lost in the abysmal black hole of blackness that was his excruciating, humiliating death, as a thousand rivers of tears and blood, in sputtered silence, would weep. Turmoiled as what should be let or what it should keep was eternally lost from his vehement, desperate grasp, as he urged himself to fill in a big void lurking within him so deep and immeasurable widened and burned incessantly by the scorching inferno of his wrath and retribution.

Perhaps Scorpion’s eyes remain fogged with regret; something that crawls, like the firefly bursting its last residual strength to shine an infinitesimal light amidst the tenebrous darkness. Something that wraps around his heart with no regard for it and constricting. As he reminisces the desiccated tales of love and heartfelt promises that died with his own mortal life, Hanzo Hasashi let himself become disintegrated, as he became the prisoner of vengeance and retribution. Without his eyes flowing free with tender zephyr breeze that could caress, he would become this steely, defiant stone that would leak black tears and crimson blood. The masquerade of eternally-bloomed roses dwell within the mighty thrum of his heart, lest Scorpion wears gut-wrenching heartbreaks that tear him down to his most fundamental bearings in the fathomless depth of his eyes.

Despite it all, Scorpion would wear halcyon effulgence of the summer sun in them, lest his inferno burning ablaze becomes an offspring of turmoil in devouted mantra set forth in order to correct the corruption of the world, lest his spectral being drowns and disintegrates in the corporeal world. How his full moon eyes sets forth unmade lines drawn with perfected care, as they have been ceased, witnessed soul-afflicting loss, and endured gentle decay in lieu of the zealous fury set in conflation as he collapsed beneath the torrential skies above.

Now, the wraith’s eyes are far too gentle, the proverbial prowess once steeled to set with such unyielding dominance and intensity set with swarming burning passion. “The eyes of individuals do have tendency to ooze the intimacy or hostility of language, turning it beyond simple metaphor and urge. No longer, my eyes speak the perpetuated unbridled fury of wrath contained, as centuries of sadistic pain exacerbate the miserly longings and indignities of my death.”

For his love of the sorcerer has released Hanzo Hasashi’s long-suppressed, ethereal beauty, striking him through his extraordinarily human features, which were taking over the blackened dripping ooze of tainted Nether’s grasping clutch. Perhaps Aku had been inevitably a fastidious aesthete, seeing complexities no other dared to see through his gruff, unapproachable exterior. “Not many could see the repugnant monstrosity of my being and still appreciate the ebb-tides of my humanity, somehow remaining in fragmented morsels. Nobody ever unraveled me so well since Harumi, and I believe no one will ever unravel me again. And nothing, but your arms will take me to heaven again.” ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ hellfire fibrillating beneath his skin (iv)#✗ the shogun of sorrow (aku || swordsxandxshadows)#(scorched souls)#swordsxandxshadows

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chelsfic · 4 years

Text

Leftovers - Part 12/12 - Nandor the Relentless x Female Reader Fanfic

For Previous Parts: WWDITS Masterlist

Summary: The reader shares her last night alive with her new family.

A/N: I realized as I was writing this that this whole fic could really be read as an elongated metaphor for my falling in love with this show and this fandom. I hope you guys like this ending and aren’t disappointed.

Warnings: Angst, Emotions, Crack humor, Turning into a vampire

---

It’s an hour after sunset and you can hear your housemates stirring. You’re still lying in bed. The ceiling overhead is cracked and peeling in places. You suppose this probably won’t be your bedroom for much longer. Nandor will want you to move into his crypt. Will you have your own coffin? Or will he want to keep sharing? How does one even purchase a coffin for...personal use?

You know you’re stalling. Nandor is being uncharacteristically patient, but he won’t wait all night. You’re not afraid. Okay, you’re afraid. But, you’d be stupid not to be. You saw Guillermo during his transition. He looked like hell for about three whole days. But you know Nandor will take care of you. Well, strike that. You know Nandor will try to take care of you and if he fails, Nadja and Guillermo will be there.

The night you met...the night you almost became a meal...was your birthday. So much has happened since then. You’ve been kept prisoner, fed upon, attacked, hurt. You’ve also fallen in love with every vampire in this crazy house, even Colin Robinson, bless his heart. Nandor and his bizarre mix of vicious lust and achingly sweet softness has somehow pulled you into this world, into a place you’ve always belonged without even knowing it. So, yeah, you’re afraid. But the idea of not spending every night for the rest of eternity surrounded by these beautiful, damaged, stupid idiots is even more frightening.

A knock comes at your door and Nadja’s voice trills, “Hello, human? May I come in?”

You roll onto your side and sit up, dangling your bare legs over the edge of the bed. You’re wearing one of your few dresses because...well, because you’re going to die tonight and shouldn’t you dress up a little?

Nadja slips inside looking resplendent and deadly as always. She gives you a sympathetic smile and comes to sit next to you.

“Feeling a little nervous about our unholy transition, are we?” she ducks her head and gives you that mama-vampire-knows-best look of hers.

You lean your shoulder into hers, taking comfort in her presence.

“Maybe a little…” you admit. “I’m not having second thoughts or anything it’s just…”

“A little spooky wooky, yes?” Nadja supplies. She wraps her arm around your back and pulls you closer. “Don’t concern your head off, darling. I don’t know if you realize this but I am considered a bit of an expert. I’ve turned many, many humans in my time. Including my dear Laszlo. I’ll make sure Nandor does not slip up and accidentally make you into a zombie monstrosity like my poor Topher.”

You rear back and stare at Nadja with horror stricken eyes, “That’s a possibility!??”

Nadja chuckles and tweaks your nose, “I am giving you sarcasm! To lighten the mood! It’s working, yes?”

You let out a long-suffering sigh that hiccups into nervous laughter.

“I love you, Nadja,” you say with sudden, overwhelming emotion. You dive forward and wrap your arms around her in a fierce hug.

Nadja is stricken for a moment and she pats your back gingerly, “That’s...very nice. You think you want to come downstairs now? Because Nandor is being a real donkey dick down there waiting for you, but his balls are too shriveled to come up here and get you himself.”

You laugh and pull back from the hug, wiping tears from your eyes, “Yeah, let’s go. I’m ready.”

---

“SURPRISE!”

“HAPPY DEATHDAY!”

“SMASHLEY’S IN DA HOUSE!”

“What’s crack-a-lackin’?”

Nandor looks supremely put out when everyone yells something different as you walk through the door to the fancy room. Does no one listen to him? They had an agreed upon plan! He scowls at at the other vampires, especially fucking Colin Robinson, before sweeping over toward you and taking you from Nadja’s arm.

“Welcome to your Death Day Party! Do you like it?” Nandor looks down at you with those wide, sparkling eyes that make you forget he’s a centuries old blood-sucking fiend who once conquered nations and slaughtered thousands.

You take in your surroundings with a look of wonder. There’s a giant glitter banner hanging above the fireplace that reads “Congratulations on your Dark Awakening.” You recognize it as Nandor’s handiwork at once. Also, Guillermo has obviously been to Party City because everyone is wearing pointed birthday hats with little Dracula emojis all over them and the whole room is absolutely covered in crepe paper.

“It’s...so cute!” you squeal, grabbing him around the middle in an enthusiastic hug. This is...just want you needed. A little goofy, human levity before stepping off the edge of the unknown. Your eyes continue wandering over the room until they fall upon a long table set up against the wall. “Oh...my g--gahhhh--is that mac and cheese?”

The table is covered in dish after dish of all your favorite comfort foods. Macaroni and cheese, pizza, lasagna. Apple pie, blueberry pie, cherry pie! There’s a whole giant bowl of Reese’s peanut butter cups. You pull away from Nandor and dash across the room, launching yourself into Guillermo’s arms.

“You’re the sweetest monster I’ve ever known!” you cry, doing your best to squeeze the unlife out of him.

Guillermo laughs, “Listen, you’re going to be puking for days either way. You might as well have one last chance to enjoy human food.”

You roll your eyes, “Thanks for the reminder, Memo.”

“Alrighty!” Nandor is suddenly picking you up from behind and plucking you out of Guillermo’s arms. “That’s enough of that. Why don’t you have some of this--” he turns his head away from you and gags “--yummy food and then we’ll listen to some human musical arrangements that Nadja and Laszlo have prepared.”

Nandor hovers at your side, watching with a wrinkled nose as you pile food onto your plate. You’ve barely made a dent in the impressive spread and you’re feeling guilty about the waste when Colin Robinson ambles up.

“So, nervous about Nandor draining all your blood and killing you tonight?” he asks breezily.

You ignore the question and instead ask one of your own, “Hey, you think you can bring some of the leftovers into your office tomorrow? I’d hate to waste all this…”

Colin’s face lights with a maniacal grin, “Barbara’s on a diet...Yeah...this will be perfect!”

You settle onto one of the couches, sandwiched between Guillermo and Nandor. Both vampires look vaguely nauseated as you tuck into your food, but they’re holding it together.

Laszlo stands up with Nadja and starts strumming a guitar as he addresses everyone, “When I first met our human I assumed she’d soon be fertilizing my vulva garden--”

Nadja slaps his arm and Nandor hisses indignantly.

“But! But!” Laszlo continues, bowing with a flourish in your direction. “I came to realize that this particular human was something special. I decided to accept her into the fold. Mostly because she kept Nandor off my back and also my wife threatened to maim my testicles if I ate her…

“So, here we are, human. The last night of your life and we’ve got just one thing to say…”

The couple launches into a screeching, cloying rendition of “(I’ve had) The Time of my Life” from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack (blatantly stolen from Laszlo’s catalogue of compositions). Your face is frozen in horrified laughter and you flick your gaze to Guillermo’s to see that he’s covering his mouth to stifle his own laughs. On your other side, Nandor is clapping along and bobbing his head with the music. Yup, this is your tribe.

