no guidance

pov: you ask your step-brother to guide you in your first time 

part of the everything step cest collab by @dilfhub​ thank you for everything! 💕

note. lol this rotted in my drafts for weeks but i finally finished it eeeee

cw. virginity loss, sexting, mild corruption themes, fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), possessive! akaashi-ni, slight dumbification, pseudo-incest (step siblings)

You knew better than to associate with the likes of Miya Atsumu. As if him being one of the most notorious fuckboys in campus wasn’t enough of a warning sign, his reputation was also infamous for being the “Virgin Killer.” In simpler terms, he took pride in corrupting the innocence of whoever was foolish enough to fall into his trap, and yet there you were, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you shamelessly sexted with him.

Unsurprisingly, he’s asking for nudes. Again.

It had been approximately three months since you passed notes with the said Miya twin (and of course you liked the worse of the pair) before your friendship escalated into something...more sexual. It was no secret Atsumu had a high sex drive, something you were still foreign with, so you weren’t really taken aback by his open vulgarity over his desire to fuck you.

The first month, you were nice enough to sent him a snap of your titties. Albeit still a little shy over not having sent anyone such an intimate photo before, you were beyond exhilarated.

The next, you sent him a booty pic. It wasn’t anything sexy since you were only in your campus hoodie, the door locked because you didn’t want your parents walking in on you trying to get a good angle of your rounded buttocks.

And just last week, you finally gained enough courage to take a photo of your glistening pussy, sent with a caption of ‘thinking of you...’

Now, you weren’t stupid despite your preference to act naive and innocent. You knew your actions would entice him to lead into something more, if his dick picks that show him already leaking weren’t enough of a telltale already. But as your phone pinged and his name flashed above your screen, the words, ‘meet you at Issei’s party this weekend? I think I’ve waited long enough’ loud and clear – your heart dropped into your chest.

Without another thought, you shut your phone off and rolled to your side.

The thing was, you’ve never really had sex. You couldn’t even be brave enough to lose your virginity to your hairbrush or to buy a dildo despite your friends’ insistence it was much better than an actual cock (quote unquote: both can make you orgasm, but the former didn’t come with toxic attitudes of horny college boys.)

Sure, you’ve watched porn, and you watched a lot – but nothing could compare to the actual experience of it. Your fingers could only get you so far.

Glancing at your phone that kept lighting up with texts from Atsumu, you felt something stir deep within your stomach. Curiosity? Arousal? Nervousness? Excitement? Perhaps all a mix of both. You’ve heard from all the girls Atsumu’s slept with that even though he meant bad news, his cock could be likened of that of  a blessing that converted them into ‘I hate him’ to ‘Gosh, I wanna fuck him again.’ Addicting, they called him, and now you were being offered a path to being on a path that most likely had no point of return.

You sighed.

The saner part of you warned you to stay away. There was no rush to lose your virginity now. Just because most of your friends had enough experience, it didn’t mean you had to be the same as them. After all, you came from quite...a strict household.

While everyone had been away from their parents and independently living in their dorms, you still stayed under the same roof as your father and step-mom, along with your older brother who was only a year ahead of you. Akaashi was a very sweet presence to have that you didn’t mind not experiencing that ‘youthful freedom’ too much, simply because your brother was a better company than whoever you could room with. He was kind, always ready to help, and you could confidently say you trusted him more than you did your closest friends.

Maybe that was the reason why you knocked at his room past midnight, shifting your weight from one foot to another. The faint sliver of light peeking from the cracks in his door told you he was probably still working on projects and the like, really not a good time to bother him, but you couldn’t hold on any longer.

At the back of your mind, this was the right thing. He was the right person.

“’Kaashi-nii...?” you knocked again, aware that he had a habit of listening to music on full volume while studying. “Are you there? Oh, were you studying, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to barge.”

Your brother stood in front of you, his headphones hung around his neck. He’d swung the door open to reveal that he was, indeed, previously hunched over his desk to work on something. Upon seeing the guilty expression on your face, Akaashi smiled at you in reassurance. “Hey, no, it’s fine,” he ushered you inside, setting you down at the edge of his bed while he sat across you in his swivelling chair. “Do you need help with homework again?”

“No...”

Turning away from him shyly, you opted to fiddle with your fingers as you stared at your lap. You had come here in a whim. You didn’t really think this through, and even though you’d been in his room a thousand times before, his dark blue sheets and tidy room that smelled sweetly of his detergent and vanilla cologne made you feel dizzy.

It didn’t help that he looked so mouth-watering in this light too.

Messy hair, long, slender fingers that absentmindedly spun a pen in those pretty hands of his, his dark eyes hazy and as welcoming as ever under the dim light of his desk lamp – how could you resist?

“What is it?” Akaashi quickly picked up on your silent worries. He’d always been observant, taking his role as your big brother seriously that he had attuned himself to sense even the slightest differences from you. Even though you’d only become family when you were already in middle school, it felt like you had known him for a much longer time than that, his warm hands rubbing soothing circles in your knees pulling the tension away from you.

“You know you can tell your brother everything, right? I’ll listen to you, you don’t need to feel scared or nervous.”

Guess it was now or never... “There’s this boy in my class...”

Akaashi’s eyes immediately darkened. All the warmth in his face disappeared, now replaced with a hardness you didn’t think was possible for such an understanding, patient guy like him. “Is he hurting you, forcing you to do something you don’t like?” his questions shot out one by one, and your eyes widened when he held you firmly by the shoulders. “Do I need to hurt someone?”

“No, no, it’s not like that!”

Your brother relaxed back in his chair. For a moment, your mind conjured up the dirtiest image of bouncing on his cock (and you know his cock is pretty after accidentally walking in on him changing clothes in high school) as he studied, but you quickly shook the thought away with a clear of your throat.

“What’s wrong then?”

You took a deep breath. “I just...I like him a lot and he asked me to have sex with him someday,” your words came out barely above a whisper, the courage seeping out of you until meeting Akaashi’s eyes felt impossible. “I said yes because of course I like him but...I’m afraid.”

“Hey,” Akaashi tilted your chin to look at him, his blue eyes pooling with worry and brotherly concern. “You know you don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“I just don’t want to disappoint him. I-I’ve never done it before and I feel like I won’t make him feel good. That’s why I came here,” you peered at him under your lashes, tongue darting out to nervously lick at your lips that felt uncomfortably dry. “You told me I could ask you for help in anything and you’re my brother so I trust you a lot to guide me on this one.”

The silence in the room was suffocating.

You were so close to running out of his room and pretending you didn’t exist for the rest of your life because what the hell were you asking? He was your brother, he obviously didn’t see you as a woman. You bet in his eyes, you were nothing but a little sister, and there really was no stopping him from kicking you out of his room until – “You want me to be your first time?”

You looked up at him so fast you actually felt your neck ache from the sudden movement. Heat spread all over your body, especially to your core at the unreadable expression in his eyes, yet it wasn’t...bad. He wasn’t rejecting you.

“Yes, please.”

Akaashi nodded at your hushed words. Slapping his palms to his knees, he walked to his bedside table where he pulled out an inconspicuous bottle with some sort of liquid you weren’t familiar with.

“Okay. Nii-san will teach you everything, but first, I need to prep you.” Fuck, fuck, fuck, this was actually happening!

You could barely process the events that happened next as he discarded his shirt to the ground, exposing his toned upper body to you from years of playing volleyball. While you sat there frozen and with a frantic beating heart, your brother barely blinked an eye as he gestured for you to take your clothes off. Wordlessly, you pulled your top off and shimmied out of your underwear. Too shy upon being exposed to a male for the first time in your life, you immediately headed towards his bed and closed your eyes, breath heavy and laboured as you waited for his next movements.

Akaashi’s hand went up to your knee, and you flinched at the contact, relaxing only when his soothing smile greeted you. “Lean back for me. Just relax and loosen up, okay? I’m not going to hurt you, Nii-san will make you feel good.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you did as he told. You were still shy, but you were feeling a lot less nervous. His hypnotizing gestures of caressing your thighs made you sigh in contentment as your head hit the pillow, legs falling open like it was second nature to spread yourself to your brother.

The thought had you biting your lip.

Before you could think too much about it, you felt a cool liquid being spread all over your lips. You gasped and clutched on the sheets out of reflex, staring forward as your brother stared at you cautiously, his lube coated fingers experimentally rubbing circles over your pussy lips. It felt so lewd for him to touch you like that – those same hands that always held yours in your weakest moments – yet it felt so good; the strange sensation tightening your chest.

“I-it’s cold.”

“I’ll warm it up for you,” he reassured, “How far have you gone? Any prior sexual experience?” Akaashi then began to playfully roll your clit between his fingers, eliciting a high-pitched whimper from you. He grinned at your reaction – so vocal for him already – and he was determined to hear more of it. “Ever tried sucking someone off?”

“No, but I’ve watched a lot of porn.”

“Porn is different from actual sex, baby,” the nickname fell so effortlessly from his lips that you didn’t dare question it anymore. Not that you could anyway, because the tip of his finger was prodding against your hole that was embarrassingly clenching around nothing. “How about here? Have you tried masturbating?”

“Don’t ask me such embarrassing questions!”

“You’re spread open for me already, you don’t need to be embarrassed,” You covered your face with your hands to hide, but Akaashi pried them away, his grip on your wrist both demanding yet gentle. “Tell me so I know how many fingers I can put inside you. I need to stretch you out.”

“Just one.”

“Louder, baby.”

“Just one finger,” you blurted out, finding it harder and harder to breathe the more he glided his fingers between your slit. Fingering yourself couldn’t even compare to the beauty of having him do the same to you, your arousal only heightened by his dedicated stare at your shaven pussy. From below your bodies, his pants had begun to home a tent.

“Two hurts a little bit and ‘em too sore.”

“What a tight cunt,” he commented with a smirk. “I’ll have to take my time with you then,” You nodded gratefully, about to smile at him with hearts in your eyes when Akaashi slowly slid a finger in. Your moan came out breathless and muted as you stared at him, mouth open in a silent gasp. The intrusion wasn’t anything new but he expertly pumped his finger in and out of it that your walls fluttered around him, head thrown back for another broken moan as he slid another digit. The stretch felt fucking perfect – the slight sting more than welcome in your virgin cunt that was now being fucked by your brother.

“Shh, it’s okay, it’ll feel better soon. Just relax.”

Openly, your slight squeaks of pleasure had increased in volume. Akaashi fingered you until he was knuckle deep, his other palm flat on your abdomen. Had you been in a better state of mind that wasn’t previously clouded with pleasure, you would’ve been embarrassed at the loud sloppy sounds of your pussy, but you remained there with trembling thighs, your nails digging at his thigh as you stared at him wide-eyed.

“Feels good?”

“M-more,” you begged through gritted teeth, “Nii-san, more.”

“Not yet, baby, you’re still too tight,” Sooner than you’d like, Akaashi pulled his fingers out of you. Both of you gazed at the webs of arousal between his fingers; your face painted in shock while he smirked at it, chest swelling with pride. Then, his eyes slid over yours, hooking his hands under your knees before he settled between your thighs.

“Come here. I’m going to go down on you.”

“Nii-san, no!” your protests fell on deaf ears, almost as if he knew you didn’t really mean it. His ears knocked with your knees locked around him, and you shivered as you felt his hot breath right before your burning cunt. “It’s embarrassing...don’t want you looking at my kitty like that.”

“Your kitty is very pretty and Nii-san wants a taste of you,” he mumbles while pressing kisses all over your pelvic bone, his sticky fingers massaging your inner thighs into relaxation. Your head pressed back harder on the pillows at the sensation, the pleasure too immense and he was just starting. “Didn’t you say you want me to teach you everything? This is just a few lessons you have to learn so don’t be shy. I’m sure you taste heavenly,” Clenching your jaw from the overwhelming bursts of ecstasy, you failed to notice how he dipped his head further, tongue darting out to lick a flat stripe. Your eyes blew wide open as he torturously and slowly dipped his tongue from your hole, the wet and warm muscle licking all the way up from your slit until the clit. “See? I told you. Heavenly.”

“’Kaashi, ‘Kaashi, oh, oh!”

“You sound so pretty but don’t be too loud,” Somehow, he managed to raise his arms and placed a palm over your mouth. “We don’t want Mom and Dad to overhear.”

Your legs trembled around him until you nearly suffocated him, but how could you stop when he was rolling his tongue side to side, licking and cleaning up the previous wetness he’d pulled from you?

It was too much, too good, and soon you were moaning behind his palm as you came all over his face.

Akaashi greedily slurped up the juices that squirted all over his face, unbothered by the mess you’ve made. He didn’t stop until he was sure you were completely clean, and you were already on the brink of overstimulation when he locked his lips around yours, sucking whatever he could take. Unable to take it any longer, you pushed his head away and fell on your side in a desperate attempt to catch your breath, sending him a seductive glare, only to soften as you his lips, cheeks, and nose shining under the moonlight.

“Nii-san, your face—”

“It’s okay, I’ll clean up for later,” he shrugged it off and stepped out of his sweatpants, ripping a condom you didn’t even notice he had. You watched with baited breath as his cock sprung free, the tip red and glistening with pre-cum. Akaashi rolled the condom over his throbbing cock and situated himself before you, pumping his length a few times before aligning it with your hole, sending you one last look of approval.

“You ready for my cock now? This might hurt a little bit. You just need to relax and I’ll go slow, okay? Tell me if anything feels uncomfortable.”

Nodding, you made yourself comfortable and braced the sheets for preparation, wincing a little as he pushed the tip in. Akaashi felt you clamp down on him, his hips stilling just as he loomed over you, his arms resting beside your head. In this position, you could see each detail of him – the thickness of his lashes, the love blooming in his eyes, the sweat beading in his forehead and everything soft and slow written all over his face.

“Still okay? I can stop if you want.”

You shook your head and wrapped your legs around his waist to pull him closer. He raised a brow at your initiation, but you merely smiled at him to hide the mild discomfort. “I can take it, just keep going.”

A few minutes later and a hundred still good? later, Akaashi had slid himself in. He allowed you to get used inch by delicious inch until he was completely seated inside you, hip pressed to hip and his hand caressing your cheek. “You’ve done so well,” he praised, “How does having a cock stuffed in you feel?”

“S-so full,” you replied numbly, the feeling of him throbbing inside your heat so fucking delicious. “Love nii-san’s cock.”

“Yeah? I’ll give you more then,” he warned, and you knew you couldn’t go back anymore when he placed his palm flat beside your head. Akaashi began to move his hips, slowly at first to let you accommodate to his length which your pussy hugged greedily. You were moaning left and right and his groans above you was erotic enough to make you cum on the spot, the pleasure doubling as your pebbled nipples grazed his toned chest.