The party goes on for another couple hours. Laszlo and Nadja perform several more “hits” before finishing up with “The Girl in the Village with the Very Small Foot.” Nadja’s singing voice is still ringing in your ears when Nandor bends down to whisper, “It’s time, my human.”

The levity of the party has done a lot to calm your nerves, but you can’t help the sudden grip of anxiety around your throat at his words. You look up, falling, once again, into the fathomless depths of his lovely, dark eyes and you think, That’s what this is. You’re going to live in that deep, dark beauty from now on. There’s nothing scary about that.

You both stand up to leave and say your goodbyes. Laszlo and Colin wish you luck. Guillermo hugs you and presses several quick kisses to your cheeks as Nandor murmurs warningly, “Watch it!”

When he releases you, you’re suddenly engulfed in the arms of a crying Nadja.

“I do love you, you magnificent, ruthless baby!” she sobs. “Nandor, if you fuck this up I’m going to make a hat out of your asshole.”

You laugh into her shoulder and Nandor complains, “Yeesh! Alright, calm down, Nadja!”

By the time you’ve pried yourself from Nadja’s grip you’ve joined her in crying and your face is soaked. Who knew vampires could be so sentimental?

Nandor grimaces in distaste as he brings his hands up to wipe away the tears.

“Ready!?”

---

Nandor’s crypt looks just as it always does. No crepe paper or glitter in sight. Just the warm glow of candles, the rich red and gold accents of the decor, and the solid familiar bulk of the coffin where you’ve spent so many nights wrapped in his protective embrace. He leads you over to the chaise lounge and you both sit, fidgeting nervously and darting shy glances at one another.

Nandor plucks at the fabric of your dress, “This is nice.”

You smile faintly, “Thanks, I--I thought maybe I should dress up for the occasion. Is that stupid? I guess it’ll just get stained…”

“No,” Nandor cuts in, looking earnest and serious. “No, I’ll be careful.”

You nod and fall silent again. The knowledge of what you’re about to do seems to hang like a thick curtain between you. The easy intimacy that you’ve shared is strained with the gravity of what is to come. Nandor finally huffs out an exasperated sigh and pulls you into his lap. At first you think he’s just going to bite the bullet, so to speak, and dig into your neck at once. But instead he grabs your face and pulls you into a searing, all-consuming kiss.

He tangles his fingers in your hair, pushing his tongue into your mouth with a low groan. You stroke your hands down the long column of his throat, running them across his broad shoulders and down his back. How this man--this perfectly imperfect, wonderfully fragile, fierce warrior man--has come to choose you, you can’t begin to understand. For countless other human souls, catching the eye of Nandor the Relentless has meant grim misfortune. For you, finding yourself the prey of a murderous vampire is the best thing that’s ever happened in your life.

Except maybe being MVP at last year’s championship bout.

Nandor’s lips fall away and he looks up at you, panting heavily with his hair mussed and tangled. His gaze flicks down to your exposed throat and you see him swallow in anticipation. He reaches for something on an end table and shows you the stainless steel travel mug containing his blood. You take it from him noting the strip of masking tape on the lid with Nandor’s elegant scrawl--his name and the date.

You snort, setting the container down on the cushions beside you and looking back up at Nandor.

“Prepare yourself, my mortal,” he growls, fangs elongating and eyes flashing with a predatory gleam.

You turn your head, baring your neck for your vampire boyfriend, and answering lightly, “I have a name, you know.”

---

THE END

A/N: Hey, thank you so so so much to everyone who read and supported this fic from the beginning! Your comments and encouragement mean the world to me!

Tags:

@festering-queen, @kandomeresbitch, @strangestdiary, @glitterportrait, @scuzmunkie, @redwoodshadows, @sarasxe, @rileyomalley

#nandor the relentless #nandor x reader #nandor the relentless x reader #nandor the relentless imagine #wwdits fanfic #wwdits #what we do in the shadows

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let-me-love-you-loki · 3 years

Text

Welcome to Oblivion-Ch. 35

Chapter 35

The super amazing Valentine’s Day plan turned out to be tacos drowning in queso from the local Mexican place and a marathon of John Hughes movies on Netflix. Dean blushed brightly as he confessed that it had been his job to get reservations for dinner and he’d forgotten because of a fight and his advanced engine mechanics exam. I just smiled and kissed his cheek as I passed by to grab my third taco. Roman chuckled from his place on the sofa, his feet propped up on the table next to a bouquet of pink, white, and red roses. They were sticking out of an empty spaghetti jar, but they were beautiful.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said again as he plopped into place next to me. “I promise we had something really nice planned, princess.”

“Stop apologizing,” I replied, bumping my shoulder with his. “This is amazing. I’ve never been one of those kinds of girls anyway. Plus, Ortiz makes the best tacos for a hundred miles.”

Roman draped his arm around my shoulders and grinned. “While you might not be the kind of girl that likes that stuff, you deserve it. You know… getting showered with all kinds of amazing things. I mean… you do have two boyfriends.”

My heart skipped a beat and a sensation of warmth and happiness bled through my body. It was more than just being caught up between the two of them on the sofa, their bulk radiating heat and the sweet scent of their cologne. Being with them made me feel at home in a way that I never had before. They made me feel like myself… the best version of myself.

“I have two of the best boyfriends,” I said, tucking my feet up beneath me. “Who buy me tacos and watch sappy 80’s movies with me. There’s only one thing that would make this the most amazing Valentine’s Day ever.”

Dean chuckled low in his throat. “And what’s that?”

Before I could say anything, the apartment door burst open and Seth slipped inside. Rain settled on his shoulders and the beanie covering his dark hair. He cradled a white cardboard box in his hand. “Sorry, I know,” he said sadly. “I’ll stay in my room and not bother you guys. I picked up a cake from Maddie’s downtown. Red velvet with chocolate icing.”

Seth slipped out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of one of the mismatched chairs by the kitchen table. He sat the cake on the counter and passed by with a worn, unhappy sort of smile. His eyes were dark and forlorn. The sound of his door felt like a heavy blow.

The Breakfast Club played in the background, Judd Nelson going on about his horrible home life. Somehow, the mood in the room changed. Dean turned sideways, his fingertips tracing gently along the side of my face. He tucked stray hair behind my ear.

“I see that look,” he whispered.

“What look?” I queried, trying to look normal as I stuffed half a taco into my mouth.

Roman’s hand curled around mine. His thumb rubbed slow circles along the back of my hand. “That endearing worried look. I’ve seen you look at Drew and Sonya that way. It bothers you that Seth is upset.”

My heart fell into my stomach. I had a horrible sinking feeling in my guts. It was sour and bitter all at once. For some reason, the sensation felt familiar.

“Maybe it does,” I replied at last. “I’ll check on him in the morning.”

Dean pressed a kiss against my temple. Roman settled his chin on my shoulder. “Go ahead,” he whispered against my ear. “I know what he means to you, baby girl.”

I closed my eyes, scrunching them shut as that sick, sinking feeling settled in my stomach. I pressed my lips together. Fought back vomit as it clawed up my throat. “No,” I murmured, suddenly desperately exhausted.

Dean trailed his fingertips along my jaw to the point of my chin. “Go on, princess. It’s okay.”

I couldn’t make sense of how the two of them could read me so easily. My heart squeezed in my chest. I wanted to be sick, I wanted to cry, I wanted to shout and whisper and wail at how much I didn’t deserve them. There was something wrong with me. Something so desperately, deeply, undeniably wrong.

I smiled faintly at Roman and Dean, lucky to have the two of them. They understood me so well, even when I didn’t deserve it. I kissed Dean’s cheek and squeezed Roman’s hand as I passed by. Faint light filtered out from beneath Seth’s bedroom door. Time seemed to move slowly as I rested my forehead against the wood and knocked.

“Damn it, I know, okay,” Seth swore as he thumped around in his room. His footsteps were heavy as he stomped to the door, yanking it open so fast that I very nearly fell over. “I’m leaving. Just give me a sec—”

His brown doe eyes went wide. Clearly, he hadn’t expected me to be there. My heart skipped sideways, and I couldn’t explain why. Something danced over his face, lighting up his expression, but it flitted away before I could make sense of it. “What are you doing here?”

I leaned against the doorframe. He smelled like coffee beans and vanilla. The scent hurtled memories before my mind’s eye. The two of us sprawled in the floor of the living room, notes and books strewn over the table, plates scraped clean of Dean’s famous breakfast sandwiches mixed in with fast food containers and a cascade of coffee cups stacked everywhere. Standing in the hallway before our lecture began, leaning against the wall and arguing about music and bad sci-fi movies.

Something tugged in the space behind my ribs. For a moment, I lost my breath entirely.

“You looked upset,” I whispered. I had the strangest urge to hug him—to hold him and protect him from everything. “What’s wrong?”

The corners of his mouth tipped upward in a poor imitation of a smile. “Stop worrying about me, Addy. Go spend your Valentine’s Day with Dean and Ro.”

I blinked, trying to stop tears that appeared out of nowhere. I couldn’t understand why I was crying in the first place. “Don’t do that,” I gasped, robbed entirely of breath. “Don’t act like you don’t care.”

Seth backed up a step, looking at me as if he’d never seen me before. His fingers twitched at his side like he wanted to reach out but was restraining himself. “Don’t care about what exactly?

My throat closed. I felt like screaming. Like beating my fists against his chest until he admitted it. I couldn’t entirely figure out what I wanted him to admit, but the irrationally emotional side of me didn’t care.

“You’re unhappy. You’re hurt. My God, Seth, you’re here on Valentine’s Day when you should be with… Oh…” The flash of anger melted in an instant. His eyes lost focus. “It’s none of my business. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he mumbled, propping himself up on the door. He was close, the scent of him stronger than before. “She had a very good reason for breaking up with me.”

The urge to hold him rushed back at me. I had to restrain myself. I crossed my arms over my chest instead. “And what was it exactly?” I heard the hesitation, the hitch in my voice, and hated myself for it.

That look appeared in his eyes again—making him look impossibly dark and fathomless. He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, clenched his fists at his sides. It was as if he were fighting a battle with himself—one that he was clearly losing.

With a sigh, he met my gaze. “It’s hard to be in a relationship with someone who’s in love with someone else. Even if it’s someone they can’t ever have.”

He looked… broken. There was no other word for it. I hated it. Myself for putting him in this position. For ruining him… for ruining whatever friendship we had. How could I do this? How could I keep doing this?

The tears dripped hot and molten down my cheeks. I swiped them away frustratedly. Seth was in pain, and it wasn’t fair for me to break down in front of him. Not like this. I sucked in a deep breath and nodded furiously.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry, Seth. Becky doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

I turned on my heel and walked away, holding my shoulders as steady as possible. I wanted… I didn’t know what I wanted. Everything about me—about this entire situation—was wrong. Damaged. Ugly and desperately, completely twisted. Sick.

The overwhelming urge to curl up with Roman and Dean nearly knocked me to my knees. And yet… I wanted them to hate me. To look at me and see that I wasn’t worthy of them and their hearts. That I was a selfish girl who wanted everything and then more and more. They were good and kind and deserved far better than whatever I was.

Simple Minds hummed from the television as I practically stumbled into the living room. Dean sat sideways, watching the hallway and chewing on the edge of his thumb. Roman leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, a deep furrow in his brow. They both looked up when I stepped into the room, nearly stumbling over my own feet.

“Addy,” Roman queried as he practically crossed the room in two steps. He wrapped me in my arms, catching me as I stumbled and fell against his chest. For a brief moment, I thought I’d passed out.

In the next moment, I was curled in his lap on the sofa, Dean scooting closer. His worn fingers cradled the back of my head as he stroked the back of my neck with his thumb. Roman swept his fingers along my cheeks, wiping away the tears that still burned along my face. I ached in a way that I couldn’t explain. I hurt in a way that was more than I had the right to. It was a heartbreak that I hadn’t earned.

“What happened, baby girl?” Roman murmured, his hand curling gently along my throat. “Did he say something?”

Dean smiled against my shoulder. “Did he finally tell you the truth?”

“The truth about what?” I whimpered, wanting to curl into a ball. It felt like a hole had been punched straight through my chest. “I thought he was my friend. I thought…”

Roman kissed me gently, barely a brush of his lips against mine. “He is, Addy. He cares for you more than you could imagine.”

Dean’s voice ran over me like water. He pressed his mouth against the curve of my throat. “He’s like me, princess. He’s just too scared to say it.”

Tag List

@mox-made-me-do-it

@vebner37

@lilred91

@not-that-kinda-gurl08

@maelleoute

@missjenniferb

@librathepheonix13

#welcome to oblivion #roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #dean ambrose #dean ambrose fanfiction #seth rollins #seth rollins fanfiction #the shield #the shield fanfiction #wwe #wwe fanfiction #shield!Au #College!AU #College!Shield #multi-chapter

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thisentertaining · 3 years

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Avatar: The Last Archivist

The main characters from Avatar: The Last Airbender as different Avatars from The Magnus Archives.

I did 14 characters, one for each entity.

Trigger Warnings: Basically every TMA entity. Specifically mentions of claustrophobia, cannibalism, suicide, manipulation, ect.

____

There is a boy, with eyes like a stormcloud, deep and fathomless. He has arrows tattooed on his head, on his arms. When you ask about them he laughs, and says ‘when I’m upside down’ as though that was all the explanation. He asks if you want to do something fun, a roller coaster, skydiving, a trampoline park. When you agree, it is fun, at first. You close your eyes to protect them from the rushing wind. When you open them again, the ground is gone. There is no down. There is only sky, and you are falling. Beside you he laughs, bright and joyous and childlike, though it can hardly be heard over your screams. His arrows are pointed up, wherever that is. As he cannonballs past you for the 3rd, 8th, 19th, 76th time he says that ‘fear is what makes it fun’. His ‘woops’ cover your sobs.

There is a girl, dressed in blue with loops in her dark brown hair. She watches you with soft, sad eyes and says ‘It’s so sad, isn’t it? Being the last.’ ‘The last what?’ you ask, but you know. ‘The last of your kind. There is no one to teach you how to reach your potential. You’ll never be able to train anyone to be like you. You’re the last.’ ‘I am.’ You say, feeling cold as a painful pressure settles on your chest. It feel like you could drown in your loneliness.

There is a boy, one who looks similar to the girl, who loves meat. Grilled, roasted, stuffed, boiled, hunted, farmed or store bought. Any kind of meat, cooked in any manner, at any time. In the moments where he is not eating meat, he is thinking about it. He eats, and he eats, and he eats, until he is long since the point of caring what the meat is. Who the meat is. As he finishes his plate he looks to you and licks his lips.

There is another boy, pale of skin and gold of eye, with a burn that stretches across his face. “I will capture my prey.” He vows. “And then my honor will be restored.” He hunts, and he tracks, and he follows a prey that can never escape. If you find yourself his prey, you can hide and run and fight, but will sone find his claws surrounding you. However, even as he catches you, his mind is on his next target, for his prey is not what he truly seeks. He will never achieve what he really wants, but still he hunts for it. He knows that the capture is the least thrilling part of the chase.

With him travels an older man, a man who is kindly, portly and always grants a smile. He offers you a cup of tea and a game of Pai Sho, but from your first sip and his first move, he Knows you far better than you know yourself. He gives you tea exactly as you like it, and every move you make he has something to meet it. His words are proverbs and pretty saying, but all touch a part of you that he should not know. He Knows. He Sees.

There is an island in this world, where women with painted faces and fans of blades congregate. Practice. Fight. They learn to use the force of others against themselves. They learn to go for the throat They are more willing to fight than to ask questions. In the water there is a monster that they feed the ships that dare get close. In their hearts there is a monster that they feed the souls of those who survive to reach the land. Tearing them apart until blood and bone can be used to paint warnings on their faces.

There is a boy. He is at home in the woods, living in the trees and filth and gime. He collect people. Children. They build homes in bug-filled trees until they have their own hive infesting the forest. A piece of wheat sticks in his mouth, green-blue and fuzzy with mold. He sees sickness in those that invade his home. He sees corruption in those outside of his hive. He stands at the foot of a dam, working on the logs until rot eats through them, purging the woods of the existing host and giving more room for his parasitic hive to grow.

There is a girl with long white hair. She has a kind smile, and mourning eyes. She tells you ‘You’ve always known that this was your fate.’ And you realize that you did. ‘You were given life for a reason, it makes sense that this would be asked of you.’ It did. What reason did you have to live except for this. You always knew it would come to this. ‘You are doing this for your people. It is your duty. It is a noble sacrifice.” You nod. You take whatever it is she offers you. And you End.

There is a man who is in the dark. He does not see truth, does not see life. He walks in the dark and in doing so imagines himself bigger than he is, and imagines others as smaller. He wishes to spread his darkness, an insipid thing that seems to be a tangible presence in any room he is in. When you are near him, colors leech away to a point that the world seems to exist in black and white and grey, no matter how much light or color you attempt to introduce. If given enough power, he would gladly blot out the light of the moon itself, plunging the night into wholly his domain.

There is a young girl whose feet never leave the ground. In her hair there is a constant layer of dirt and dirt. Her eyes are milky-white, but she never trips and never struggles. You ask her if she needs help and she laughs and laughs and laugh. She seems to grow as she does, until you realize that you are sinking. You are up to your ankles-shins-knees-thighs- in the dirt. She says that she cannot see, but in the ground she is no difference for her or anyone else. She says that one cannot stumble or trip or fall if they cannot move because of the ground’s embrace. She says that strength and sight and title means nothing to the earth. She sinks into the ground with a happy sigh right as the ground meets your eyes. Then you can see no more, and as she said, the earth cares not for your struggles.

There is a girl who is an acrobat in the circus. One may assume she would be a stranger, but no. She is quick to introduce herself, to identify herself apart from those she is often lumped with. However, there is something… not right. Her body bends and moves in a way that it Should Not, that the human body Can Not. She twists and flips and bends until her form is completely unidentifiable as one of flesh and blood and bones like yours. Her smile stretches a bit wider than lips should allow. She can make you do things, or make you stop, a few simple pokes and your body will no longer listen to your mind. A few more nudges and your mind will no longer listen to you.

Her friend is a Stranger though. A girl wo dresses plainly, with a face as expressionless as a mannequin and a voice that is as dry and as bland as an uncooked grain of rice. She holds knives sharp enough to flay your skin from your body. Sharp enough to flay your identify from your self. She reacts to little and speaks to less. You may know her name, but she will never allow you to know who she is.