“Nii-san! So big!”

“I know, baby, you’ll get used to it, don’t worry. It’ll feel better soon,” he rasped, scowling when you raked your nails down his back, though not hard enough to draw blood. It would definitely leave a mark though, and the pain of it urged him to move his hips faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through his room that began to warm by each passing second. “Feel better?”

“Feels so good,” you cried around him, reaching up to bury your head in his neck and clinging to him like a koala. It did feel so good, so much so that you just might get addicted to this. “Love Nii-san’s cock.”

At your words, Akaashi’s patience that thinned a while ago completely broke.

His pace increased and he gripped your hips tightly, sitting back on his knees just to watch his cock slide in and out of you. The lube made sex feel a hundred times better from how easily he’s easily punching through your walls, the sight of you splayed out for him – hair strewn across the pillow, little whimpers leaving your lips, breasts bouncing right before his eyes and abused pussy lips hugging his shaft – it made him growl with possessiveness.

“This is how you should be fucked – you gotta be fucked right,” he announced, thumb coming down to rub your clit. As expected, you cried out and tightened around him.

He faltered for a moment at how tight you were, but he kept pushing, driving his cock in and out of you until he turned into you a sobbing, slobbery mess.

“You sure that boy of yours can make you feel this good?”

“N-no, Nii-san’s cock only!”

“That’s right, it’s just gotta be me, okay?” driving both his hands around your neck just to clench your airway as a warning, Akaashi fucked you harder than before. The sudden inability to not breathe made you impossibly tighter around him that you felt each ridge and vein kissing your bumpy walls. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, I’m Nii-san’s property!”

“I’m gonna mark you as mine, claim this pussy as Nii-san’s only, yeah? You want that?”

“Cum in me, ‘Kaashi, cum inside!” you prompted, and what good of a brother would he be if he didn’t grant his little sister’s wishes? Growling, Akaashi snapped his hips hard until the tip of his cock successfully kept repeating that sweet spot in you that you didn’t even know you had. You were crying, moaning, too fucked to respond as you came, and your lewd expression was all it took before he was releasing his cum inside the condom. “Kaashi, Kaashi, ah!”

Akaashi quickly pulled out his cock and took a minute to regain his breath, his head cradled on his hands at the earth-shattering orgasm you both had. Not a moment later, he’s tying his condom and throwing it to his bin, finding his way right beside you as you blinked sleepily at him.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No, you were great. Just tired.”

“Do you want to sleep in my room tonight?”

You smiled at his concern, pulling him in closer for an embrace. He was warm and sweaty that it felt uncomfortable, but you wanted him beside you, and Akaashi began to caress your hipbones with so much tenderness. He knew he was a little rough for losing control like that.

“I’d love that, thank you,” you mumbled, more than ready to call it a night and sleep when his weight shifted off the bed. Akaashi rummaged through something in his drawers before he disappeared in the bathroom for a bit, coming back to spread your legs open once more. “Wh-what’re you doing?”

“It’s called aftercare. If your partner can’t provide this and pamper you, I suggest you break up with them,” he snickered, and you hissed at the sensitivity as he wiped away your cum with the towel. You soon relaxed, however, all thanks to Akaashi’s doting nature that you were falling asleep on his bed, allowing him to clean you up as he pleases. He set the towel aside and snuggled right next to you, his nose bumping your jaw to pull you away from dreamland for a little while. His previous sexual aura had now dimmed; his brotherly concern present again. “You still want to fuck your classmate?”

“Hmm...he’s really handsome, and I heard from the other girls he’s got a huge cock too,” you giggled, not really aware of your words as you said, “Probably even bigger than yours.”

Thinking that he might be offended, you almost apologized after a moment, but Akaashi only laughed as he hugged you tighter. “Size doesn’t matter. It’s who owns the cock and their talent in pleasuring their partner that matters,” he confidently stated, fingers running up and down your spine that brought chills down to your toes as he nibbled on your ear. “And I know I fucked you so good he can’t compare.”

Remembrance AU: Constant Dying

This is not going in the direction that was originally planned, but I'm not sure I'm too upset by it. I'm glad to finally post a part that goes a bit further into Techno's feelings about you this time, though. I'm also starting to work on an angsty Simpbur fic alongside this one, so keep an eye out for that.

Warnings: Mention of death ; Near-death

Words: 3.6k

Your legs throbbed as you trudged through the multiple paths to where you and Techno had been mining. Your neck wasn’t fairing much better. There was always residual pain after a death, especially when you were killed by your own stupidity and not mobs or someone else. You were more than happy to take hits for your friend, often shielding his body with your much smaller one to protect him, but natural deaths were pointless to you. Not to mention that dying this many times in such a short period made an ache develop on the right side of your brain and you knew you wouldn’t be able to be rid of it for hours. You finished descending carved stairs to where you believed you had been and let out a sigh at the effort. Your chest filled with a dull ache at the action. A firework to the chest was certainly a quick way to die. It was far from the most painful as long as it got the job done in one or two shots and the ache would only last another hour or two if you would stop dying.

You thought back on how the events from earlier in the day had transpired. The entire thing had been a shit show and you loathed the next time you’d speak to Wilbur, knowing you were likely going to just yell at him. You weren’t in a great mood because of his little stunt. At least you knew why Techno had killed you and several others on the server. There was no reason for him to sit back and watch Tubbo be executed by your dearest friend. You could only hope that the boys new scars weren’t too bad. He’d have to display them for the rest of this lifetime, after all. Maybe he’d think they were cool like Tommy did.

You slowly unclenched your jaw and relaxed your shoulders, smiling a little at the thought of blond that you spent the other half of your days doting on. He was like the little brother you had always imagined wanting. Mumza had filled your prayers in some fashion, you supposed. A small chuckle spilled from your lips, deciding you’d make Technoblade pay you back somehow for your deaths today. You were up to three now.

A smile curled your lips as you thought of the possibilities. Maybe you’d steal his crown for a little bit. Or his cloak. You giggled to yourself as you crossed the lava pit that you were going to use later for obsidian. Mining in caves this deep was difficult enough without mobs so the lava was a good way to make sure none spawned nearby. Perhaps you could get away with all of the above with the addition of forcing him to make you a cup of tea. That would certainly be fair, wouldn’t it? You were sure if you convinced chat, you’d be able to make him do it.

The ore had been mostly cleared out, all that remained were long tunnels deep underground spanning for what felt like forever. It took you a good chunk of time, but finally you approached him from behind. He had continued mining, cobblestone covering the hole that you had fallen down and ultimately died upon impact in. “You grabbed my stuff, right?”

He pointed to the chest that had been set up, not stopping his assault on a piece of diorite. You flipped open the lid, pulling out several stone pickaxes he had managed to pick up. You didn’t suppose he had kept most of the stone, leaving it in the cave, but the ores, redstone, and lapis you had gathered sat untouched in the chest. “I don’t understand why you continue to use those. They’re flimsy.”

You shrugged before joining his side again, mining away the soft rock. “Because I can keep a large stock of them and don’t have to waste the durability of my diamond one.” You stopped paying attention to the coal you mined at above you as you looked towards him. “Besides, they’re expendable and I don’t have to worry about retrieving them every time I-”

Gravel began to fall on and around you in heavy chunks, obscuring your vision. You were startled for a moment at the sudden assault and you cursed your horrible luck. Of course the moment you were back and trying to resume your task, you’d almost die again. You recovered quickly, feeling the pressure around you as you were crushed and tried to dig your way out of the pile, but more seemed to just fall and replace the gravel you had just removed. It was suffocating. Rocks grated against your skin and you cringed at the sound of them rubbing against each other. You tried to claw your way through, fingers getting scraped as small pebbles cut the flesh. You were running out of air. You hated dying like this.

A hand grasped your bicep and you grunted as you were yanked out of the rubble. Rocks and flint shifted around you as it gave way and filled in the spot where you had just been. A broad chest cushioned you as you stumbled forward. You sucked in air as you rested your forehead against him. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone screw something up that fast before."

Your laugh was more of a wheeze as you smacked your hand against him, next to where your head rested. You didn’t move, however. Techno chuckled as he pat your back. He’d let you have your moment to calm yourself back down. He wasn’t particularly scared of you dying again, but he knew it had to have sucked. You had been taking the brunt of damage meant for him since, well, every time the two of you spent time together, and he didn’t understand why you were so eager to do it. On top of your clumsiness that already resulted in countless other deaths he didn’t know about, you died for him often when it would have probably only resulted in a minor wound for him. You were so reckless. But that smile you gave him every time somehow dissipated his annoyance more than it should have. It was familiar somehow. The voices loved it more than they should have. They loved you more than they should have.

You didn’t care who he was, how he was, what he did, if he could do something for you. You cared about him. Whenever he was giving too much to the rebellion, whenever he was hyper fixated on tasks and was trapped in his own brain with only chat as company, you were always there. They didn’t mind receding to the back of his head while you two talked, adding in small quips here and there. The loud roar they normally were was typically a small rumble when you were talking. It put him on edge with how much they liked you, but he couldn’t blame them. You provided conversation more often than not. You offered simpler solutions to long problems in his head he’d been breaking apart over and over until it had spiraled into a bigger one than it had started out at. But besides that, you also forced him to sleep, to remember to drink water, to take time for himself. To care about himself the way you did. He didn’t know how to repay you for the unending kindness you showed him. Especially when all you asked for was his friendship in return.

He felt you sigh against him and he moved his arm to free you. You were looking up at him, though, not stepping away.

"Are you alright?" His lips twitched. Shouldn’t he be asking you that?

"Yeah, why?"

"You look mad." A snort escaped him. You couldn’t even see his expression past the mask.

"That's just my face.” You didn’t look convinced. He ran his fingers through your hair, knocking some debris loose. It fell to the floor at your feet. He ignored the way you leaned into his touch. “I’m alright, [y/n].”

You smiled at him. You smiled that cursed smile. It made him feel worthy of the title god; so full of reverence and kindness. You had to have been blessed by Kristin herself. How could you still look upon him like that after what had happened at the festival? How could you show such adoration for a-

“Stop lookin’ at me like that.” He turned his head away. He didn’t feel like he deserved to be the recipient of that smile made from sheer adoration. Your eyebrows furrowed and your smile wavered.

“Looking at you like what?”

“Like how Wilbur looks at you.” Your laugh rang through the tunnels. It echoed off the walls and he couldn’t help the swell of something in his chest. For a moment, you reminded him of Phil.

“Why is it a bad thing if I look at you like he does to me? He’s a really dear friend.” Oh dear.

“Don’t tell him that.” The idea of you only seeing him as a friend would break his heart floated unspoken in the air. You didn’t seem to notice it.

“Why not?”

“Just don’t.” Techno stepped back from you when it was obvious you weren’t going to do it yourself. He watched you deflate slightly and felt like he had done something wrong.

“It’s not like he wants to talk to me now anyways.” You picked up your pickaxe again, moving to work on the pile of gravel. He offered you his shovel and you took it. “He hasn’t said a word to me since the festival earlier.”

“I’m honestly surprised you’re still talkin’ to either of us after that debacle.” You paused your digging to look at him curiously. “After me bein’ peer pressured into killin’ Tubbo and everyone else. Killin’ you. His plan to do nothin’ ‘bout it. It’s surprisin’ that you aren’t givin’ us both the silent treatment.”

You scoffed, going back to the gravel in front of you. “That wasn’t his plan.”

Techno stilled, his eyebrows furrowing. “What?”

“Wilbur wasn’t planning on just doing nothing. He has TNT planted all around Manburg.” You hesitated, the grip on his shovel tightening in your trembling hands as you continued digging. “I don’t know why he didn’t set it off.”

There was no sound next to you or behind you. Stopping your work, you looked at him, only to see him looking towards where the mouth of the cave was. “We should be gettin’ back.”

A soft sigh left your mouth. “Go on ahead, I’m right behind you.”

You didn’t want to face the fallout.

You returned to Pogtopia late that night. Mining alone had been a good way to soothe your nerves after the events that had happened earlier. Whilst you had wished Techno had been there longer, you understood wanting to regroup. Today had been stressful for all of you.

You walked down the crude steps that had been made after putting the excess resources into the communal chest at the top. There was soft murmuring and the distant sound of Wilbur’s cackle put you a little on edge, but you soldiered on. It’s okay. Tubbo hopefully would have respawned by now. Things would go on. You froze at the top of the walkway down to the primary meeting area.

Techno was wrapping his knuckles with some extra gauze you recognized to be from your chest. Tommy was sitting a little away from him, his back to the wall and his knees to his chest. There was a distant look in his eyes as he stared at the ground in front of him. You could see a sliver of one of your plasters on his face, the bluish purple fabric and white dots a dark galaxy against his pale cheek. Your feet were moving before your brain as you ran to the teenage boy and knelt before him. You should have come back sooner. You reached out to hold him before hesitating, choosing instead to extend your hand to examine the flesh around the bandage. “You look horrible, Tommy. What happened? I thought you were safe after what happened at the festival.”

Techno grunted from the sidelines. “We resolved our issues.”

The boy before you huffed, still looking at the ground, but he leaned into your touch. “Resolved is a strong word, but we’re okay. For now.” He looked up at you and you pursed your lips together. He relaxed at the worry in your eyes. He was safe with you. “Where were you?”

“I was mining. I needed to blow off steam after all of that.” The blond just nodded, pressing his face further into your touch. You moved closer to brush some of the golden locks away from his face with your free hand. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Techno was suddenly beside you both, towering over the two of you. “It stays in the pit.”

You sent him an inquisitive look. “The pit?”

He only nodded and your frown deepened. Anger started to fester in you. Did he do this? To a child? “We are definitely discussing this later, Technoblade.” You watched his shoulders tense for a moment. You didn’t know if it was because of your tone or the use of his full name, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care at the moment. You’d take care of it later. You two always talked things through, and now would not be any different, but you had to worry about Tommy. “You can’t just hurt people and say things are better now.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but you were already helping the blond up to shuffle him to your bed. The child kept trying to wave you off, but you persisted. Despite your ire against him, something shifted in his chest at watching how gentle you were with Tommy. His bond with you was truly something to behold.

Why aren’t they paying attention to us like earlier?

They’re so sweet to him.

Tommy's lucky we didn’t accidentally kill him.

I wonder how they’re so close.

E.

I don’t want to talk to them later.

Why are they mad at us?

E.