The acrobat and the stranger dance and dangle at the strings of the web. Their friend, a girl of sharp features and a sharper mind. She wields cruelty and knowledge and vulnerability as tools, weapons that allow her to say and do exactly what she needs to make others follow her desires. She will talk to you, and she will lead you. You will follow her without question, without thought, until your feet are stuck fast in spider silk. She can lead anyone into her web with a smile. All but one. She has never dared try to ensnare her Father.

The girl’s father is cruel. He has ambition that supersedes the ability of every man, and does not care for consequences so long as he advances for his personal goals. He will burn through a bush and care not for the wildfire he started behind him so long as he can continue further. If anything, he will delight in having caused it. No one is safe from the destruction. Not his people, whom he destroys without reason and without care. He delights in the anguish they feel and the anguish their demise causes. Not his son, who bears his burn and hunts for an honor never lost. Not the world, which is slowly being burned around him. Not an ember touches his skin. If her were to burn you, he would likely never notice.

Aang – The Vast

Katara – The Lonely

Sokka – The Flesh

Zuko – The Hunt

Iroh – The Eye

Suki/Kyoshi Warriors – The Slaughter

Jet – The Corruption

Yue – The End

Zhao – The Dark

Toph – The Buried

Ty Lee – The Spiral

Mai – The Stranger

Azula – The Web

Ozai – The Desolation

Thanks for reading!!

Yeah, I don’t know either. But if anyone else is a fan of these and wants to make fanart of Martin and Iroh drinking tea together and complaining about loving over-dramatic nerds who do not react normally to acts of love and kindness, you would have my eternal thank.

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tcstu · 3 years

Text

January’s Honorable Mentions

This month’s piece generated some incredible stories. I chose this work of art believing there were numerous tales buried within it, and I was not disappointed. Each entry took a completely different perspective on what is happening in this scene. If you enjoy one of the Honorable Mentions below, please let the writer know. I’m sure they would love to hear from you.

As a reminder, I celebrated the new year by featuring one of my favorite artists, @hydraart. If you’ve been following this contest, you may remember that this artist was also featured in January of 2019 and 2020. This seems to now be a New Year’s tradition, and I am happy to be able to continue it this year. If you would like to see the pieces previously featured by this artist, you can view them here:

January 2020

May 2019

January 2019

The piece for this month was titled, “Hide and Seek.” Here it is along with the Honorable Mentions for this month:

(These entries are listed in the order they were received and do not reflect a system of ranking.)

Untitled

Written by: @emilyelizabethfowl

Ten

She couldn’t tell whether the breeze she felt came from nature or from Its wings.

Nine

At least she didn’t have to worry about the smell betraying her hiding spot.

Eight

Sound, however, was a different matter entirely.

Seven

But her legs were starting to feel numb…

Six

It certainly wouldn’t hurt to move them, just a little, would it?

Five

Just a teeny tiny little bit…

Four

Slowly, carefully, she stretched her left leg.

Three

Then, bringing it back, she stretched out her right one.

Two

But she did it too fast, too carelessly.

One

Losing balance, she fell down. Her elbow knocked into the giant sheet of metal she was hiding under, the sound carrying far.

Zero

Barely seconds later, giant talons dented the metal, ripping it away easily.

Found you!

Aw, shucks.

She stood up, turning to face the creature.

“Best three out of five?” she offered.

It’s already past your bedtime. A deal is a deal.

Ah well. It was worth a try. She climbed the creature’s back, clinging tightly to the feathers longer than she was tall.

She’d win their next game for sure!

“Eleanor And The Great Bird”

Written by: @evanthenerd83

“Do not move,” Eleanor whispers to herself, thin frame curled inward.

The flapping of wings drowns out her panicked breathing. Dust swirls around. Bits and pieces rain down, and they sound like bullet casings striking metal.

Eleanor could recognize the sound anywhere. It is as familiar as her grandfather’s wartime movies. Black and white visions of the dead.

“Do not move,” Eleanor reminds herself, eyes scanning the words scratched into the steel.

The great bird passes overhead, and the entire shard shakes with its might. She bites her lip. A moment of terrible silence.

It is circling around. Coming back.

“Do… not… move,” Eleanor repeats, unaware that it doesn’t matter.

The shelter is just a jagged piece of roof. It isn’t big enough to hide her, not all of her. Not her shadow.

And unfortunately, the sun is burning in her direction.

The great bird has locked on.

The great bird makes one last turn…

Sit Com

Created by @daalseth ( Doug Aalseth )

"Ma!!" came the anguished cry.

"What is it?" replied his mother, her voice drenched in fatigue.

"Billy smashed up my 172 scale model Medieval Human Village."

"Now Tommy..."

"It wasn't me," shouted Billy. "I wouldn't do nothing with your stupid model."

"Yes it was," shouted Tommy waving his wing at the table. "That's your feather laying right there."

"Nuh-huh."

"Uh-huh."

"Nuh-huh."

Their mother rubbed a talon against her throbbing forehead. It was going to be a long day. Maybe it was time to just kick the little bastards out of the nest? She looked at the two chicks arguing. "No," she said softly, "I'll give it one more day."

“Whatever It Takes”

Written by: @winterrose42

I dug my fingers deep into the ground as I curled tighter into myself, squeezing my eyes shut in a vain effort to concentrate. This had to work- in the end it’s all I could do, whatever God that’s left forgive me. I could feel the beast looming impossibly large behind me, breath wuffing over the ruined plains like winds before a storm. A low growl thundered from its throat and I dug harder even as my fingernails protested and bent from the dirt being shoved underneath them. I couldn’t fail. I had to find them, and to do that I needed to make it out alive. To do that…

I felt it suddenly, claws slicing easily into the dirt deep enough that I’m sure someone could make a bomb shelter of it later. The tips of its heavy wings brushed the uneven ground, dragging stone and steel along as they swayed in rest. Feeling the pull of its head was the worst; it had seen me that much I knew, darting from toppled building to ruined tower to hastily put up shelter as fast as my legs could carry me had not been fast enough. It’s great shriek had nearly deafened me as it shook the earth landing just a few yards away from where I had crouched. The few warriors who had gathered to head off the beast- they all knew in their hearts they hadn’t a chance of making it.

That’s what I kept telling myself as the beast’s arm raised and came crashing down to sweep away fallen debris and lean to steel sheets and scattered weapons, armor and men alike, leaving them to try and bury themselves yet again. Collect their wits and reorganize perhaps. I couldn’t afford to give them that chance. Setting everything in motion the wings swept back, the arms came up, the eyes focused forward, sharp beak opening wide with vocal chords straining to make its signature call- and so it was done.

All at once I severed the connection, feeling impossibly small and weak and useless once again as the ground shook like an earthquake with the speed at which the beast fell, screaming its indignation at being puppeted for as long as it had, intelligent eyes snapping forward to those running for better cover, myself sitting still and forgotten for the moment in light of more easily accessed prey. I covered my ears and closed my eyes, whispering out a prayer of forgiveness to carry on the artificial wind for those who cared to hear it.

Eventually the shaking ceased, noise quieted, beast placated if only for a moment making it possible to crawl out and stand up though I dared not turn around. Sticking to the irrational belief that my imagined carnage was worse and therefore I was absolved of blame I squared my shoulders and turned west.

I had survived and would continue to do so through whatever means necessary. I would survive. And I would find them.

Maran-do

Written by: @spoldhamindieauthor (S.P. Oldham)

Maran huddled beneath the toppled roof of a ruined dwelling, sitting now upon the ground, broken and battered. All of the buildings in this tiny hamlet told a similar story; one of destruction and wrath.

Maran heaved a silent sigh. He had sent out Maran-do, his mind partner, when the day was still bright, her task to bring down anyone he had not dispatched. Very few would be daring enough to try to evade her. It would take a remarkable being indeed to slip past Maran-do unnoticed, avoiding her wicked talons. He had never known it happen yet.

Maran-do hung in the air now like a dark, oppressive shadow. She had been the foretelling of death for so many souls, Maran had long since stopped counting.

He had never imagined she would foretell his own death, too. Maran frowned, trying to recall such a thing happening before. What could possibly cause a mind-partner to turn upon its host? It was unheard of.

He knew the tiniest movement would be enough to alert her to his whereabouts. Resisting the urge to break cover and run, Maran struggled with ordering his thoughts. That was the biggest problem. Maran-do was inside his head as well as outside it. She knew his own mind better than he knew it himself.

How could he possibly escape? Wherever he went, Maran-do would go with him. Why had she turned on him? In a rare moment of self-pity, Maran gave a sniff.

It was enough. He could feel the air outside shifting, darkness looming over his hiding place like an unstoppable, oncoming storm. For the briefest instant, Maran felt the terror and utter helplessness so many had known before.

A large talon tapped impatiently before him. Inside his head, the words ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are’ blossomed into life like clouds of puffed smoke, Maran-do taunting him with his own phrase.

“Why?” Maran breathed, “Why do you turn upon me?”

More words of smoke, ‘I am to be mind-partner to a greater one than you, little Maran,’ using the childhood endearment, ‘Your mind is weak. You take much pleasure from death and killing. I belong to a greater mind than yours,’ she repeated.

She raised her foot. Maran flinched as, above him, the beams and planks of the rough wooden roof began to splinter. Instinctively he crouched, making himself smaller, as if he could avoid being crushed.

He had just enough time to wonder how she could survive without his mind to host her. Then he was gone; snuffed out like a bare candle in a blizzard.

Maran-do stretched her wings, letting out a silent shriek as her head turned to the west. A new host awaited her, a new name forming in her mind even as she rose from the earth. A path of flight was shown to her fathomless mind, stretching like an umbilical cord across the skies.

Maran was dead.

So was Maran-do.

Tethered

Written by: @wildler

I heard the spirits before I saw them—their strangled moans carrying through the smoke-stained air. Carys whinnied beneath me, her ears twitching in all directions.

“Easy girl,” I murmured, stroking her neck. “Only a little further. Should be the next clearing.”

The sound continued, growing stronger as we pushed closer to where the village was rumoured to be. I tugged the hood of my cloak from my head, sweat sticking my hair to my neck. It seemed my limited healing skills had arrived too late to be of use—but my other skills—well, perhaps I would return to the king with something more substantial than rumours at last.

We entered the clearing, the devastation hitting me like a sword to the gut. Homes had been scalped, gutted and burned. Their charred remains left crumbling into the earth. Spirits inhabited the ruins. Flickers of human outlines that cried out as they relived their violent, final moments of existence. Their fear keeping them tethered to this plane.

I dismounted Carys and pressed my hands to the ground, shuddering as the sweat on my neck turned cold. A haze of panic blanketed the site like thick smoke, making it impossible to get a sense of the events leading to its ruin. I sank my fingers into the soil and focused my will, trying again.

Sounds and smells came rushing at me, distorted screams on a hot jet of air. My eyes sprang open to find the spirits staring in eerie silence, their gaze passing right through me to something on the horizon.

I heard the presence before I saw it—a monstrous shriek carried on a blast of flame. It was an end too terrifying and binding to escape.

And so, I relive it again.

#Honorable Mentions #January 2021 #writeblr #writing community #writing contest #ekphrastic ficiton contest #ekphrastic fiction #January writing #January 2021 Honorable Mentions

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 3 months

Note

Why did you go and create an OC love interest for Khan when the USS Vengeance is RIGHT THERE?!

Hmmmm...I'm a little confused by your reference to the Vengeance in relation to my OC. Unless you mean to say that the ship itself should be his beloved?

But anyway...

I've always written OCs paired with canon characters in my fics. It's my true wheelhouse. Maybe because creating them satisfies that same artistic urge that always led me to build complex biographies for the characters I played in my (now ancient) Acting days. And I adore fashioning women to meet the emotional needs of canon characters who I perceive are in want of understanding, compassion, and love.

'A Khan By Any Other Name' is a prequel to 'Star Trek Into Darkness', inspired by this photo of Benedict Cumberbatch, taken for GQ Magazine leading up to the movie's release.

It fired my imagination to tell the story that reflects the complex, fascinating Khan that Benedict created, who is so much more than a black & white villain. So much more than the 300 year old, brilliant, brutal warrior he is revealed to be. My OC is a means to see a tender side to this man who values his family above all things - and also a chance to give him a backstory that can help us see what formed him into a man who feels all things deeply (even while he conceals himself behind a mask of dispassion), exactly as Benedict portrayed him.

'Man of Passion, Force of Nature' grew out of a tumblr prompt (specifically asking for an OC) and takes place during Khan's reign on Earth as leader of the Augments, during the war that eventually led to he and his people being exiled to deep space aboard the Botany Bay.

Wow - I have to thank you for this Ask, because it feels really good to revisit these two WIPs after too long away! I swear someday they will be finished. In fact, I've already written the end and epilogue for 'Khan' in my mind, though so much of life has gotten in the way of painting the words on my computer screen.

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battlestarbean · 3 years

Text

Just a random little Mr. Queen ending, nbd.

I have Lingering Mr. Queen Feelings, and like a good number of folks out there, they mostly revolved around the ending, which I felt, to put it diplomatically, was not as amazing as it could have been. So! to exercise this nonsense from my body I wrote up a little ending myself, deeply unbetaed, all apologies, but it did the trick in easing the itch just a little bit, I think.

In the end, the decision to stay was simple. Breathtakingly so, though that part could have been the deep spreading ache in his back from where the bullet had tried to punch through his body. I came here for no reason and I am leaving, he thought wildly for a moment, thoughts broken up by the dizzying pain spreading across his ribcage and his inability to draw a full breath. But now, now , there was a reason to stay---wasn’t there? He swears for a moment he can hear the quiet beeping of a monitor in a hospital and he thinks NO with every last bit of strength left to him and the sound fades. Cheoljong’s face hovers above him, drawn in misery and terror. He tries to reassure him, remind him that they have a job to do, that the final boss awaits him still. Joseon is still waiting. It is the moment of wretched indecision on Choljeong’s face that seals the deal. Somewhere, through the pain and confusion, something inside him sighs and settles. Well, the something seems to say, that answers that.

He watches Cheoljong stride away, glorious, bruised but not beaten, full of glorious purpose as he approaches the palace. Then a cramp rolls through his stomach and the pain starbursts through his body, spreading in all directions but centered low in his belly. As his world goes black, he only has a few seconds to think, ‘Baby. Baby. My baby’ and then strong arms are pulling him up and off the ground, and he sinks into the awaiting darkness.

He’s been here before. It’s quiet and still in the water of the lake. The depth is fathomless and only a strange light illuminates the water. As before, So-young floats up to meet him, and though she says nothing, she understands her perfectly.

If you stay, she is telling him, you cannot go back. You will be there, in my body. A body so different from your own.

He nods, he knows this. Unbidden, he remembers agonizing over the first time he had slept with Cheoljong, how he had bleakly mused that it had been good---maybe even better than before. Even as he’d freaked out, he had marveled at that realization. He had wondered what it meant for him, what that meant about him. Even now, in this space-in-between, he feels his face heat as he remembers the closeness of their bodies, the breathless, helpless noises that had escaped from his throat despite his efforts, the exultant words whispered over his skin, shared breath and the relentless drive of the king’s hips, leaving him pinned and at the mercy of a pleasure he had never experienced before, despite his previous sexual adventures.

But he knows he’ll miss his old body, just like he knows he’ll miss real bathrooms, and living in a glittering modern city, and soju and beer and his dick and-

Despite all that, when he thinks about being back in his time without Cheoljong, without this man, who has become, against all reason, his person, his ally, his partner-in-crime, his love---a rolling darkness, a bleak grief so overwhelming creeps up from his and through his body like an unrelenting wave and threatens to come pouring out of his mouth as an unending wail. He had thought his life was so perfect. He thought he had known and experienced everything worth knowing and experiencing How could he possibly go back after realizing how wrong he’d been?

He has always been a bit selfish, but never stupid.

I will make it my body. I will treat it well, and it will be mine. Where will you be? He asks. Here, still?

I will move on, she says. There is quiet sadness there, no doubt, but also firm resolution. I thought the only decision I could make that was fully mine was to end my life. This life isn’t mine anymore, it’s yours. She tilts her head thoughtfully, braid softly floating behind her, I suppose some part of me will be here, as you’ll have my memories, but---this life that you’ve built. This child--They are clearly yours.

His hands press against the floating folds of his hanbok. Genius baby.

He then feels a trickle of real fear for the first time since they snuck back into the palace. My baby. My little one--

If you go back, she says, you must endure. It will not be easy and I cannot promise--I cannot promise your safety or your child’s

You don’t need to promise me anything, he says, we’re going to be just fine. But as sure as he may have sounded to her, and in his head, he’s noticing that he can feel the cold bite of the water now, and there is a dull ache starting to radiate out from his center. He can feel himself being pulled away, This is your last chance, she says, serene as ever. Make your decision.

He closes his eyes and---

He feels his back arch in pain, and his insides are being torn apart. Spike after spike of stabbing agony radiates from his middle, and he can no longer lock the screams from behind clenched teeth. He feels a hand grip his and maybe it’s better that the pain is forcing his eyes closed because he doesn’t think he could take it if he had to see the desperate hopelessness he knows is written on Choljeong’s face. He is so stoic, his king, but he has seen how he takes it upon himself when those he cares for are hurt or in danger, so he doesn’t need to see to know how much he aches to take this pain away from him, frustrated at his inability to do nothing, nothing but watch and pray like the rest of them.

The tonic he is given soothes him for a minute and he sinks into oblivion again. With the few coherent thoughts he can gather he prays. Stay with me, Sweet genius baby, Stay with me. We’ll be such good parents. We already love you so much. I need to be the chance to be the equivalent of a Joseon helicopter mom. I need to show you how to encourage peace but prepare for war. I need to teach you how to cook and beat your dad at gambling and---

He wakes up after who knows how long, his body aching, and warm sunlight filtering through the room. Cheoljong is crying and clutching his hand and for a minute he remembers the blood and the pain and his heart skips a beat, but then he hears the doctor’s murmurs that they have both made it through the night. He can barely move, he’s still so tired, but he’s so thankful, so so thankful. Thank you for choosing to stay with us, little genius baby’ he thinks, and takes the deepest breath his sore, exhausted body will allow him and smiles.

He has to take it easy for a while, Hong Yeon and Court Lady Choi hovering like nervous, deeply beloved birds, but he assures them that exiling the Queen Dowager and the Grand Queen Dowager to the Western Palace has greatly strengthened him.

The days turn into weeks and the baby grows and grows, delighting and terrifying him in turns. Only when he contemplates labor does he wonder if he made the right decision to stay with Cheoljong, but then the baby kicks and Cheoljong smiles that ridiculously goofy smile, the one only Bong-Hwan gets to see, his nerves settle and he sighs. Ah well, he thinks, at this point, the only way out is through. Let’s do this.