So they’re not upset about the festival, but they’re upset about a fight with Tommy? That makes no sense.

Follow them.

This is stupid.

E.

Do they like him more?

Techno sat back in his spot against the ravine wall. He saw traces of a fireplace and used the heel of his boot to push around the sooty remains. Most of the questions chat had were valid, but he didn’t want to pursue you. He didn’t want to have that conversation later, either. He just wanted to move on. But he knew you wouldn’t. Something about how resentment ruins friendships and miscommunication was the biggest cause. He could never resent you. Sometimes he resented the gods, but never you.

He wanted to know what kind of entertainment DreamXD and Kristin got out of watching them over and over and over again. Did they have nothing better to do than continuously create and orchestrate each new lifetime? Each new world with different rules and a different storyline? Or recreate other worlds just to change the plot? There had been so many, but this was the first where they all remembered. This was the first where he had met you.

Techno closed his eyes. None of his lives had been bad. Well, particularly bad. Wilbur always seemed to get off worse than he did. Tommy sometimes worse than them both.

He remembered a life of gilded castles, one of many. He trained Wilbur and Tommy in combat. He studied politics and was a general. He watched the two of them grow up in Phil’s absence. There were handmaidens that were too bold in their words, butlers that were too polite, and inside jokes between him and the guards. There were dinners made of things that he only wished they could recreate here. He remembered that despite any squabbling, they were still very much a family. He knows Tommy remembers that one all too clearly. He doesn’t talk about it often, but Techno knows the look in his eyes whenever Phil is mentioned. He also speaks sometimes about the servant that once tended to his mother but he nor Wilbur could ever recall one. Too many faceless employees. Too many nameless soldiers.

He remembered a different life where Hanahaki Disease roamed rampant. The flowers infected most of the people he knew. Sometimes they got better, sometimes they didn’t. Phil would never catch it. The blurry memory of his friend saying so flashed briefly in his head. That fact didn't surprise him in the least. Phil was a catch. But he had never had to deal with the deadly buds either. He couldn't remember why. His head throbbed gently as he tried to wade through the fog. Wilbur had suffered from it, though. It was devastating when he passed. The flowers choked him, stuffing his airways with petals. Who had he loved so much it killed him? Didn't he love anyone like that? Didn’t he find someone so beautiful that dying was more preferable than a life without them? Maybe he did. There were small flashes in his head of the gentle squeeze of a hand and a smile that could snuff out the sun. Why couldn't he seem to remember their face?

There was another life. A life where markings appeared on his skin. Little scratches, cuts and scrapes that weren't his, doodles, words that he would have never written himself. He remembered sitting through a lecture once, smiling at the little stars that speckled his arm and slowly appeared like the night sky in the twilight of the setting sun. Wilbur had shown off the same markings, and it was brutal irony that the two of them shared this connection with a third. They would play games frequently. Mostly twenty questions or tic tac toe, but locations and true names were always burning scribbles on their flesh when attempted. They tried many tactics to find out more before Wilbur had told them both off. He wonders if they had found their third in that life.

There had always been gaps in his memory, especially when it came to his other lives. Lulls where the mundane had become just a bit too mundane, moments where he just shut his brain off and went by instinct. Things were easier when you didn’t have past lives to think about. When he didn’t have to consider if he had already learnt a lesson and was doomed to repeat it. When you weren’t around to give him glares and words of encouragement and cause disruption in his life. Were Tommy and Wilbur’s lives more difficult with you here too? With someone to tell them what to do and to patch up their wounds and give fleeting touches that were so soft it was like touching a petal? He hopes not.

A sound of distress comes from the direction you and Tommy had gone in and he turns to look. You’re standing there, facing away from him, reaching out towards empty space to someone who wasn’t there. You must’ve been the one to make the noise.

You turn around and his frown deepens. You look tired and more than a little frustrated. It was amazing how much of a difference you stood now compared to the person that clung to him throughout the nether when he had first met you. Your presence was easy. You didn’t ramble like he would disappear anymore. You didn’t look to him for validation with every move. You didn’t act out of the desperation isolation had instilled in you. You had settled like the missing puzzle piece they didn’t even know was missing. Did you ever visit the library that you had once called your first home?

He watches you finally approach him, sitting and leaning against his side as if you weren’t upset. You move to intertwine your arm with his, hand slipping into his own. He didn’t stop you. “Wilbur, he’s-”

“Crazy? Yeah, I know. He wants me to set off withers.” You sat straight up. Shock painted your face a hue that didn’t suit you. Or perhaps it was fear. He didn’t like it.

“Withers?” He nods. Your head spins back to the direction of your bedroom. “Does Tommy know?”

“Tommy knows. I went along with it.” Techno feels you scoot away, releasing your hold on him and he already misses the feeling. “It’s not like we’re tryin’ to salvage the place, [y/n].”

“I don’t want more innocent people to lose another life, Tech.” You look at him once more. “Do Tommy and Wilbur know that you’re hoping to leave nothing behind? Because they both talk about reestablishing L’manburg when given the chance.”

“I keep tellin’ them the truth, but it seems like they’re not gonna listen.” He watches your face fall into a look that he hopes meant acceptance. Your eyes moved to the ground between you both and you just nodded. You didn’t know where you would sit in the aftermath of this all.

Techno felt your hand slip back into his as you take your place back against his side. Pink hair was soft against your cheek as you rested it against his shoulder.

“One step at a time. Let’s worry about getting rid of Schlatt first, okay?” He just nods back, resting his head on top of yours. You squeeze his hand in response. You felt safe again, especially with him next to you “Now-

Tell me about this pit.”

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 1

Synposis- You were given as a peace offering to the cold hearted cruel king, Iwazumi Hajime. He ruled with an iron fist and the people of the kingdom were tired of it. They offer you, the most beautiful girl in the village as a way to bringing peace to their lives once and for all. Will a simple girl be able to break his stone exterior or will the kingdom crumble?

Masterlist

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Rating: 18+ (because of future contex)

A/N: Characters are above the age of 18! Iwaizumi is set as 21 and, reader is 19 turning 20!!

Warnings; Angst, mean/rude Iwaizumi, betrayal, brief mention of a parent passing (not detailed) reader is taken against her will, (and that’s about it), 

Previous Next

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The small hut was quiet as you cleaned up the kitchen. A gentle but cool breeze came in through the window, indicating it my rain. Going to the opening, the skies we in fact grey and full of rain.

Hopefully your father make it back in time before it falls. He had been summoned by the king and your nerves were on end. 

Your kingdom didn’t exactly have the..kindest of rulers. Iwaizumi was an infamous king known for his cold rule over the kingdom. None of his enemies dare to make an attack in fear of death.

True he was a master at war strategies, and held his kingdom high, yet he ruled the land with an iron fist. Taking over the kingdom at only 19 after his father passed was unexpected, yet the way he ruled was more so.

You lived your everyday life with your father as best as you could. You helped him with the farm and selling goods. You tidied around the small hut you called home. Since your mother had passed, you took responsibility of chores she had done.

Your father often encourages you to get out and enjoy your life to your hearts content. But you wanted to help him, he raised you to the finest of his abilities, this was the least you could do.

He worked endlessly everyday to provide, but he was getting old and frail. He knew he wouldn’t be around forever and he wanted you be left in good hands. Many young men have had their eyes on you, just as many hearts were broken.

For as beautiful as you were, you were just as stubborn. Wanting to do everything on your own, and fend for yourself, just like your mother.

Sitting down near the window you stare off into the green fields. Your mind sailing away to some foreign land where you could live peacefully. Maybe, a meadow full of flowers with a comfortable little cottage. Like the ones written in stories.

You were pulled from your daydream by the door being opened abruptly. You shoot up from your seat, you hand over your thumping heart. Two men come into the door way, one was a villager you recognized and the other was a royal guard. Your father behind the men shoving his way to you.

“Please she’s just a young girl, surly there must be someone else-“

“There isn’t. The deal has already been done” he comes to your side and holds your shoulders in his hands

“F-father what’s going on? What deal?” You question

“Oh Y/N....they’ve....they...” he looked a you with eyes that plead for forgiveness.  

“You are to marry the King, in two days time.” spoke the guard

“..I’m..WHAT?!“ you must be dreaming! This can NOT be real. “no..no,no,no..I can’t marry him, I-“

“You were part of deal made by your people. A bride for the king as a peace offering.“ He then walks over to you and reaches for your arm but you walk backwards. Your back meets with the wall, you had no where to turn 

“But why me?!“ you were beyond upset and confused “I...I don’t want this! I never consent to it!”

“Sadly the choice has been made. Come or your father along with the village shall parish”

Throwing an ultimatum into the situation doesn’t make this any better. You keep your breath steady and hold your head high.

“Can i say my goodbyes and grab some things?” You ask

“You have five minutes” the guard sneered as he left to wait outside the hut. You grab small trinkets the you held close to your heart. A necklace that belong to your mother, two books, and a hairpin. Your father was trying to bribe you out of it as you collected the last of your things

“You don’t have to go! We can escape while they’re outside and warn the others-“

“Did you agree to this? You were at the castle today..” you acuse him hoping it wasn’t true.

“No! I would never agree to this! They had already made a deal with him before I was informed. I...I begged for him not to take you...I tried everything I could..” he takes a hold of your hands “....you’re all I have left..I would never image trading you for the finest treasures in world”

At that point you knew it wasn’t his fault. They were already threatening the entire village for one person. You hug your father tightly and he kisses your cheek.

“Please forgive me.” He said sniffling. Walking to the door, you grab an old cloak and wrap it around your frame.

“Done already?” You say nothing to the remake made by the guard.

Two horses were waiting outside as the guard helps you to mount it. Climbing onto his own horse he holds the reins and starts the walk. As you pass by the many faces you once thought of as friends and even family, you now feel the aching your heart grow.

Although the boys who courted you were not happy at all, at least there were few you could count on. You let you gaze stay on your hands as the horse trots along.

You ignore the words of people as you pass

“Thank for understanding”

“You’re saving us all”

“You’ll be fine”

Lies. That’s all their words were, lies. The trip would be a good hour before you got to the castle. You village was at the edge of the kingdom. Away from nobles and rich men. The farmers, crafters and even some healers were from your village. The question was still running in your mind

Why me? Why not a princess or a lonely queen...why a simple peasant girl?

You couldn’t help but let your head fall and rest of the neck of the horse. The steady rhythm of its hooves against the ground bringing you into a trance. Maybe if you fell asleep, you would wake up and things would be back to normal. 

Normal...your life was anything but normal now

(short time skip)

The horse comes to stop making you look around. You were now inside the gates that surround the castle. The castle looked much more grim in person, perhaps it was because you know what your fate is.

Getting off the horse you feel a sense of dread take over you completely. You could practically hear your heart in your ears as you walk towards the grand doors.  

Maybe every girl dreamed of marrying a prince and becoming a queen...but not like this. The guard knocks on the door with force, you hear the clicks of shoes approach the door.

You had expected something scary awaiting instead you were met with a cheerful, tall, brunette.

“Yes- Oh! She’s here and much more beautiful than she was described! Come in, Come in~” surprised was an understatement, but now you recognized who it was.

Tooru Oikawa, the kings royal adviser, if anything girls swooned over him more than the king himself. You follow him inside the double doors and into the grand hallway.

“Iwa is currently in a meeting but he will be out soon, I’ll show you to your room. There you can bath and I’ll get a you a change of clothes” so far, Oikawa was the only one who was nice, or at least acting that way. He looks behind his shoulder and smiles at you. You give a forced smile his way and continue to the thrown room. 

You’ve only heard about it in stories but now being here in person, you can see how grand it was. A single seat sat atop a few short stairs, above it a large tapestry hung. A majestic white owl with prey in it’s talons was presented for all to see. 

“It seems big and intimidating but you’ll get used to it. You and he king will use this door to enter and leave the thrown room“ there was a door almost in the far corner of the room.

The simple door leads into another hall with multiple doors holding more rooms. After what felt like traveling through a maze, you finally make it to the top floor, the very hall you stood in looked expensive. 

At one end of the hall were another pair of double doors, the handles and bolts made of gold. The other had a much simpler single door in which you stood in front of. 

“This is the guest room where you will be staying for the first two nights“ he said holding the door for you “After that you move in with Iwa“

“What? The wedding is in two days?!“ it was just one surprise after the other wasn’t it?

“I’m afraid so,“ he takes the cloak off your shoulders and bows to you 

“I will also be here to guide and educate you on royal status. Fresh clothes are on the bed and the bath is over there. His majesty should be out in about an hour to come and see you“ he said finally and left.

Everything was moving way too fast, you had to sit down. The bed was comfortable, better than anything you ever slept on. That’s what royalty gets for you, you thought.

You take a moment and look at your surroundings, the room was small yet elegant. There was a vanity with a beautiful mirror, an armoire, a large rug at the side of the bed, and a window with a balcony. 

With a heavy sigh your hands reach to undo the back of your dress, and let it fall to your feet. You warm skin expose to the cool air. You search for a towel in the armoire, grabbing the first one and wrapping it around your frame.

Your feet take you into the separate room, and gaze upon delicate white tiles. Walking to the porcelain white tub you see two buckets full of warm water & cold water. The steam still coming up from the buckets. One by one you fill the tub do your desired temperature and amount.

After testing the water, you step in one foot at a time. The warm water engulfing your cold body, it was comforting. Sinking in further until the water is above your nose. You could almost fall asleep in the tub. You make sure to bathe your body before sitting and letting the water run cold.

Eventually you step out and dry yourself completely. Wrapping your hair in a towel, you dress yourself in the new clothes you were given. Take a look at yourself in the mirror and you were blown away.

Never in all your years have you ever had a piece of clothing so beautiful. It hugged you perfectly in all the right places, it was a beautiful sky blue and white. You may have been enjoying yourself a bit too much, you didn’t hear the door open. He simply heard someone clear their throat and say

“Have you never worn a dress before?” You gasp and whip your head to the door. Only to find the king himself, Hajime Iwaizumi.

His sharp gaze made your heart pound and your breathing stop. He starts to walk towards you his face unchanged. He stops only a foot in front of you, he was so differnt to see in person. His short brown hair, lightly tanned skin and green eyes were all capturing. He scans your body up and down and says

“So you’re my bride, this may be interesting.”

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Taglist; @vanilla-beanzz @hp-hogwartsexpress @sugarysweets-appreciation-blog @sophie-duck @mysteriousmagicx @toutorii @mystic-starlove @leviiiiiiiii @heavenly-warlord @birdiewolf @bakarinnie @torithetori @shoyosun @postsfromthe6 @yatoatyourservice @lola2001

reflection - bucky barnes

word count: 3k+

notes: god i just love Bucky so much asdkjahdkfjhskdjfsdf his character is kinda hard to capture because of the layers that marvel set up but i tried lol

warnings: angst turned to fluff with a lil bit of spicy kissin with a hickey 😏😏 but mostly (?) wholesome bucky n his beautiful partner 🥰✨

Ever since Bucky moved into the Avengers compound, he was always distant. He’d go out of his way to avoid close contact with anyone besides Steve, even going so far as to skip meals or lock himself up in his room all day, reading books that Steve delivered to his quarters. And despite all the pleading and beckoning from Steve’s end, it seemed like nothing could get Bucky to open up and spend at least a few hours with the people around him. 

Perhaps his self-isolation was a form of self-punishment. Perhaps he didn’t truly believe that he deserved anything, or that he wanted to be with people, that he wanted to laugh and have fun with friends. There was an amalgamation of repressed emotion behind those piercing, dark blue eyes. 

In understanding this, I was fortunate enough to get close to Bucky -- not as a means to fix him, but to understand and comfort him when and where he needed me. We’d spend nights together looking at the stars, talking about the bits and pieces of our childhoods that we could remember, or simply laying next to each other in complete silence, relishing the peaceful and serene atmosphere that the evening brought.

 And it was in that setting in which we shared our first kiss. 

From then on, we always shared a special, intimate relationship. He opened up to me, as I did to him. We were equals -- something that Bucky had never known, being trapped in the Hydra system ever since he got out of ice. 

But I’d only known him for a few months. I’d only been with him for a shorter amount of time. There was so much more to uncover, so much more that he had yet to choose to speak with me about because he just wanted to keep everything stuffed inside a tight little jar and ignore it. He wanted to ignore it because he was scared. He was afraid that the soldier would come back and he would lose everything all over again. 

He was scared of the monster, of the ravager that lived inside of his mind in the minefield of memories. 

A habit of his seemed to sprout from this inherent terror.

Whenever I talked to him, he could never keep his gaze trained on mine. His stare wandered to every inch of my face but never seemed to pass my eyes. He’d look at my forehead and the bridge of my nose at an attempt to fool me into thinking that he was lost in my eyes, but I knew. And it was the same with reflective surfaces. He’d turn away from mirrors and slightly opaque windows with a wince, hide behind his cap and stare at the ground in elevators, among other acts. 

For days, I wondered why. I even mustered the courage to ask him, but he’d deflect, then changed the topic as soon as he could. I didn’t prod, as I didn’t want to venture in a space beyond his comfort zone, so I just left it. 

Yet it still seemed to haunt me. I figured it would be an inquiry that was to remain forever unsolved, but it lingered at the back of my mind whenever I saw Bucky. This was beginning to form a bad habit. I didn’t want myself to become fixated on “helping” him in a zone that he’s clearly not comfortable talking about. I couldn’t allow for myself to spiral into obsession over such a thing.

So the question remained unanswered.

__

A week had elapsed since the thought had initially come to mind. It was midnight and I was finishing up some research about a newer perpetrator that was affiliated with a series of bombings in Berlin. As I sent the documents to Tony so he could do some deep diving, someone entered the hall, light footsteps padding towards the small kitchen island where I was sat. 

I lifted my head up only to see Bucky moving towards me. Closing my laptop, I gave him a small smile and turned to him.

“Buck? What’s up?” He sucked in a breath and let it out shakily as he took a seat on the kitchen island next to me. I couldn’t tell what emotion his expression was of, but it wasn’t something pleasant. No, his brows were furrowed and his lips were pulled into a deep frown with unexpectedly prominent wrinkles forming underneath his eyes and on either side of his nose. It didn’t foretell the beginnings of devastation, nor desolation, but a simpler feeling that I didn’t recognize. 

“I need to talk to you,” he spoke lowly. I nodded, holding my hands out so that he could place his in mine. Not minding that his gaze was lowered as to avoid mine, I still stared at him attentively, making sure that he knew that he had every bit of my attention. 

“I’m here for you, sweetheart.” I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You can tell me anything.” The brunette gave a small but appreciative smile, then cleared his throat before speaking. 

“You know the question you asked me before?” I nodded. “I think I have an answer.” 

“I’m all ears,” I murmured in response, rubbing the tops of his hands with my thumbs, “Take your time.” Bucky opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it soon after, unable to unstick the words that were lodged in his throat. 

He looked as if there was something restricting him from telling me -- a higher, greater force that forbade him from speaking about this taboo topic that was his issue. His irises, normally a deep shade of clear blue, were stormy, clouded with dark thoughts that swirled around his mind. The sight was uncomfortably familiar -- I’d seen that face before, when he first arrived at the Avengers compound. His hair was disheveled and he looked like he hadn’t showered in a week, but what stood out to me the most was how pained his gaze was. The complete and utter wreck that he was inside only showed through his stare and it hurt me more than expected. 

I never truly believed the ambition of the saying “the eyes are the window to the soul,” but for the first time, it became my mantra. How torturous was Bucky’s inner state, how unbelievably despondent he was. That chest of his lacked a spirit because it had died in the wasteland of the mind. There was no shred of hope left in his consciousness. 

There was no sparkle in his eyes. 

I wondered where that gleam had gone.

In the present, I kept waiting for his response, patiently sitting and holding his hands until he was ready. 

Bucky drew in a breath, then let it out, squeezing his eyes shut to focus on clearing his mind and seeking comfort in our bond, in the trust that he’d so courageously given to me. 

He fluttered his eyelids open once he found his place.

And then it all came out in carefully chosen words and cautious sentences.

“I hate seeing my reflection. I hate it. If there was a stronger word, I would use it, but i-it’s all that I can come up with right now. I-I just- Every time that I see myself I just think that this was the last face that people saw before they died, that this was the face plastered across the news, that this was the face that served for Hydra.

And it’s pathetic, I know. I know that I’m an Avenger now, and I know that I’ve somehow changed, and I know how much effort you put into each and every moment, in trying to understand me, and I feel so horrible every single time you look at me and I can’t seem to return that… that hopeful smile, or lovestruck gaze because I just-” He paused, an influx of emotion surging through his body. I rubbed a thumb against the back of his hand to assure him that everything was going to be alright. 

“I can’t look at you because I can’t stand seeing that… that man in your bright eyes. Those bright eyes that are filled with so much life, so much joy whenever they’re on me. I don’t- I don’t want him to be in there. I don’t want him to hurt you, (Y/N). I don’t want-” The brunette stifled a sob by tugging his bottom lip in between his teeth. My heart ached at the sight, my grip on his hands becoming tighter as I watched him come undone. He turned to me with tears in his eyes, tears that threatened to fall onto his cheeks, threatening to stain his skin with the colors of sorrow.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered. A trembling breath flew out of my mouth as all the wind seemed to be knocked out of my lungs at the impact of his words. I took him into my arms, pressing his heart to mine and clenching my fists around the fabric of his shirt. Bucky slowly wrapped his arms around my body, finding comfort in my touch, resting his chin on top of my shoulder blade, drinking in my scent in heavy but silent gasps.

“Oh sweetheart…” I flattened my fingers to softly pat his back, attempting to ease him into a less panicked state. “Everything’s gonna be alright. We’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay, I’m not going to get hurt because of you. You’re not going to hurt me, honey.” The brunette in my embrace shuddered, hopelessly clutching onto me in desperation, almost at a mad scramble for some sort of safety. 

We sat there, intertwined with one another as I whispered words of solace until Bucky’s breaths became even and his hiccups subsided, making way for a smoother airflow and a stable, steady heart rate. Unlocking my arms so that we could separate, I gingerly placed my hands on Bucky’s chest and delicately pushed away enough for me to brush all the hair out of his face and press a kiss to his forehead.

“Bucky, I want to show you something.” 

“What is it?” 

Taking his left hand, I led him to the bathroom down the long hallway on our floor. He sensed what was going on and immediately stopped in the middle of the hall, his grasp tightening around my hand. 

“(Y/N),” he spoke, “(Y/N), please.” I clasped my hands around his metal one and gave the back of it a kiss, my gaze full of sorrow as I stared at the brunette. 

“Please, Buck. Let me help you.” Bucky could hear the pleading tone about my voice. He hesitated for a moment, pausing to take a breath, but eventually gave a reluctant nod as I led him to the bathroom. Upon entry, Bucky immediately bowed his head, completely avoiding the centerpiece mirror as he moved to a spot in front of it. I gave a soft, sympathetic sigh and hopped on the table that was built into the giant vanity, making sure that my boyfriend was positioned right in front of me. 

“If you’d like, you can close your eyes, sweetheart,” I hummed, “Can you lift your head up for me?” The brunette did as he was told, fluttering his eyelids shut as I gently raised his chin so that it sat at a normal angle. Letting a breath out, I admired his features with despairing irises. I looked on at his red, puffy eyes and unkempt skin as a pang of heartache reverberated through my body. Despite how painful it was to see him in such anguish, I managed to swallow the lump in my throat and opened my mouth to speak to the broken man.

“Honey, I-I don’t know how you feel. I can’t even begin to imagine what you must have gone through during your darkest times, but I want to be there for you. I want to be there for you whenever you crash or you forget that your actions in the past don’t dictate your future. You’re not the person you were a year ago, Buck. Your face doesn’t remind me of the desolate times, but of the happiest moments in my life.” Noticing that I was getting loud, I paused for a few seconds to cool off, then continued. 

“Whenever I see this face,” I murmured, cupping Bucky’s cheeks in my palms, “I see my Bucky. I see the face of the man who has been nothing short of sweet, understanding, patient, and oh-so dear to me.” My view flitted to his hair, to which I reached for to slowly entangle my fingers in. Bucky gave a small hum as I brushed my digits through his hair, instinctively collecting the brown locks into a half-bun. His neck arched at the feeling, his shoulders sinking while I continued to play with his hair while talking freely. 

“I see the face of the man who is selfless, caring, who is willing to change and diverge from his past to strive towards a brighter future.” As I secured the half-bun in place with a hair tie, I smiled at the sight of Bucky’s expression: his eyes were still closed, but the edges of his lips were curled up in content and comfort -- a rare but always stunning sight. 

“I also see the face of the man that I love with every single bit of my heart, and who I know loves me all the same.” Finishing the look, I leaned back and reveled in the newfound freshness to the brunette’s complexion. 

“If you want, you can open your eyes, Buck.” To my complete surprise, his eyes shot open the moment those words left my mouth. Without missing a beat, he jerked forwards and looked at the mirror with sudden resolution. My heart jumped upon seeing his readiness and the sudden jerk his body took upon, but soon melted as I recognized spots of determination and wholehearted faith in his expression. 

He was slowly shifting out of his comfort zone. 

The progress made here tonight would’ve taken weeks if we attempted this a few months ago. 

It was an understatement to say that I was absolutely ecstatic about this huge leap we’d taken together. My emotions were beyond elation, beyond excited -- the mere thought that Bucky had felt comfortable enough around me to do this sparked a fire within my chest, one that sent flames rushing through my veins so that the tips of my fingers tingled, trembling as they struggled to contain the enhanced level of exhilaration. 

“Baby,” I breathed, “Oh, Bucky.” I turned around to look at the mirror and watched in pure joy as a delighted grin spread across my lover’s face, lighting up his features in the best ways possible. His gaze shifted to my reflection, then back to his, soaking in the wholeness of the image before us. 

“You’re beautiful,” he spoke, “You’re so beautiful, (Y/N).” My heart leapt to my throat as I burst into laughter, my cheeks rosy and my head spinning. He’d called me beautiful in the past, but it never felt like this -- so pure, so close to the heart and endearing as ever. The brunette stepped back to gaze at me as I giggled with a hand clapped over my mouth. 

“Doll, don’t you dare cover your face, now.” Bucky gripped both of my forearms and pulled down so that the big, dopey grin on my face was fully exposed and my laughter could finally echo freely through the chamber of the bathroom. The brunette drank in the melody of merriment with a big, dopey grin of his own as he started to slide his hands down my arms and to my thighs. 

“Hey, look at me, beautiful.” Instinctively, my gaze shifted to meet Bucky’s. The world seemed to slow moments before our eyes met. Waves of motion blurred and the background turned into white and beige gaze as my pupils started to fixate on my lover. 

There was silence, seemingly senseless blindness, even.

And then this brilliant wave of blue, the crashing of cymbals, the tidal wave that immediately swept over my eyes. 

I started to cry as I saw the way his irises glimmered underneath the bathroom lights as they bore into mine, those beautiful dark blue irises finally making their way into the depths of my soul. I cried my heart out, hot tears streaming down my flushed face, cascading down my cheeks and dripping onto my chin. God. I was breathless. 

“Doll,” he said, brushing a tear off of my cheek, “Hey, what’s wrong? Are my eyes that ugly?” I laughed at his jokes, lightly shoving him in response to his cheeky comment. 

“I-I’m just so happy,” I sobbed, “I’m so happy, Bucky.” The brunette smiled and leaned in, nearing my face as his eyes grew half-lidded. He gave my thighs a squeeze before whispering against my lips, his hot breaths bearing down on them, filled with want. 

“I am too.”

His lips pressed against mine and suddenly everything was right in the world. As my hands slid up to cup his face in my palms, I wrapped my legs around his torso, bringing him closer to me, his lower stomach pressed against my core. I hummed at the sensation of his finding their way to my waist, fingers smoothing over my curves, cherishing every small wave that they found themselves riding. 

Gasping softly as his mouth moved to layer kisses down my neck, I moved my hands to rest comfortably on Bucky’s shoulders as he started to lap at a spot at the base of my neck. Small huffs of breath and mewls spouted out of me as the brunette worked on forming a bruise.

“God, I love you,” he murmured into my skin, “I love you so much.” I could only hum in response, toes curling at the sensation of his teeth gently nipping at my collarbone as his tongue coaxed my nerves to scream in delight. 

Once he was done, he parted from my collarbone with a satisfied glint in his eyes and lifted his head to fondly gaze at my relaxed features. 

“Thank you, (Y/N). For everything,” he spoke. I kissed his forehead and beamed at him, overjoyed to finally have seen him like this -- relaxed, with a radiance about his expression that could not be attained from anything other than pure laughter. 

And with that, I pressed my lips to his again, only parting to reply to his expression of gratitude. 

“You deserve it, baby. You deserve it.”

Wandering Hearts (32/?)

Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century. Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna) Rating: M (Very M)

It is dark when she opens her eyes. 