He does wonder, sometimes, about the future. If they truly rewrote history, if their successes here change Korea for the better. He misses soju and beer and clubs and dancing and modern conveniences like aching occasionally. Sometimes while musing he’ll catch the king staring at him, kind of sadly, like he knows he’s thinking about something he might never understand. In those moments he turns to Cheoljong with a smirk and says, “Shall I tell you more stories of the future?” Cheoljong lights up, when asked this, and Bong-Hwan doesn’t for a moment fail to see how much his ‘tales’ draw Cheoljong in, and he knows that sharing them with him is a kind of reassurance, to him that he will never leave the king’s side. He remembers how Cheoljong fretted in his own quiet way, when he recognized how little Bong-Hwan smiled, and he certainly won’t forget those ridiculous-ass faces he pulled in an effort to make him do so. To think that he could only be seeing those dumb faces in a history book (if they changed the future, and honestly, something tells him they definitely did) fills him with a yawning emptiness that can only be remedied by pulling Cheoljong close and whispering, ‘Let me tell you about Blackpink.”

#mr queen #bong hwan #king cheoljong #kim so yong #jang so yong #queen cheorin #kim so bong #even with the ending I still love this show #it was so good

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whumpinggrounds · 3 years

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Jasper Falls

earlier this week when i was trying to work on something for LCJ, my brain said what about instead we do THIS

so here we are??? idk what this is yet but i have the sinking sense it is the tip of a very large iceberg.

CW: collapse, referenced lab whump, nonbinary whumpee, semi reluctant/incompetent caretaker, exhaustion, uhhhhh idk what else lmk if i forgot something :)

“Jasper?”

The kitchen is silent. Wilder’s actually not sure why he woke up, but now that he is blinking into awareness, he wants to check if Jasper’s in bed. There’s no reply yet, and Wilder wonders if they’re asleep. He hopes so, but he can’t help doubting. He’s been here for weeks, and somehow has only seen Jasper asleep a handful of times. “Jasper?” he calls again, a little bit louder. Once more, there’s no response. Cautiously, Wilder props himself up, peering around the room.

This late, the moon provides the only illumination in the dark room, but the light pouring in from the high windows is enough to show Jasper’s cot by the door. It’s empty, blankets folded with machinelike precision at the bottom. Biting his lip, Wilder considers for a moment rolling over and going back to bed. There’s more than enough reason for him to ignore Jasper’s absence. He’s tired. He has to be up early in the morning. Judging by the angle of the moonlight through the windows, it’s the middle of the night. Even Master Aeron must be asleep at this hour.

Yet apparently, Jasper is not. It could be nothing. It’s probably nothing. Even if it’s not nothing, it’s none of Wilder’s business…but something in Wilder’s stomach is bothering him. He can’t shake the feeling that something might be wrong. Lying back down, he waits there for a moment, wondering if he could sleep even if he wanted to, and if he should try. Then he heaves an unheard, long-suffering sigh.

Groaning, Wilder hauls himself out of bed.

On sleepy, stumbling feet, Wilder makes his way to the kitchen doorway. The dining room beyond is dark, but the moon is bright enough to illuminate the hallway, so he forgoes a torch as he creeps towards the lab door. On every side loom fathomless shadows, and the cold stone beneath his feet is enough to make Wilder shiver and think longingly of his blankets. Still, he edges toward the door. It’s a bizarre, half-asleep whim, but he can’t shake the feeling that Jasper needs him.

At the barest touch of his fingers, the heavy steel door to Master Aeron’s laboratory swings open without a sound, doubtless thanks to Jasper’s continuous oiling. Not for the first time, Wilder finds himself reluctantly, profoundly grateful for his counterpart’s obsessive devotion.

Inside the lab it’s dark, all flames extinguished. The moonlight silvers everything, from the stone floor to the glassware lined up on the heavy oak tables. In some of the vials, liquids change color, bubbling and swirling in the semidarkness. Wilder glances at them covetously, out of the corner of his eye. Then he wrenches his gaze away. He’s on a mission right now.

Behind the first table, there’s nothing, but Wilder can see that beyond the second, there’s a dark lump stretched out across the floor. Pulse rate picking up, Wilder steps around the second table’s bulk and finds Jasper sprawled across the stone, limbs splayed around them as if they’ve fallen from a great height. Heart in his throat, Wilder leans down to take Jasper’s should in his hand and shake them gently. “Jazz? Hey, Jasper, you okay?”

It feels like an eon before those brown eyes crack open. When they do, Wilder swallows at the depthless exhaustion he sees there, the way their face remains slack and sallow, no life animating their features. The slitted eyes blink a few times, never opening more than halfway, and even when Jasper’s gaze settles on Wilder, their focus remains hazy, indistinct. Wilder’s heart sinks, seeing them so desperately weak.

“You can’ be in here.” Jasper’s words are so slurred, they hardly sound like speech. “Needa…stay out…”

Setting his jaw, Wilder shakes his head. “Not gonna happen. Jasper, you need help.”

“No’…not fr’m you.”

Wilder grits his teeth and tries to pretend that doesn’t bother him. “I’m the only one here,” he reminds Jasper, keeping his voice level, calm, businesslike. “Now c’mon. Let’s get you up off this floor and into your bed.”

“Leave…leave me.” Jasper is clearly trying to sound authoritative, but at the best of times, that’s a losing game. Their current position, limp-limbed with their cheek pressed to the floor, doesn’t help much. “Can…c’n handle myself.”

Wilder crouches down beside them, rests one hand on Jasper’s shoulder. “I’m here, though. You don’t have to do that.”

For a moment, Jasper is stone still, and Wilder gets to look at the stunned expression on their face. Then they shut their eyes, block him out. Turning their face fully into the floor, Jasper draws in a few hitching, unsteady breaths. The sound echoes off the floor.

“Okay,” they say finally, just when Wilder is about to remove his hand from their shoulder and try another tactic. Their voice is little more than a whisper, but at least it’s coming steadier now, and clear. “Help me up.”

Relief lightening his limbs, Wilder glances critically over Jasper’s prone position. “Right. Can you roll over on your own, or do you maybe want some help with that?”

Another unsteady, amplified breath, as Jasper faces the ground once more. “Help,” they grit out, eyes sliding away from Wilder’s inquiring gaze. Even in the dim moonlight, Wilder can see the flush in their cheeks. It makes him feel tenderly towards his companion, though Wilder isn’t sure why. Then again, nothing about his soft spot for Jasper makes sense.

“I’m going to count to three, and then I’ll roll you over, okay?”

Jasper makes no reply, but Wilder can see them gritting their teeth again, as if in anticipation of pain. It only strengthens Wilder’s resolve to be gentle.

“Okay, that’s one, and two, and three…”

Slowly, Wilder slides one hand under Jasper’s shoulder, and the other under their hip. Every movement considered and careful, he lifts them up and then adjusts his grip to let them down gently onto their back. They sigh as he does, a long release of air that Wilder knows is relief. Pulling back, Wilder pauses, eyes stuck on Jasper’s left arm.

There, in the crook of their elbow, previously hidden where it was pressed against the floor, is a deep, mottled bruise. It’s visible even in the unlit, nighttime darkness of the lab. Taking Jasper’s bicep gently in one hand, Wilder uses the other to follow the vein, suspicion confirmed by what he finds. Right in the crease of the elbow is a puncture mark. Wilder catches his breath. Glancing up, he finds Jasper looking pointedly away, blush once more giving away their shame.

“Master Aeron took your blood?”

He hates how confused his voice sounds; how clear it is that he doesn’t have any idea how this world works. Jasper shrugs as best they can, flat on their back on the ground, except that it looks more like a defensive hitch of their shoulders than the dismissal it’s meant to be.

“He needed it for a potion.”

Biting his lip, Wilder nods, wondering if this is really something he should be agreeing with. Not that Master Aeron shouldn’t have access to the material he needs, but…but he’s clearly left Jasper much too weak. “How much did he take?”

“Don’t know.” Now Jasper is struggling to prop themselves up on trembling arms, and Wilder suppresses a sigh. All they need right now is for Jas to slip and concuss themselves when they hit the ground again.

“Just – here.” Once more, he slips a hand under Jasper’s back, this time lifting his fellow apprentice up slowly to a sitting position. “Let’s hang out here for a second, okay? Don’t want you to get lightheaded again.”

In response, Jasper just mumbles indistinctly. Taking a quick peek under their mop of long, curly blonde hair, Wilder notes with a wince that their eyes are squeezed shut. “You feeling sick? Dizzy? Talk to me, Jazz.”

“Don’…fucking…call me Jazz,” Jasper spits. They’re trying to sound angry, but their hands are in fists pressed against their thighs and their arms are shaking all the way up to their shoulders. They’re hanging on by a thread, that much is clear.

Sitting back on his haunches, Wilder considers the trembling figure in front of them. With a few small adjustments, he sets Jasper up so they’re leaning against the leg of one of the big oaken tables. Then, Wilder straightens and slips away, back down the hallway. He leaves the lab door open just a crack behind him.

In the kitchen, Wilder grabs one of the little clay cups from underneath his cot and scoops some water out of the bucket by the stove. Long, careful steps carry him back to the lab, and distantly, he’s proud of himself for not spilling a drop.

When he squats down next to Jasper once again, he wonders for a minute if they’ve dropped back into unconsciousness. Their head is tipped back, their arms slack at their sides. Closer examination, though, reveals their brow is knit, and each breath comes with forceful focus. Far from unconscious, they’re fighting to stay awake. Shaking his head, Wilder takes their hand, squeezes it lightly. Slowly, their eyes flutter open.

“You came back?”

“Of course.” Wilder smiles at Jasper, and they just stare back at him, expression still blank of anything but mild confusion. “Got you some water. Here.”