Or did she open her eyes?

She cannot be certain. 

Everything is swimming, everything still hurts, and there is a deja vu to this moment. She is sure she had lived it before. This aching limb, rotting core feeling that eats at her and tries to swallow her.

She chokes on air to try to convince herself she is being foolish. That the rock monsters, moss and crystal, that disfigured woman aren’t real. That Bjarg - 

No. That all had to be fiction. Her mind had invented it. She has always had an extraordinary imagination. It had kept her safe in the palace. It would keep her safe now.

But then why is the world black now when she opens her eyes? Even in the blackest nights in Bjarg’s cabin there had been the faint glow of embers, the hot springs cave there had been the lamp. The palace had always made sure that no night or day was entirely dark. There has never been a time where the world has been this black. There had always been some light by candles, lantern, hearth, fire, sky, or the inexplicable. There had never been a time where light had not kept her in some sort of company but now… 

The world is a void.

Is she alone? There is no confirmation. She cannot know for certain when her eyes betray her to darkness.

She struggles to sit up with a gasping breath. Nothing makes sense. She feels the same as she had before, all the pains and aches, but now sightless as well. If one of those giants - those trolls -  were close then she would have no idea. What if some other wild thing was just waiting for her to stir to see if she was awake and edible? What if she is made to face any of the challenges she has met thus far but without the aid of sight?

At first the idea tightens her chest and steals her oxygen. She could be crushed or beaten or assaulted or worse. Even so she streadies herself. She settles her breathing and stays still. She cannot trust herself just yet, knows what happens when she succumbs to impulse and panic.

The world all feels too strange. Something is out of balance. Something is not right. She squeezes her sightless eyes shut and tries to get her mind to focus.

Surely this is a dream.

There is no other explanation.

But then why does she ache? Why is she so certain she cannot see? Dreaming women do not need sight so why is she asking for it? Why does she demand this right? 

Because she simply knows. For years she had second guessed herself, her instincts, her senses. No more. She is not of the dreaming. She is of the waking, the living, and that does not make things more easy. It would be simpler to pretend, to lay back and give up, but she is beyond that now.

So she blinks, again, again, and again.

Again, faster, again, more quickly, again… 

She blinks until the muscles in her eyelids twitch, flutter and give out.

They have nothing else to give. It is not their fault. They have done all they can, but still the hot tears well. She squeezes them back. There is no time for self pity. She must form a plan, must forge forward despite everything. If she knows anything it is the sitting, waiting, has never done a single thing for her wellbeing.

She focuses past her deficit and attempts to answer other questions.

Where is she?

She reaches out her arms and only finds fistfulls of what she assumes is damp moss. The weight of the air around her says she is in a mystical place of fog and damp green growth, but what if those senses are lying to her too? What if she has finally lost herself to her own mind? What if she had been asleep this entire time and the more diligently she attempts to awaken herself the closer she is to dismissing each instant to vapor?

She inhales a shaky breath.

What has she seen and what has she imagined? What is true? Would she even recognize the truth if it came to her now?

Everything hurts.

Everything tingles.

Her mind is muddled, but she resolves to not let it confuse her. She never knew how much she relied on sight until it was taken from her in a black and merciless blur, but that will define her. There are things she would surely know if only she could see. There were ways she could aid her escape and she knows exactly where she would run if she knew the way.

But just then she is struck with a sharp remembrance. Something that is just now pulling to the surface and wiping everything else away.

If she were able to run she would run until she found Bjarg’s home.

But it is not as simple as that. If she is not dreaming, if what she had seen before held true, then Bjarg had laid so still beneath her bleeding palm as she wept. Bjarg had died. 

A strangled breath escapes her throat at the idea.

She is ready now to doubt herself, to second guess any notion that she is capable of protecting him from herself. She cannot ignore the concept that he is gone, that she has failed him, that she really has nowhere to run.

A second sound comes from her now, a kind of keening wheeze as if her body had no space for her breath. She staggers to her feet. It does not matter where she goes, but she cannot stay here. It does not matter what she can and cannot see. She may have nowhere to run, but she will not sit in this place where he died. 

She stumbles forward a few paces when she hears a shift. 

At first she thinks perhaps she imagined it, created it herself in her steps, and she freezes. It is that same deep grumble the trolls made. The one that shook her and she fights between the need to lay down - play dead or simultaneously to scramble and fight. Before her instinct can make a decision she feels a heavy weight on her shoulder. 

She jerks, scrambling backwards until her back hits a stony wall. Her mind pulls instantly to the giants, the trolls. She lurches forward but between her skirts, blindness, and unfamiliar terrain she falls within instants. Her body braces for impact with the mossy ground but it does not come.

Instead she is caught in two arms. They are strong. They sink with her weight and momentum before they bring her up to stand and hold her tight against a firm wall of heat and strength. Her heart throbs in her chest as she wrestles to remove herself from this strange grip, but no matter how she fights they do not release her. Her arms flail, legs kicking, but nothing lands. She is held too closely, too firmly, for it to be much good. 

Still she struggles and thrashes as much as her aching, injured body will allow until:

“Easy now,” the voice is raspier, lower than it should be, but still she knows it. “Easy, min lille ven.” 

And her entire body goes rigid for one instant before every muscle collapses, legs failing. He falls with her to the supple ground as her hands scour him as if they were her eyes. She finds the soft leather of his kofte, the matted mess of hair, the bristled jaw, the oversized nose - 

“Bjarg,” she gasps, fingers looking for lies. “It cannot - you - you’re dead!”

It feels ridiculous to say as she touches him, is held tightly against the firm line of his body, but she knows what she saw. Or at least she thinks she did. A strange sort of dizziness besets her and her hands grip the thick of his shoulders for balance. 

“Breathe min navnløse. Breathe.” 

He pulls her onto his lap and cradles her against his frame. A large hand cups the side of her head against his heart. It is beating strong and deliberately. That sound, the incessant tattoo of life thrumming against her ear, causes her to suck in a stuttered breath. She realizes then what he meant when he had told her to breathe. Her starved lungs ease at her deep inhalation. The spinning of her mind slows as she absorbs his heat, his smell, the unshakeable certainty of his hold through each inhalation.

“You were dead,” her voice is muffled against his chest. “I saw you. You were dead. You were dead and that - that thing - “ 

She feels him stiffen. She draws back and even though she cannot see she looks up to where she knows he watches her. There is a long pause and she can hear the change in his breathing. It sounds like he has just run a mile. His arms leave her only to have rough hands cup her face. 

“What was shown to you?” There is wreckage in his voice she hasn’t heard before and it sends a shock down her spine. 

She is not entirely sure how to respond.

She has seen so much she couldn’t explain, but still she tries: “Monsters,” her voice is thin and high. “Monsters made of rocks and moss and they spoke and they took me - oh - they took me to - someone - and we went to find you and…”

Her jaw works, but there are no words left.

She has no idea how to continue. 

She has no idea what it means to tell the truth, to speak the suspicions of her heart. All she can think is that he is here, he is alive, he is holding her. She wants to sink into it, but this place is so strange. She does not trust it. She does not trust that this is the Bjarg she has grown to know and follow. How could she?

She stiffens.

Her body pulls away from the hands that cup her face.

She does not stand, but she backs away. She holds her arms out in front of her as if to warn a potential assailant. Her muddied mind has learned better than to just simply trust. Trust had rarely done her a favor. She cannot simply trust this voice, that he is what he says - means what he says.

“What do you know?” His voice is lower than she remembers, raspy, but still she can hear him. The tone of his voice reminds her of that time in the snowy wood just before he had collapsed. There is something so deep and desperate there, but she will not fall into something for the weak minded. 

She clenches her fists: “Nothing. I have been fed only scraps.”

And even in her blindness, her supposed disadvantage, she feels the power of her statement. She feels the depth and width of her accusation. She feels how she leans on walls she cannot see for numerous ways. She feels the courage of someone who has nothing left rise within her as she scurries back a few more inches from the intoxicating heat of whom she hopes is Bjarg. 

And oh does she want to believe that, but she knew what she saw. She knew she had seen him dead and she knows you do not simply return from that. That knowledge gives her the sense of power despite her disabilities. She struggles up to stand.

“This is not my home, my people.” She says as she juggles her jumbled skirts. “This place and its inhabitants are yours. Why should I be the one to explain it?” 

She can practically hear his breath through the mist. She does not know if he stood when she had but she pulls herself up taller regardless. Her hands clench fists at her sides. She has been tricked before, taken advantage of, and she will not allow it now. 

She will no longer stand for the truth to be kept from her reach. 

Life, she realizes, is not waiting for her. Maybe she will stop waiting for it. 

She senses his nearness before she feels him. Her body tenses, neck arching back and hands raising as he cups her elbows. She hears the low, grunting exhale as his fingers tighten to keep her close. Her nostrils flood with a mix of salt and rock and earth as she considers struggling. She will run even if she has no chance of escaping. 

“Logi,” this supposed Bjarg fights against her struggles until he is holding her wrists tight in front of her. Still she pulls as much as she can, fighting herself as much as his hold. When she does not still in his grip instead of bringing her in closer he releases her as suddenly as he held her. She staggers a bit but comes to nothing. The shock of her freedom nails her in place. 

Questions lodge in her throat and she is about to run. 

“What was taken from you?” The question is unexpected, but offered as one might offer an olive branch. 

“I do not know what you mean.” Her response is reflexive, caught off guard by this abrupt change of currency between them. 

“If you were there - if you were part of - well…” he struggles and then stops for several long moments.

Then:

“Logi,” his voice comes from her side and she whirls towards it, arms coming up only to be caught by his again and he gives a low hum as he draws her close to him once more. She stays stiff even as his hold softens all the more until his arms barely touch her, his hand barely touches the side of her head to bring it to his chest. 

His lips graze her hair, beard catching strands, and her body heats and chills at the same time. His head drops low as his voice, the intensity is there even as he holds her like she may break.

 “They took your sight,” he says and she tries to not react, but she knows he feels her waver in the comfort of what she hopes against hope are his arms.

He does not ask. She is not certain how he knew, but she could not deny it. Every step, every motion she did or did not take betrayed her detriment. She eases back from his hold, but does not run. She makes a guess at where his face may be and she is met with a disheartened chuckle.

He takes one of her hands but does not draw her to him. Instead he wraps it in his own calloused grip and tugs. She resists, aching body sore as she leans back, and she can almost feel his hurt at her forbearance. 

Then the tension changes. Instead of pulling, he gives way while still holding her hand. She feels the heat of him again, the unchangeable scent of leather and musk, and even though her mind want to doubt her heart does not. His free hand rakes into the tangled mess of her hand at her ear, thumb stroking her temple. 

“It is me, min lille ven,” he says. “Surely even without your eyes you know me.” 

And she did. 

She had surveyed the landscape of him and found it to be definite, but so much had happened, so many rules had been broken, there were trolls. Her spine goes stiff. She knows him, which is why she knows he is dead. But what if he isn’t? 

 She is as much full of hope as she is dread. This place is so unknown and now she is as helpless as she has ever been. For once she weighs her options instead of acting on impulse and she finds herself agreeing with a nod. 

“I know Bjarg will lead me as I need,” she attempts to keep it distant, but she hears the blatant hope in each syllable.

He is her last hope. She is struck by how long this has been his right without her acknowledging it. She is confronted with just how much she does trust him in this savage place where the very rules of her reality are bent. If it is some trap it will be no worse than what she has already endured. 

She squeezes the hand he holds and she cannot be certain but she thinks she feels his grin.

“Come,” his voice enlivens. “There is much we must make right.”

[ previous ]

Winter Solstice Gift for lanerose23

This is super self-indulgent but hopefully entertaining too. I’ve tried to not stray beyond the cultural lanes established in the drama, but if I’ve erred or overstepped, please let me know so I can be better. Also, I obsessively watched the show on, like, five different platforms with five different sets of subtitles, so this is sort of a medley of names/translations that seemed to flow best in this tale.

For @lanerose23 for the Wangxian Winter Solstice Gift Exchange. I tried to come through on bunnies, fluff, happy endings, and "safe, sane" sexy times! Happy holidays! <3

Read On AO3

*****

The Great Bird's Promise

Inside his shell, he heard the promise. The great bird said that she would deliver them to families who would love them.

Her wings spanned the width of the sky, beak as large as the sun, as she flew with a basket in her talons. Within the woven bamboo jostled the eggs of every living species on Earth—humans, still new and learning to walk upon the soil; fish and lizards and snakes and the old species who had made this world their own.

A heavy wind blew from a mountain that had not been so tall the day before, for they were growing, too. It shook the bird’s massive feathers, shuddering her expansive wings. She dodged the gust, greeted the new mountain, and didn’t notice when a single egg dropped from her basket.

This one lonely egg plummeted through empty sky and landed in the thatch of a pine tree. The branches reached out from the cliff, sparse and cascading. The egg trembled and began to hatch.

The creature inside, naked, blind, heart beating fast with what could be called excitement and what could be called fear, was called a rabbit.

The huge unblinking eyes of a snowy owl watched the eggshell fall away to expose the fragile form inside. The tiny hairless thing that was called rabbit did not, right now, look like one. He shivered in cold mountain breezes. “Will you love me?” the rabbit asked, for he had heard the great bird’s promise.

The snowy owl pondered this. “If you’re silent,” he answered, fluttering on his perch, “and always stand tall and elegant and do just as I do.”

He would, the rabbit vowed inside. He would forever and ever.

___________

The silences of Cloud Recesses were all wrong. Wuxian turned fitfully on the fine bed with its fine pillows and missed the sounds of Lotus Pier, the insects chirping and fishermen casting nets with soft splashes. Plus, he wasn’t tired. It was barely night and already everything had been shut up tight. He was tempted to break out, perhaps sneak to Nie Huaisang’s quarters and invite him into some mischief, but thoughts of Shijie’s disappointment kept him inside this time.

He wondered where Lan Zhan slept; he was probably already deep asleep in twenty layers and rigid from head to toe, pretty and perfect as an ice sculpture. He’d heard that Lan Zhan played guqin and he’d heard Lan Zhan was already one of the best. Wuxian wanted to hear him play and see what he could learn from the methods. Or maybe he just wanted to watch him play, elegant and handsome and stone-faced.

Wuxian turned onto his back with a groan. It was annoying that Lan Zhan was so attractive. It was annoying that Wuxian couldn’t stop thinking about him. Surely, Lan Zhan would be so boring to touch, he thought, surely it would be like kissing a dead fish, but he couldn’t really believe it because he’d seen Lan Zhan fight. He was fierce and intense and intelligent and appealing, so obnoxiously, effortlessly appealing. If they could have fooled around weeks ago like he’d wanted, Wuxian wouldn’t be in this situation. He grumbled and turned onto his stomach again.

“Wei Wuxian! Go to sleep,” Jiang Cheng growled from his bed. “I can’t sleep with you flopping around!”

Wuxian pouted at him in response, but he tried to lay still. He closed his eyes, settled his head on his pillow, and tried to sleep. He tried to not think of Lan Zhan.

Courtyards away and hours later, Wangji sat poised in meditation, incense a lazy curl of smoke around him. Today’s lectures would begin soon. Today, as every other day, Wangji vowed to be the example Uncle expected of him.

Back straight, hands atop his knees, he breathed evenly, a rhythm as familiar as Inquiry. He appeared as placid as a frozen lake in winter.

Inwardly, he thrashed. He tried to focus on the thrum of his golden core, but instead thought of a bright toothy smile and a laugh that echoed off the Cloud Recesses quiet walls. Wei Wuxian, who broke all wards. Wangji wanted to fight him. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to silence him. He wanted to hear his every thought. He wanted him to leave and never come back. He wanted him to stay and never go. He wanted to avoid him. He wanted to find him.

He wanted. He wanted. He wanted and he hated wanting. Wanting opened a cavern inside him that he couldn’t fill. Wanting stoked hungers he had no intention of feeding. He would extinguish them forever if he could. He wanted to look upon Wei Wuxian, his smiles, his talents, his body, his brilliance and rebellion, and feel nothing. Instead, the gaping wound of want split open inside him, spilling desire all through him, melting the ice of him. Filling him with want.

Outwardly, Wangji’s little finger tremored on his knee.

___________

The rabbit felt so proud when his fur grew in white and downy as owl feathers. With the owls, the rabbit stood as tall as he could and thought how striking they must look together, though he was still quite small.

But when the owls took to the air, he couldn’t follow. When they returned with beaks full of creatures that were no bigger than he, the rabbit felt queasy. The elegant snowy owl blinked knowing eyes at him and the rabbit understood.

He carefully descended the towering pine tree, the only home he’d known, and began searching for where he belonged.

Soon, the rabbit found a little gathering of field mice. Hope bloomed inside him. They were even smaller than he was! They couldn’t fly through the air and wouldn’t return with beaks full of meat.

“Will you love me?” he asked, gazing into tiny black eyes. The mouse’s nose twitched a little like his, whiskers bouncing as she looked him over.

“If you stay small,” the field mouse answered, “and you never scare us and you never, ever get angry.”

The rabbit eagerly nodded. He never felt anger and he was so little, with no wings or beak, so how could he ever be scary?

___________

Wuxian felt pride and embarrassment in equal measure as he led Lan Zhan around the settlement built by Wen hands and the wards forged with his blood. He’d seen the difficult scrabble of pulling together even these comforts, to make gardens of graveyards and homes among bones. But with Lan Zhan, Hanguang-Jun, beside him so bright and so beautiful, it was impossible not to see it through new eyes. How gray and horrible all this must seem to one raised in the glorious Cloud Recesses. How repulsed Lan Zhan must feel, he thought.

Wangji was not repulsed, but his heart ached, for this did not seem a way for anyone to live. Yet the grayness of the landscape did not scare him like the grayness of Wei Ying’s skin.

“Let’s go,” Wei Ying said, voice on the wind. “I’ll walk you down the mountain.”

They moved side by side back toward the crumbling entry enforced by fearsome power. The infrequent bump of their shoulders reminded Wuxian of happier days spent pretending they were like Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen, bound only by their shared ideals. He wondered, though, if they shared ideals anymore. No regrets, they’d pledged; to live with a clear conscience. Wuxian had no regrets, not really, and he felt cursed by that. He was rigidly ruled by his own unflinching moral compass. He longed sometimes to be someone who could turn away. Life would be simpler, he was sure, if he could only close his eyes and fall into the shared delusion of clear lines, protect our own and only our own, and the black/white thinking of others. Instead, he felt trapped awake, eyes open, poisoned by the horrors hidden within those comforting platitudes. He felt terribly, achingly alone.

“Is there anyone who can give me a bright future path that is easy to go on?” Wei Ying asked and Wangji had no answer. He didn’t understand why Wei Ying had abandoned the sword, but he could recognize now that the power granted him by this disturbing path was immense, more immense than even a prodigious swordsman like Wei Ying could accomplish with Suibian. And immense power was needed to protect the Wen against the clans.

“Let yourself judge what is right and what is wrong, let others decide to praise or to blame, let gains and losses remain uncommented on,” Wei Ying said sadly, certainly. “I know what I should be doing. I also believe I can control it.”

Behind his eyes Wangji felt the press of tears. He wanted to weep in a way he’d not done since he was a child and had never done with any witness but his brother. That radiant, infuriating boy who had lodged himself in Wangji’s heart was bleeding himself dry for others and Wangji could do nothing but admire him for it. It felt thick in his throat, like any word out of his mouth might come carried on a sob.

“Brother, Brother.” A weight, now familiar, crashed against his legs. “Brother, are you not going to stay and eat with us today?”

Wangji looked down at A-Yuan’s bright eyes and soft cheeks. How could he argue with anything Wei Ying did to protect this boy? How could any action to that end be wrong? The questions burnt and knifed inside him against 3,000 rules he knew like his heartbeat. Three thousand rules that conflicted with one another and yet screamed that he should not be here and he should not care for Wei Ying.

Wei Ying lifted the boy into his arms, making Lan Zhan’s excuses for him. “A-Yuan, this brother here already has food waiting for him at home. He won’t be staying.”

“But I heard a secret earlier,” A-Yuan said. “They said that there was lots of good food today.”

“A-Yuan,” Wuxian scolded, but then fell silent. He had never given much thought to being a parent, but the weight of a child in his arms resonated with something primal inside him. It made him feel gentle and fierce. And to see A-Yuan take to Lan Zhan stirred something else inside him, something he was scared to name because he could never deserve it.

Wei Ying turned to him. Wangji expected him to repeat his explanations, give his silence words as he so often did, but instead, Wei Ying looked at him with an expression he’d never seen before. He wasn’t joking, flirting, arguing, or cajoling. He was just...open, holding a child and looking at him, hopeful.

“I’m leaving,” Wangji said and pulled himself away from that look on Wei Ying’s face. He would wonder until the end of his days what might have been different if he’d stayed.

___________

The field mice adored him, for a time. That he was small made them feel safe. That he ate only green things gave them comfort. But not always, and not enough. They were afraid because he was still bigger, mistrustful because he’d lived among owls, and it wore on the rabbit. He tried to never be angry, even when their suspicious looks made him feel that way.

“You have to leave,” the little mouse told him one day, the same one who’d once allowed him to stay. “Your jumping is too scary and we told you not to be scary.”

He only jumped like that when he was happy, but the rabbit didn’t try to explain; he just left.

After days alone, the rabbit awoke to a vibration, like the world might split open beneath him. It came in slow, steady beats—thump...thump...thump. He hopped to investigate and saw enormous grey-bellied elephants with long trunks and huge flapping ears that swatted the flies away.

They’re so big, the rabbit thought with joy. They’d never be frightened of me.

The elephants settled around a watering hole to drink their fill. Some lounged in the water, washing away the dust coating their thick hides, and the littles ones who were still so much larger than the rabbit played silly games that made him smile.

He politely ventured close to an old matriarch with wise eyes. “Will you love me?” he asked.

She turned in his direction, searching the empty air until she found the tiny origin of the tiny voice. She took in his twitching ears and quivering whiskers. “If you don’t get scared,” she said, “and you help us to lift big trees, find tall grasses, and always stay loyal.”

The rabbit nodded because he wanted to be and do all those things.

___________

Uncle saved his life with his punishment.

He was meant to suffer and reflect on his wrongdoings. And Wangji did suffer. He did reflect. But the flayed flesh on his back was nothing compared to the flaying in his heart. In fact, it was comforting, somehow, to hurt as much on the outside as he did inside. It put Wangji’s pain somewhere it could bleed.

The Yiling Laozu fell with only one hand reaching out to him, and that hand reached out too late. Too late. Too late to change anything.

He cared for A-Yuan, but selfishly the boy wasn’t enough. Wen Yuan had a clan now, he would be safe and fed without Wangji around. Wangji didn’t want to be around. He wanted to be free of this hurt, of this loss, of existing in a world without Wei Ying, surrounded only by those who had betrayed him. Including himself, including the beating heart in his chest.

The pain gave him focus. He read the rules and found those he’d violated. He found those he wished he had. He reflected. He reflected. He reflected and accepted that he was in love with Wei Ying, he always would be, and he should have been by his side. The recognition came in a wave, followed by a soul-deep exhale, like the release during meditation or a gasp after almost drowning.

The Cold Pond Cave cooled the fires of him, but not the way Uncle intended. Wangji didn’t regret his misbehavior, only his inaction. He didn’t regret his words, only his silences. And when he accepted these truths, the turbulence in his mind froze clear and solid. He’d loved Wei Ying. He’d failed Wei Ying. He’d wanted to protect Wei Ying. He could protect A-Yuan. He could love A-Yuan.

As the truths solidified in his heart, power thrummed in his core like a yoke had been thrown off. Energy filled him from toes to fingertips to the ends of his hair. The world perceived his affection for Wei Wuxian as his only weakness. Wangji learned in that moment that his love, immortal and infinite, was his strength.

___________

The rabbit had promised to not be scared, but he felt so afraid dodging heavy elephant feet that could crush him. When he rode on their backs, he felt scared to be so high for he remembered the flying things that ate little things like him. He couldn’t help lift big trees, or even the small ones, and they lost him when they strode in tall grasses. The matriarch scooped him up in a mouthful and nearly ate him, even though elephants don’t eat rabbits.

He didn’t stay long with them, though he loved the silly games of the babies and the huge flapping ears of the elders.

He wandered and soon met a tortoise, its thick skin familiar from the elephants, its size just right—not so big as the elephants, not so small as the field mice. “Will you love me?” he asked the tortoise with his hulking shell and narrow eyes.

The tortoise sniffed at him. “If you can keep up,” he said, and continued on his path.

The rabbit happily hopped beside him, only to discover he’d left the tortoise far behind. Oh, dear no, thought the rabbit, this won’t work at all. He thanked the tortoise for his kindness and continued on alone.

___________

When he left the cave, having lost three years with A-Yuan, he let the regret scatter like leaves in the certainty brought by this new, engulfing spiritual power. Three years earlier, he would have met the boy full of ferocity and self-destruction. That was no way to love a child.

Wangji had been raised beside someone’s anger; he would not wish that for A-Yuan, his Sizhui, who looked plump-cheeked and happy in his pale Lan robes. In the mornings, Wangji combed his hair and helped him fasten his ribbon across his smooth forehead. Sometimes, tongue poking out in concentration, Sizhui helped Wangji with his in turn.

Wangji couldn’t decide if it was blessing or curse that Sizhui, Xian-gege’s A-Yuan, had no memories of him. It left Wangji alone to grieve the dreaded, well-dead Yiling Laozu, Wei Wuxian. But left him alone to bear that bittersweet pain, too. To wish memory on a boy who’d already suffered felt selfish. Better that Sizhui start here in the embrace of GusuLan, in Wangji’s embrace.

Sizhui sat on his lap, even when he was too old and too tall for it. Wangji allowed it. The boy tugged on the strings of his guqin and giggled at the trembling twang. It seemed they both needed this, an extended autumn of youth after a parched summer; forging—or perhaps re-forging—a bond made one magical afternoon that only one of them remembered.

At 12, Sizhui was proper, good looking, and hard working. His aptitude with the guqin gave Wangji stirrings of fate—would this talent have been discovered in a Wen? he wondered. Wangji traveled often, on quests he could barely admit to himself, and when he returned, his first visit was always from Sizhui, even before his brother or his uncle. The boy would seek him out, no matter the hour he returned. It was an indulgence Wangji couldn’t deny either of them.

The sun had just crested the horizon, spilling into the rebuilt shadows of Cloud Recesses.

“I don’t know how we’re meant to obey all of them all the time,” Sizhui admitted softly. The steam from the teapot caught the sunlight like smoke around his young face, carefully schooled to hide his agitation. Wangji knew Sizhui’s face better than his own.

He thought of the platitudes he was told when he’d made the same observation as a child. That the conflict was in him, in the human heart; the rules were to tame the conflict. That cultivation means control and great spiritual strength can only be achieved through harnessing one’s nature.

That is not what he told Sizhui. “They conflict with one another because they are not of equal value at all times,” he said, pleased by Sizhui’s steady hands as he prepared their tea. “Like strings on the guqin, from thick to thin, they can be played separately or together, depending on the melody of a moment.”

“So...we learn the rules so that we may know all the principles that should guide our actions.” Sizhui carefully extended his teacup toward him and Wangji felt a rush of affection for his perceptive, soulful boy. “Just as we learn all the notes we can play, even though not every song requires them?”

“Mn.” Wangji gave a slight nod and lifted his tea, breathing in the floral scent. “And indeed, not only do some songs not require them, but the wrong note—even when beautiful in another melody—would ruin the one before you, and to play every note at once would only create discord.” Wangji knew that discord well. He’d grown up in it.

Sizhui let out a relieved sigh that gave Wangji a tremulous feeling of success, like he’d done a bit of good parenting, even when he barely understood what that was. “That makes sense,” his lovely boy said. “Thank you, Hanguang-Jun.”

Wangji didn’t respond. He simply drank the tea prepared by his son, his Lan Sizhui, Wei Ying’s A-Yuan, and let himself feel a rare moment of peace in the sunrise.

Years later, in Yi City, Wangji would see himself in Xiao Xingchen, who died rather than continue in a world where he’d hurt his beloved—and also in Song Lan, who soldiered on, a ghost carrying memories of dead love close to his heart.

___________

In his travels, the rabbit soon came to wide water, so expansive he could not see its end. It rose and fell like great moving mountains. On the gray-sand shore were seals with big limpid eyes and sweet round bellies. “Will you love me?” he asked one, feeling so scared and so hopeful.

“If you stay close and always share your food,” the seal answered.

___________

Wuxian felt the pleading weight of Zewu-Jun’s words.

He walked in to see Lan Zhan with his hair down, sleeves held back gently as he prepared tea and poured wine, and he understood why Zewu-Jun told him more than he’d asked. Lan Zhan was a warrior, Hanguang-Jun, Lan Wangji, a jade of Gusu, and one of the most powerful cultivators of any generation. He was also a man in love. A man so deeply in love it had burned—burned him—for almost two decades.