For a long moment, Jasper just stares at the cup in front of them. When they reach out to take it, they do it with both hands, and still, water sloshes over the rim. Brow furrowed with focus and determination, Jasper brings the cup to their lips and takes a few small sips. Some of the tension smooths out of their face, and Wilder is unaccountably relieved.

Glancing up, Jasper gives them a strange, unreadable look, and that’s when Wilder realizes that without really thinking about it, he’s tucked in next to them, lending an extra surface to lean against. Deciding to stick it out, he shoots them a small smile, and is rewarded when they look away, corners of their lips tugging up.

They drink the rest of the water slowly, savoring it. When they’re finished, Wilder takes the cup. “I’ll put this back. Give you a second. When I get back, we’ll get you on your feet.”

Jasper nods their acquiescence, but when Wilder ducks back in the door, he finds them swaying erratically at the edge of one of the tables, clinging to it for dear life as they try to force themselves up all on their own. “Jazz! I mean, shit, sorry, Jasper, whatever.” Wilder darts forward, slinging one arm around their waist to help them stabilize. “Jasper, you shouldn’t wait until I’m out of the room to try standing.”

His tone is meant to be only gently chiding, but Jasper looks sharply down and away, avoiding his gaze. “Sorry,” they rasp, and in that single word, in their weary, desolate voice, is the most emotion they’ve shown all night. Their tone is thin with exhaustion, on the edge of defeat.

Staggered by their vulnerability, intentional or not, Wilder takes a moment to respond. “No…um, no, it’s okay, Jasper. Just, I don’t want you to fall again.” Jasper nods dully, and Wilder heaves a sigh. He needs to get them into bed. They both just need to get to bed. “Can you put your arm around my shoulders?”

Wilder is a few inches taller than Jasper – 5’8 to the blonde’s 5’6, probably – so he keeps his grip around their waist tight as he helps them toward the lab door. He doesn’t trust the arm loosely wrapped around his neck to support Jasper if their legs give out, and their stumbling, rubbery gait seem more and more likely to end in a fall, with each step they take together.

When they clear the threshold of the lab, Jasper stops, swaying in place, so unsteady on their feet they almost drag Wilder over. “Needa shut the door,” they remind Wilder. With one hand, Wilder pulls it shut carelessly – a little too carelessly, as it turns out. The steel door meets the frame with a muffled bang, and Jasper flinches at the sound.

It startles Wilder too, and they wince, hoping that Master Aeron didn’t hear it in his chamber. “Sorry.” He’s not used to the weight of the lab door, the swing of it. That’s not his fault. Still, as they wait there, hanging in the tense silence of the early morning, the guilt bubbles up fast in Wilder’s gut. “I’m sorry.”

Jasper makes no reply, just stares into the dark hall, not breathing.

The apprentices wait, trapped in the hallway in front of the laboratory door, but moments pass and no black cape swirls out of the shadows. Master Aeron’s voice doesn’t ring through the hall, and the old man’s glaring yellow eyes don’t advance down the corridor towards them. Letting his breath out in a gust, Wilder starts nudging Jasper forward again and, pliable as a child, they go.

It’s a journey of a few steps down the hallway, through the dining room, to the kitchen, where, thankfully, Jasper’s bed waits for them just on the inside of the door. Jasper is still wobbling on their feet, but Wilder could release them here, let them navigate on their own the way to their cot.

Instead, Wilder helps Jasper down to a sitting position on the edge of their bed. Bearing up their weight as Wilder helped them down the hall has only made him feel more protective of Jasper, especially because he felt the way they trembled against him. Now he watches for that shiver, sees it in Jasper’s fingers as they rest their hand against the bed. While they take on the laborious work of swinging their legs up onto the bed, Wilder picks up the blankets at the end of the cot. He only blushes a little as he drapes the fabric over Jasper.

In all the dim kitchen, the most moonlight falls squarely on Jasper’s voice. If it were someone else, Wilder would worry that the light might keep them up, but Jasper is so exhausted that Wilder doesn’t think an army bugler could keep them awake right now. Instead, all the moonlight does is cast their features in sharp pale relief, so he can see the guarded expression on their face as he, well. As he tucks them in.

“Why’re you doing this?”

The question is flatly posed, all emotion stripped away. Still, the words themselves reveal more of Jasper than the other apprentice would probably like. For his part, Wilder shrugs.

“You needed help.”

“Why’d you even come looking?”

“You weren’t in your bed.”

“Why do you care?”

Frowning, Wilder considers the question for a moment. “I guess…I don’t know. I didn’t want you to be hurt. I…” He shrugs, decides to take the leap. “I like you, Jasper.”

Jasper turns their face away, expression impassive. When they speak, their voice is a desperate attempt to be cold. It sounds more like a plea. “You shouldn’t…you shouldn’t like me. I don’t like you. You’re just…you aren’t…”

Aren’t worthy? Aren’t useful? Aren’t good enough at magic? Jasper has intimated as much before, but tonight, with the cold revealing moonlight on the both of them, Wilder has insight that he didn’t before. Tonight, the harsh words don’t get to him the way they usually do, mostly because he thinks he understands something that Jasper has been trying desperately to hide.

“But I don’t believe that,” he tells Jasper, even though he knows the other apprentice hasn’t yet said all they meant to say. “And I don’t think you believe any of that, either.”

So, why do you keep saying it? Why are you so mean to me? The questions hang, unspoken, in the air between the two. Jasper just shuts their eyes, blocking out the moon, and Wilder, and whatever it is they refuse to say.

“All right.” Wilder’s voice is soft. “All right, Jasper. Get some sleep.”

They wait until he’s almost across the room, and then when they speak, their voice is so quiet Wilder almost, almost misses it. “Wilder?”

“Yeah?”

“You can, um. If you want, I mean, you can…you can call me Jazz.”

Across the room, in the shadows, Wilder puts a hand over his mouth to cover his smile. “Okay then, Jazz.” He makes sure his voice sounds warm.

Okay.

#whumpblr #whump writing #nonbinary whumpee #incompetent caretaker #reluctant caretaker #lab whump #kinda #not really #blood #collapse #blood draw #caretaking #exhaustion #defiant whumpee #ocs #new ocs #jasper and wilder are gonna need a tag i just know it

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sasorikigai · 2 years

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Do you have any funny yet heartwarming stories to tell when it comes to your husband, Commander? I believe there certainly were the moments that made you have a 'you're a dork, I love you so much' kind of thought.

📭 Reblog if you want curious anons in your inbox! 📭 || anonymous, mention of @sonxflight || always accepting!

💥 || Under the light of the full moon, Commander Hasashi’s shining gaze further scintillates with swelling amusement, as the once-burdening stench of liquor that clings to him as it would of gunpowder smoke, sandalwood, and musk considerably lessons the bulwark assertiveness of his being. The impervious, tenebrous black and melancholic, fathomless blue that lays beneath him from the past may continue to beat, the trauma’s wound lacerating and festering him deeply, but in this moment, Hanzo seems not to care. All he cares about is Ryou Sakai’s imprinted presence in and through his being, however absent he may be, holding him in his darkest times even if he manifests himself often as the quintessential darkness.

Hanzo Hasashi used to be attached to his cruel, gruesome pain like it was his last name, even when it dug its claws too deep into his smile until happiness seemed like a distant planet and truthfully, he was comfortable in the darkness. He could not, ever in his life, imagine light, for he had long become nocturnal in the fears of his mind, and even then, he illuminated his ignorance with denials in which Ryou Sakai penetrated right through.

His pain was demanded to be felt, until the construct of ‘felt’ became relative. Changing his lexicon until sadness seemed foreign took more than a decades, and it is a still an ongoing process - lest now, there is a sense of freedom that comes with the exhale of discomfort, whereas his inhales are fueled with revivified strength and resolve. His reality may always have human limitations, and the Commander may always feel the same emotions he feel in entrapped repetitive cycles, brooding over his undeserving existence as the tears of his heart and soul widen at times, as those memories of agonizing sorrow overwhelming that of happiness. Where would he ever dwell? What do they whisper? What are their integrity? All those soliloquized questions answer the one and only thing. Desire, because Hanzo Hasashi still believes in the fanatical love that will swallow him until his dying breath, as he gets swallowed up by the intense flame of passion and genuinity.

There always had been a realization; maybe it had been sudden, leaving Hanzo with whiplash as if he hit the bonnet of a speeding car. Sometimes it curls around him, like the rising tide he wasn’t expecting, but welcomed anyway. Ryou Sakai’s words and actions have always flowed in his blood, dripping from his mind, impossible to ignore. “It is much less of specific occurrences, although I can reminisce quite a few instances where I chortled at Sakai’s fixation over any novelty quotations or his specific and rather peculiar taste over certain things. But more prominently, I think the most epitome moments have to be with my husband being highly attentive to and focused on details - an obsessive need to know every last fact about his special interest, regardless of what specifically that is. He also is driven more by fueling motivations like intellectual curiosity and personal challenge, than material ones like status or money. For Ryou, the profession itself is an end in itself - an interesting puzzle to solve, a way to combine his hobby with his work.”