Wuxian trembled beneath that weight.

“I don’t need anyone to save me,” he’d said years ago in the Burial Mounds. It took dying and coming back to understand that what he’d meant was I’m not worth saving. Lan Zhan had never agreed, no matter how Wuxian tried to convince him.

The plink and shiver of the guqin brought the tingle in his limbs to his awareness, like the growl in his empty stomach breaking through the excitement of an invention. That physical attraction he’d had to Lan Zhan in their youth had never gone away. It had just been papered over by battles, separation and second lifetimes, unworthiness and the paradoxical belief that he could not love someone so profoundly and also desire him. His eyes trailed over Lan Zhan’s long fingers on the strings, his soft mouth; his eyes, those remarkable, unforgettable eyes, and—

“I want to kiss you,” he blurted out.

Lan Zhan’s playing stilled and he looked up. They stared at each other in silence. Lan Zhan’s expression was gentle, accepting, and silent. Wuxian laughed—the silence should be no surprise; this was Lan Zhan, after all, who would answer direct questions with silence, who would offer no information, even when it was demanded. Wuxian had no intention of demanding. “Oh, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” he said, entering the room. “I want to kiss you, but do you want to be kissed?”

Lan Zhan simply nodded, as if Wuxian had asked about getting dinner. But the rosy tips of his ears gave him away. “Only by you,” he added. And oh, Lan Zhan’s other great skill: to say so little and still say more than Wuxian knew how to believe.

Wei Ying lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged to Wangji’s left where he still sat rigid, back straight, hands flat to still the long-gone vibration of his guqin. He’d imagined kissing Wei Ying—and more, so much more—for so long. The passion inside him felt always dammed behind an insufficient barrier. So, to release it...he imagined embracing Wei Ying like a tidal wave, overwhelming, undeniable, claiming him with lips, tongue and teeth, smashing their bodies together with the force of his want.

The reality was somewhat different. Wangji’s passion was no less extraordinary, but the dam restraining it now was love, not self-domination. What did Wei Ying want? How much did Wei Ying want? His passion could be like a wave gently lapping shore, if that’s what Wei Ying needed.

Slowly, Lan Zhan turned to face him, fingers moving to rest in his lap. Their knees touched as Wuxian scooted just that small bit closer, movements young and eager. Lan Zhan looked up to meet his eyes and once he’d done that, Wuxian could almost never look away. He reached out to close a hand over Lan Zhan’s, heart thumping and feeling 16 years old with his mind full to brimming with the most beautiful boy he’d ever seen.

For once, he did look away from Lan Zhan’s eyes. Away from his eyes to his mouth, lips plump-pink and tempting. As soon as he looked, he touched, before the courage left him. The tension melted from Wuxian’s shoulders at a kiss returned.

Their hands bumped when they both reached for each other at the same time. Wuxian laughingly yielded, letting Lan Zhan cup his jaw and direct the kiss. It was honey on his tongue, a mouth moving against his, a pleasant buzz through his body. He let his own hand drop to Lan Zhan’s knee, the curve firm and intimate through layers of linens.

Hai hour settled heavily on Wangji’s shoulders. Childhood routine made his mind shift into a quieter state, lending a dreamy mist to the minutes spent blissfully kissing as the snow blanketed the world outside. “It’s time to sleep,” he said. He didn’t much care for himself, but Wei Ying was wounded, and battles loomed still to be fought. Wei Ying needed his rest.

Wuxian wanted to tease Lan Zhan like he used to, mock those rigid GusuLan traditions—if they weren’t going to defy them for this, then for what!? But Lan Zhan, his Lan Zhan; he’d spent so much time worrying and caring for him, he had to be exhausted. “Okay,” he relented.

But neither of them moved to stand or stop. They just kept trading kisses.

Wuxian laughed against Lan Zhan’s mouth and felt an answering smile that made his heart throb. He decided a few moments more couldn’t hurt. For a few moments more, they could be the lusty, carefree boys they could have been 20 years ago, if war had not arrived so early and maturity so late.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispered against his lips after several molten minutes more. He felt hot all over, from his knees tight against Lan Zhan’s to his throat where guqin-skilled hands stroked his skin and caressed his jaw. “We should sleep.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan agreed, but only kissed him again.

Wei Ying laughed and Wangji loved the sound. Loved the sound of him, loved the feel of him, loved the life in him. Wanted him endlessly.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying pouted sweetly, “who’s been taking care of me, hm? Who will take care of me if Hanguang-Jun is asleep on his feet?”

When Wangji opened them, his eyes were unfocused. He felt drunk, though he’d had no wine but what he could taste on Wei Ying’s lips and tongue. “Sleep with me,” he said.

Blushed cheeks and well-used lips complemented Wei Ying’s features well. He looked young and healthy. “Yes,” he answered, adding sternly, “but we have to sleep.”

Wangji nodded his agreement, amused to have Wei Ying making rules now.

They stripped to their underrobes and climbed into the bed, each fully intending to sleep as agreed, but the room had grown cold with the frost outside and there was so much warm skin, so many hot kisses still to give, so much uncharted territory on this path they’d just begun to walk together and now single layers that could be opened to allow palms to feel the firm planes of stomach and the exquisitely narrow rise of hip.

But they each had secrets, too: a boy asleep not far from where they lay and a golden core warming someone else in Yunmeng.

Lan Zhan felt so good and Wuxian didn’t want to stop even as his heart thumped for the wrong reasons when Lan Zhan’s fingers grazed his wrists. If they were to do the things he’d seen in Nie-xiong’s books, then surely Lan Zhan, the great Hanguang-Jun, would sense what he was missing. He wanted it as much as he feared it.

“Lan Zhan, is it okay – if we – if we don’t go any further – tonight – just not tonight,” Wuxian gasped, each phrase punctuated with more kissing, his hand tangling in Lan Zhan’s hair, his knee sliding over Lan Zhan’s hip.

Wangji gripped the knee curving around him to bring their bodies closer. He wanted to pull it firm against him and take this pleasure he’d been dreaming of for decades. But Wei Ying’s words. He was forever reckless with himself and he would keep going if Wangji pushed it because they wanted each other. Even that thought was a thrill. Wei Ying wanted him, and Wangji wanted to tell him.

But if Wei Ying approached Sizhui with the familiarity and fondness he almost certainly would if he knew, what terrible memories might that disinter? For as much love as had surrounded little Wen Yuan, he’d been living on a mountain of the dead and all his family had been slaughtered. Would returning those memories to his sensitive, happy boy be a kindness or a cruelty?

Wangji still wanted. He wanted to tell Wei Ying the one good thing he’d done, kiss him, hold him, cry with him, make love in a happy haze as though all the painful years had never happened, but no. No, the note he must play strongest now was for Sizhui, and he did not want his first joining with Wei Ying to be shrouded in secrets.

He called upon his Lan reserve to drag himself away from the delicious warmth of Wei Ying’s mouth. “We can stop,” he said, startled by the lust-roughness of his voice.

Wei Ying’s eyes drifted away from his lips. Wangji felt his steadying exhale against his skin. “You’re right, Lan Zhan, you’re right,” he said. “We should stop.”

“You said it first.”

Wei Ying let out a loud laugh, rolling away to throw his head back. Wangji wanted to cover that smooth neck with bites and kisses. When Wei Ying curled toward him again, his eyes shown with fondness and he reached between them to link their hands together, bodies at a safer, less enticing distance.

They talked, then, how they did any other night they’d shared a room in their travels. They compared thoughts about what they had discovered, expectations for what lay ahead, but it felt so new, whispering face to face, lips kiss-tender, voices crossing not an empty room but only the small expanse of the bed.

Wuxian wasn’t sure when they finally fell asleep. He remembered dawn peeking through the screens at the window and it seemed only seconds later that they had to wake and get dressed. He wanted to curl up and sleep for a day, but a wicked, immovable deadline hung over them for soon a murderer would come to Cloud Recesses.

___________

The rabbit had a delightful afternoon in the seals’ company. Their bodies bounced like his and they had whiskers like him and they bounce-bounce-bounced together, but then all the seals bounce-bounce-bounced into the waves where the rabbit couldn’t follow because he didn’t have flippers and his feet were not shaped like a paddles for pushing through water.

He stood alone on the beach for a long, stunned moment, then he turned and began searching again.

In the silent grasses, the rabbit came upon a leopard, its sleek, spotted body low to the ground, eyes peering straight ahead. Its backside wiggled the way the rabbit’s did sometimes. “Will you love me?” the rabbit asked.

“If you can keep up!” the leopard replied, bounding off on strong back legs after a sprinting deer.

The rabbit tried to keep up, but he lost her before the leopard’s voice had even faded from his ears. He continued on alone.

___________

The moment he saw that broken look on his brother’s face at the Guanyin Temple, Wangji knew his daydream of traveling by Wei Ying’s side had died.

To live with a clear conscience, without regret. An easy phrase that provided no guidance in how to weigh regrets against one another. He would regret watching Wei Ying walk away again. He would regret leaving GusuLan with one leader heartbroken and another too unyielding for the complex days ahead. He would regret forsaking a generation of Lan juniors to that unsteady guidance. He would regret abandoning the cultivation world to a power vacuum where evil and self-interest could so easily gain dominance. He wanted to be Lan Zhan. He wanted to be Wei Ying’s. But the world, for now, needed Hanguang-Jun.

But like so many deaths around the Yiling Laozu, Wei Wuxian, this death was not forever. One day, Wangji sat reading in the jingshi when a flute’s notes drifted in with the breeze. He heard a song he knew well and knew Wei Ying had come home.

It was strange to walk the paths of Cloud Recesses and realize it had started to feel like home. Wuxian found comfort in the routine, and could maybe—maybe—understand the appeal of a clearly defined schedule, up to a point. His 16-year-old self would never have believed it, but his 16-year-old self hadn’t yet had to survive in the Burial Mounds. His 16-year-old self hadn’t yet died for his convictions and mistakes.

Wuxian let out a breath as the sorrow passed through him, a familiar companion after all these years. Even that felt at home in Cloud Recesses with its stillness and meditative spaces. Here, Wuxian could grieve and find solace. He’d found love here. He’d found purpose and family. Even Lan Qiren surrendered some of his vitriol when he’d realized that Wuxian would not steal Lan Zhan away. At last, the old man recognized that Lan Zhan was the wise and filial leader he’d been trying to raise all along, even if they disagreed on the details.

Lan Zhan looked as beautiful as an art print among the rabbits in the back hills. The pure white fur and Lan Zhan’s robes, the earthy brown and green—it made Wuxian’s fingers itch for brush and parchment. Perhaps he’d do that tonight...or maybe tomorrow because he’d learned the expressions on the face so many others thought immobile. All morning, Lan Zhan’s eyes had been lingering on Wuxian’s throat, his lips. Their few touches outside the jingshi had been lingering.

The first night Wuxian returned to Cloud Recesses they’d had no early appointments and no deliberate secrets between them, only stories not yet told and endless days to tell them. That night, they discovered new things they could do together that were even more satisfying than fighting side by side.

“Lan Zhan,” he said casually, scratching a rabbit between its velvet-soft ears. “What do you want to do tonight?”

The rabbits on Lan Zhan’s lap were calmer, almost sedated by his familiar and predictable stillness. But then, rabbits couldn’t really read the way his eyelashes slowly lifted over a heated gaze.

Wuxian grinned as a lovely anticipation started to pool in his limbs. He’d always been attractive, but it wasn’t until all this started with Lan Zhan that he’d felt desired, even seduced. “Ah,” he said, and stretched out on his back, hands folded beneath his head. Leaves and sticks crunched beneath him and a few rabbits darted away, but Lan Zhan’s eyes traveled the length of him, just as he’d wanted. One day, perhaps, Wuxian would try to tempt Lan Zhan into kissing him here the way he did in the jingshi, all devouring and unrestrained.

“I want—” Wangji began, then silenced abruptly. He found himself disinclined to speak most of the time, but rarely did he want to express himself more than in these moments with Wei Ying, these rare moments when the intimacy of their relationship was in the fore and not buried beneath life-or-death politics and layers of the mundane. Wei Ying had gotten so good at reading him, but sometimes Wangji wished he didn’t have to.

“Yes?” Wei Ying curved toward him, head propped up on his bent arm. “What do you want, Lan Zhan?

In that eagerness, Wangji saw that sometimes Wei Ying didn’t want to have to read him either. He swallowed and tried. “The book you had.”

“Which book?”

“During the lectures. In the library.”

Confusion clouded Wei Ying’s handsome face and Wangji worried this would fall prey to his poor memory, but after a few seconds, clarity spread like a sunrise. “In the library. When I was having to copy all those rules and you were being so mean and ignoring me.”

“Mn.”

Wuxian smiled brightly. Funny how those days had a rosy shine to them now. Lan Zhan, his beloved Lan Zhan, his sweet stick in the mud who defied nearly every one of those rules for him. He’d been unimaginably attractive in that library, so cold and untouchable. How badly he’d wanted to touch. “What about it?”

Wangji swallowed. He turned his attention to the rabbits in his lap. They dozed, their red eyes closed into gentle lines on their white faces, noses twitching with dreams. They clearly didn’t sense the rapid heartbeat in the body beneath them. “The picture. I would do that with you.”

Wuxian’s mouth twisted. “Which picture?”

Lan Zhan looked up at him, exasperated.

“Ah-ah, Lan Zhan,” he sighed, one hand lifted in defense. “That book was full of pictures. I don’t know which one you saw. I gave it to you to tease you and you ripped it apart so quickly.”

Wangji looked back to his rabbits. One blinked awake and he slid a finger along its forehead as it yawned, cute big teeth on display. He let the subject drop. He would not be able to find the words.

But Wei Ying sat up, excitedly crossing his legs beneath him. “Could you describe it to me?” he asked.

Wangji didn’t reply, neither by words nor a shake of his head. The tightness in his throat frustrated him. The sentence wouldn’t form in his mind, his tongue wouldn’t lift in his mouth, his lips wouldn’t part. That he had these desires, he had accepted. That they were not shameful, he had learned. But to speak them was still beyond his strength.

Wuxian scooted closer until his knees touched Lan Zhan’s. He loved the warm-pink of his ears, but not the storm clouding the features beneath his pale blue ribbon. He reached forward to join Lan Zhan’s hands in petting the rabbits in his lap. “Maybe you could show me,” he said, letting his fingers glide over Lan Zhan’s in a way he was certain could be called shameless. “Tonight, Lan Zhan. You could show me what they did in the picture. You know how smart I am; I’ll figure it out.” Lan Zhan didn’t answer, but the pink of his ears deepened to red, the storm cleared in his expression, and Wuxian grinned. His clever mind liked a mystery and the rest of him liked touching Lan Zhan, so these evening plans were very welcome indeed.