But then, as Hanzo admits himself, don’t we all have that intense obsession that fuels our needs for curiosity? An obsession with detail, and boundless curiosity about the things which interest him, characterizing the overall genus ‘dork’, but other traits, such as introversion, which may vary on a dorky basis. “To me, such generic terms as ‘dork’ does not genuinely wholly encompass what Ryou Sakai is to me. For he is passionate in his life pursuits and extremely focused on all the right things and dedicated to his goals, which is one of the sexiest qualities a person can possess. He has keen balance of intelligence, humor and vitality which I find rather endearing, thus unexpected at times.” 💥 ||

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ ugly syllables of conjured vindictive crimson (modern au)#✗ epitome of sunlight (ryou sakai || sonxflight)#(to him. the definition of 'dork' doesn't wholly define who Ryou Sakai is)#(not to mention Ryou makes Hanzo smile A LOT)#(aka he's unpredictable and complex)#sonxflight

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xparadisexlostx · 3 years

Text

So Idk what possessed me to write this. I wrote it all in one go and it is in desperate need of a proof read and probably and edit... but I doubt I’ll ever do that lol. I’m tired and I’m getting a headache and I still have drafts to work on, so I’m just gonna post it before I lose confidence and hide it like the many, many other drabbles I’ve never posted.

I don’t know why I wanted to write this in first person. That usually annoys me, but for some reason it just sounded right in this case.

So this drabble is primarily about Beck and Cora, how they meet, and the relationship they have. Obviously I did a LOT, if not too much, condensing because otherwise this never would have ended.

For context, Cora is Beck’s sort of adopted mom. She his a centuries old witch who was possessed, years ago by a spirit of hospitality. Over time the two merged into one being and that is why she’s pretty much immortal. Because of what she was she was made an outcast by her own people, the clan of the Grey Owls. Here is her face claim.

_____________________________________________

A long life makes you accustomed to loss. You learn people are better at a distance. Far enough away that you can’t really make out their faces, and their voices turn to echoes by the time they’re in your ears. Any closer than that and you risk the pain that comes with a proper meeting. I found that out the hard way when Hattie passed.

It was agonizingly slow. At first she just needed a bit of help with getting up after a long day in the garden. And then she couldn’t go as far on our evening walks. Eventually she couldn’t make it out to tend the flowers that she loved so dearly, and she forgot the names of the dairy goats we’d raised by hand and bottle. And when I saw Death come peacefully across the border of the Living Dream, shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight and invisible to my love, I lifted her up in my arms and carried her out to the fields of flowers. She didn’t remember my name, but she held me close to her with what dwindling strength remained in her arms, and laid her head on my heart while I whispered a silent goodbye.

We had never had any children. Back then we only escaped the scandal of being together by living on my family’s land and growing or making most of what we needed. People in the towns whispered, but they let us be so long as we didn’t make too much noise. That wouldn’t have been any life for a child. Children need community, friends, and more love than just two mothers could bring them. The mortals would have never accepted a child of ours, and the witches had cast me out years before on account of what I was---what I am.

I buried Hattie in the flowerbed, and I left my home after that. The place I had been made, where I had settled for three centuries, had nothing to give me but pain. Even England reminded me all too much of what I had lost. I was alone, and I imagined that somewhere else I could find a place where I was content with that once again.

And I did. In a cottage deep in the Sierra Nevada mountains, I found the peace that had evaded me for so long. People stopped by in the occasional way: lost travelers, rapscallion youths, the occasional farmer looking for good dairy stock. That was the way for well over a hundred years. It wasn’t until the storm of ‘01 that it all changed, that I noticed the pie I was cooling on the windowsill was gone, and there was only a small muddy handprint in its place.

In the afterglow of a lightning strike I saw him there. A great, hulking bear, tall as the horizon, pale as a fresh pressed bedsheet, illuminated against the black sky. On his head were horns made of trees, and his claws were gnarled roots. On his back he carried a forest with a heart-tree that glowed gold. My brother, older than me by millenia, scarcely seen but ever familiar, always present. He looked from me to the barn, and stared, transfixed, by whatever he saw, and then he was gone.

I pulled on a raincoat and stepped into my boots, and raced across the yard to the shelter of the barn. The goats stirred in their pen, and the chickens let out a low squawk of protest as the building flooded with light. I found my pie in the back stall and a trail of blueberry pawprints leading away from it and into a pile of hay, where I found a small, trembling kit, little enough to fit in my one hand.

She shook like a leaf, whining up a terrible storm, as I tucked her beneath my coat and took her into the house. The promise of a proper meal convinced her to turn back into the girl I already knew she was, but she still shook so hard that she lost half of every bite she tried to take. I might have scolded anyone else for stealing, but she was so slight, too small and slender for a girl her age, and she was covered in mud and briars and sticks that matted in her golden hair. And when I put her in the tub to scrub her clean I saw the bruises and the cuts that no branch had inflicted.

Looking back on that night I never had the chance to hold her at arm’s length. From the moment I plucked her out of the hay and pressed her to my heart, she was mine. I couldn’t keep her. The Fox Bitch wouldn’t allow it. And no one would listen to me when I told them of the heinous crimes Elea Tandy was committing against her own kin. No one cared when I complained of the local coven teachers casting her out.

I made myself content with what I could have, and I taught her what an old witch could when she escaped that awful house and made her way through the forest to me. I showed her how to sew up a skirt as well as a wound, and taught her what the woods had to offer when her mother denied her supper. When she couldn’t read my spellbooks I taught her songs and rhythms to help her remember words and order. How to milk a goat, how to shear a sheep, how to tie a good and proper knot, and how to cook anything you found or caught. Our time together didn’t always last long, and when she left I felt it like a stab to the heart, but she was mine. The baby Hattie and I never got to have, filled with more kindness and curiosity and life than anyone else I had ever met.

And I ought to have known by the sight of my Brother what she was, and that she could not belong to me, or to anyone forever, but it wasn’t until months later, when I saw him again, watching her ride through the woods with a wild abandon, that I understood.

Feral. A term that makes every parent clutch her pearls and shiver in fear, even though they barely know what it means. Feral witches are born to leave. They are only a brief bridge between the Dream Realm and the physical, destined to merge once more with the Nature Spirit from which they came.

She was not mine to keep, but I held on.

I held on in agony as she ran off, desperate for freedom and adventure and a respite from the violence of her home. I smothered her in loving arms every time she came back. But she came back less and less. It was too dangerous, and every time she risked us both. I told her I didn’t care, and that I wasn’t afraid of Elea Tandy… but I knew that she was.

She was right to be.

Even I had never imagined Elea could be so vile and twisted as to kill a familiar. And to make a child watch… It turns my gut even to think of it now. I thought it would be the death of her, and it likely would have been if her brother hadn’t turned on their mother himself. He tried to bring her back to life, and so did I. But there was nothing but fathomless despair behind those blue eyes. I finally had her safe beneath my roof, and she was dying in my arms just like Hattie had. No amount of love could ever replace what she had lost when Dawnbreaker had been hanged before her eyes.

After ages of lifelessness, she eventually became restless in her grief, and I imagined I was witnessing her end. I put her in my car and drove her as deep into the wilderness as I could, and when I wrapped my arms around her I said that same silent goodbye. I barely made it home before my own sorrow and anger threatened to drown me. She was too young, I thought, and how unfair it was that she should die having tasted so little happiness, having felt so few kind touches. Brother would care for her upon her return, but why had he ever allowed her to come from the womb of that wretched woman? I had gifted her all the love that I could, and it didn’t feel like nearly enough in the face of all the pain she had been put through.

I hated him for that. Perhaps I still do.

I left California the same way I left England, distraught, and purchased new land on the secluded shores of Lake Erie. I told no one where I went, and no one would have ever asked.

When I saw the golden horse upon my lawn some years later I thought it was a reflection in the Living Dream, a spirit of what once was lingering, but the girl upon its back was no longer a child. Even at a distance, even after all those years, I knew her face, and when she ran into my arms I held her tighter than I ever had before.

She was alive and more vibrant than I’d ever seen her---all golden curls and smiles and a wild glint in her eye. We rode horses on the shoreline and sang foolish songs around a campfire. She told me stories of where she had been and everything she’d seen as she wove crowns from wildflowers. The next evening she showed me the scars where the mountain lion had nearly ripped her life away, and then demonstrated her new form with such ease that I felt my knees go weak. Even at such a young age the power swelled around her.

Feral. The very thing that had made other witches reject her had allowed her to thrive. In the wilds she had found the peace and happiness that others had so cruelly robbed her of. And I felt a pride blossom in me that I’d never felt before.

She left me again, as I knew she would, as was her nature, but this time I didn’t feel grief. For as long as she was on this Earth, she would return to me. That much I was certain. And that much has always been proven true.

Now, without the fear of her mother’s viciousness, she comes to me more frequently, and she can linger in my house as long as her wild spirit will allow. Our time together isn’t so rare… and yet I know that it is still brief.

Each visit I see the spirit grow within her, each year the magic grows stronger. It pulls in more animals, and it bends nature around her without her even noticing it.

She doesn’t see my Brother when she is sitting upon her golden stallion, basking in the sun as it cuts through the forest branches, but I think she feels him. As the animals gather all around her and play like newborn lambs, as she feels the embrace of the woods around her, I think she feels him watching. Her eyes glisten and she smiles with a fondness that breaks my heart. I think that if she just takes one step she will be lost to me forever.

I call her name when she raises her hand to touch what she cannot see, and with the slowness of a drunkard she blinks her eyes. When she looks back at me in those moments I know she can see across the centuries. She knows what I am.

Again I call her name. It’s selfish, maybe, to want to hold onto her. Perhaps I do nothing but hold her back. But she smiles at me, and the mist evaporates from her eyes to reveal that mischievous sparkle.

“Come away from there, girl.” I say, beaconing her back toward the house with a wave of my hand and I watch my Brother’s eyes with unbecoming smugness as she presses her golden stallion forward and exclaims “‘Race ya!’” as she charges back home.

#my drabbles #post type: unformatted

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