But being Wei Wuxian they also slipped his mind. That Cloud Recesses felt like an embrace would have shocked his 16-year-old self. That he’d become a teacher would not have. Oh, he dreamed of being a rogue cultivator, and that lifestyle suited him quite well on his not infrequent night hunts, but Wuxian had always been someone who loved being surrounded by youth and happiness, laughter on lotus lakes and meals made by someone who adored him.

Those days couldn’t be recreated, not after so much damage, but with the Lan juniors, with Lan Zhan, and A-Yuan, visits with Wen Ning and even slowly, slowly something better with Jin Ling and Jiang Cheng... It suited Wuxian quite well to be Wei-laoshi. He liked guiding disciples in archery and sword forms. He liked the spark of delight in their eyes when they first mastered a talisman.

Wangji liked that others saw His Excellency in the company of the Yiling Laozu. It killed off the rumors explaining Wei Ying’s absence and their hopes that Wangji had “come to his senses.” He preferred when they could tell by sight that the cultivation world was now guided by a mind that had not been tamed. If they felt fear, Wangji assumed they were right to do so. Those who gave him small, secret smiles—they were right, too.

That evening, Wuxian sat on the edge of their bed and barely seconds later found himself with a lapful of Lan Zhan. He instinctively gripped him and blinked, confused, at the broad expanse of a silk-covered back before his eyes.

“It was like this,” Lan Zhan said, a low whisper.

Wuxian blinked once, and then once more. “Ohhh,” he breathed, as every piece of their earlier conversation came back in a rush. “Oh. Yes, Lan Zhan, we can do that.” And really, they’d already started. Lan Zhan’s hips circled in a way that made Wuxian shiver and forget everything else. He swept Lan Zhan’s hair over his shoulder to bare his neck to his kisses and reached around to start pulling the robes from Lan Zhan’s body, sliding his hands up the strong thighs parted atop his. “Did you want to do this that day in the library?” he asked.

“No... and yes.”

“Yeah,” Wuxian agreed. He remembered the messy jumble of yearnings back then. If they’d kissed as boys, Wuxian was sure he would have ruined it, laughing, callous and too scared to wade into the depths of his feelings for the boy who was everything he was not.

They kept small pot of gel by the bed next to a stack of bathing linens. Wangji still felt a bit embarrassed by the obviousness of these supplies, but it was worth it when he didn’t have to leave Wei Ying’s arms when the mood struck them.

When he was young and his body was rocked by desires he didn’t understand, he’d done what he always did: he studied, like curse victim seeking the counter-curse. And indeed, he’d felt cursed, the way his mind refused to stay on any topic but Wei Ying and his antics. He discreetly researched how men fit together, how they touched and satisfied each other. He believed knowledge would bring the counter-curse for surely he would see these acts were foul and undesirable. Instead, he learned, in detail, all the ways he could give pleasure to the vexing boy who had disrupted the peace of him.

The worst times were the fits of grief that took hold during those long years existing in a world without him. Even gone, his thoughts still turned to him. Even gone, he still wanted to touch him. In those dark hours, with smooth gel on his fingers, he’d give his body what it needed. He pictured the beaming smile that died long before the man, those clever eyes and slender hands full of power and strength. After the crest of climax, the tears would swallow him. He would cry into bed linens that would never carry Wei Ying’s scent, and search for the reasons to go on when all he wanted was to fall into darkness with him.

But his linens did smell of Wei Ying now, of his hair oils and the natural tang of him. His linens were their linens because his bed was not his alone anymore, would never be again, and that beautiful boy who had once vexed him let out a tense, blissful sigh when their bodies joined at last.

Wuxian touched his forehead to Lan Zhan’s warm back and tried not to move, though the pleasure made him want to. He kissed the juncture of neck and shoulder blade, gave a light scrape of teeth. “Is it good, Lan Zhan?” he asked. His voice and his legs trembled.

He didn’t immediately receive a response, not a verbal one anyway, but Lan Zhan shifted, adjusting angle and depth and clinging to Wuxian’s hands on his hips.

Soon enough Wuxian didn’t need his words. Soft sounds rumbled in Lan Zhan’s throat, small gasps of satisfaction that would, in anyone else, be loud wanton moans. Like the sort Wuxian muffled against Lan Zhan’s scarred skin, pressing hot, open-mouth kisses as they found their rhythm with one another. It felt so good, always felt so good to touch Lan Zhan, to have this closeness, this way to show with bodies the intensity of his feelings inside. Sometimes he felt obsessed; he wanted to breathe in Lan Zhan, drink him in, become one person and be done with this false separation, this ridiculous idea that there was a Wei Ying and there was a Lan Zhan when they were so clearly one soul, one heart, one person. Maybe if they had a hundred lifetimes together, they could cultivate a way to join their spirits and become one. But—gasping deep and human against sweat-damp shoulder blades as Lan Zhan rode him—Wuxian couldn’t complain about this method for now.

Finished, they collapsed to their sides on the bed, letting bodies cool and heart rates settle. Wuxian dropped kisses on Lan Zhan’s naked shoulders because the affection still bubbling from his climax needed somewhere to go.

After a few moments’ rest, Lan Zhan turned to him. Those who thought him beautiful had no idea, Wuxian thought. They’d never seen him flushed with color, limb-loose and sated, eyes cloudy with peaked pleasure.

Their couplings usually ended with whispered conversations and Wei Ying’s happy laughter, so Wangji didn’t expect the emotion clogging his throat. He didn’t realize tears had followed until Wei Ying’s thumb slid beneath his eyes wipe them away.

“Lan Zhan?” he asked, concerned. “Why are you crying?”

The cavern of want that once terrified him had expanded and burst, filled now with a shameful fantasy made joyful flesh; filled to brimming with a partner, a son, a healthy clan, a life he felt so grateful to be living.

“Thank you,” was all Wangji managed to say.

Wei Ying smiled, that achingly gorgeous smile that Wangji wanted forever. “For what?”

For killing my shame, he thought. For making Cloud Recesses feel like home again. For embracing my silences. For coming back. For staying. For—

“I love you,” Wei Ying said, when he didn’t get an answer, at least not one Wangji had consciously given.

For that, Wangji thought and welcomed his kiss.

___________

The rabbit traveled on, alone and desperately lonely, until he came upon a stranger munching green, green leaves. Hunger twisted in his tiny rabbit belly, but the ache in his heart was more.

“Will you love me?” The rabbit asked, but before the stranger could answer, he went on, “I may be too scary or too big or too small. I may not be elegant and I can’t help lift big trees, or even little ones. I may go too fast or I may go too slow, and I cannot bounce-bounce-bounce into the water. I jump when I’m excited, I sometimes get scared, and I may not be perfect at giving love back,” the rabbit said in a rush. “But will you love me?”

The stranger blinked with red eyes just like the rabbit’s after listening with long ears just like the rabbit’s. A whiskered nose twitched.

“I do,” said the stranger, for he’d been searching a long time, too.

___________

They stood together, watching the swirl of pale fabric as two juniors sparred. Blades glinted as they caught the afternoon sun. Wuxian couldn’t help smiling, feeling like a grandpa remembering his good old days. “Ah, Lan Zhan,” he said wistfully. “Do you think we’d still be equals if I had my core?” It wasn’t as hard to talk about now, between the two of them. It was a fact of Wuxian’s new body and his health; they had to talk about it to navigate a life lived together.

“We are equals.”

“Tsk. I mean with swords.”

“Still equals.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan, you know what I mean.”

Wangji did and he didn’t. “Wei Ying survived the Burial Mounds.”

Wuxian shrugged, feeling that ancient shadow whisper in his heart. “That’s just survival. If you’d been thrown there, Hanguang-Jun would have survived too.”

Wangji didn’t reply, but he also didn’t agree. He suspected that his unwillingness to use resentful energy—his fear of the discord already living inside him—would have meant his death. His spiritual power would simply have bled into the earth, more foul power leeching into the dirt. No, he was certain that none but Wei Ying would have emerged at all, let alone emerged more powerful than when he fell. “Wei Ying is gifted,” he said finally.

Wei Ying spun Chenqing in his hand. These days, it played music more than puppets. “Gifted in something evil.”

“That he uses for good.”

Wuxian snorted. “You have an answer for all of it, don’t you, Lan Zhan? You can’t clean me of all my mistakes.”

“I’m not trying to.” Lan Zhan turned to meet his eyes, countenance both stern and sweet in that way of his. “A golden core can be used for evil deeds,” he said. “You’ve demonstrated that resentful energy can be used for good ones. That is innovation. You saw what others could not. That is a gift. Core or no, you have always been my equal.”

“Lan Zhan.” Wuxian pouted. He’d wanted to flirt and reminisce about the days when an incredibly pretty fuddy-duddy had broken his bottle of Emperor’s Smile. Instead, Lan Zhan had cut at something naked and fragile inside him.

His eyes drifted from Lan Zhan’s, but he bumped their shoulders together to tell him that he wasn’t upset, not really. “Maybe,” he said. “But I want to know if I could’ve ever bested you and Bichen.”

Lan Zhan’s lips lifted in a sad, tiny smile. “Me too,” he agreed softly.

Wuxian wanted to kiss him. Instead—for the sake of the juniors—he just pushed their shoulders together more firmly, removing any lingering space between them. That sorrow could visit them, he decided, the sorrow of what could-have-been. It could visit, but not stay.

Wangji had more he wanted to say. Wei Ying was brilliant. The sort of brilliant that, at most, emerged once in a generation and sometimes not at all. Wangji felt gratitude to have met him, to have gotten him back after everything. But he could sense when Wei Ying wasn’t ready to hear such words. He would let his praise and admiration out in bits and pieces for the rest of their lives. He was okay with that, he decided, and let his weight lean just as firmly against Wei Ying’s as they watched the next generation fly.

When It All Comes Flooding Back

Vanya Hargreeves/Diego Hargreeves

The Umbrella Academy

Summary: Following on from the final episode of Season 2. The Hargreeves are staying at a hotel after finding out that once again they are not quite home. Vanya continues to regain her memories and while seeking relief finds the she is not the only member of the Academy having trouble sleeping.

Ao3 Link : When It All Comes Flooding Back

The revelation that their ‘home’ was not their real home in this reality had been disappointing to say the least. Once again they had ‘royally fucked up the timeline’ as Five so eloquently phrased it.

They had found a hotel nearby, not prepared to separate themselves again after they had just found each other. They had managed to find somewhere with enough rooms and beds to accommodate them all. Vanya was sharing a room with Klaus and Alison, while Five, Diego and Luther had reluctantly bunked together despite Five’s arguments that he as the senior member of the group should have his own accommodation.

The hotel receptionist hadn’t asked any questions when they had asked for the rooms, and it looked like the kind of place that wasn’t in the habit of asking too many questions which was just what they were looking for.

She had tossed and turned in her bed envious of Klaus who snored loudly from the couch, and Alison who looked just as perfect in her sleep as she did when she was awake. It seemed only Vanya was unable to find peace in sleep. She had gained and lost so much over the past few days she couldn’t keep up. Her heart still ached for Sissy and Harlan and the life she had given up to stay with her family.

Then there had been the new memories that she had regained, they were painful in a different way. She could feel them in her bones, the anger, the frustration that they brought with them. But they were also confusing, there were some parts of them that she couldn’t quite reconcile herself with. So many decisions that although she knew were her own it felt like a different person had made them. Not the person that she was now.

She wanted to ask the others about them, but she found herself holding back. She didn’t want them to be afraid of her again, the more she talked about what had happened in the past the more afraid she was that they would remember what she had done, and who she was. It made her heart pound and head ache. She had taken two aspirin already to little relief.

There were some in particular that she wanted to ask Diego about, but she wasn't exactly sure how to casually just bring it into conversation. Flashes of hands interlinked, his lips brushing against the column of her neck while her fingers twisted in his shirt. A heat rose to her cheeks and she groaned in frustration.

She huffed into her pillow, when in truth she wanted to scream. She rose to her feet quietly in hope not to disturb the others, the bed dipping as she did so, and she was grateful that Alison didn’t stir at the movement. She tiptoed around the small hotel room, shrugging on her jacket and shoes.

She opened the door quietly and closed it slowly behind her. The cool air against her face brought her some welcome relief.

She spotted a familiar shape further along the narrow balcony, resting against the railing, his head bowed down so that his hair covered his face. But she had a feeling that she would recognise him anywhere.

Diego.

He looks up, as if he can sense her presence, and she feels frozen. A familiar headache takes hold as more memories slot carefully into place inside her mind.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks her as he moves closer before leaning against the balcony next to her, looking over the car park below them.

She shakes her head pulling her lip between her teeth. He gives a chuckle, low and heavy.

“Yeah, me neither.” He had lost so much as well. He had wanted to stop everything from happening save the president, be the hero, and yet everything had gone to shit.

He had lost her asl well, the woman who had been trying to kill them, or perhaps more specifically Five. He had said that he loved her and she wasn’t sure how that made her feel. She shouldn’t feel a pang of jealousy at the confession, her heart also had been given to someone else, but it is there anyway and as these memories continue to make themselves known it only makes more and more sense.

He examined her carefully, “What’s going on in there?”

"Too much,” she sighs, pressing her forehead against the cool metal of the balcony railing. It was simpler when she couldn’t remember who she was. She was free. And now.

"I know the feeling," he mumbles, pulling a metal flask from his pocket and taking a sip, she looks up to see a grimace across his face. "Five has the worst taste." He holds out the flask and she eyes it carefully, before relenting and taking it from his hand. A peace gesture.

The alcohol burns her throat as soon as it hits and she gulps it down, before coughing as Diego grabs the flask from her hand before she can spill it.

When the burning starts to dissipate and she regains her breath, she manages a staggered, "That's awful." While Diego just nods in agreement before taking another swig.

And then it hits her like a train, the strength of the memory as it appears, neurones firing and connecting all at once as the piercing feeling at her temples returns.

She feels his hand grasp her arm, holding her upright, as the world becomes out of focus and her knees give way.

"You stole from Dad's office?" Vanya's eyes widened.

"What? It's not like it's hard. Klaus does it all the time."

"Yeah, but,"

"You want to try?"

She considers the bottle in his hand, a brown amber liquid, that is both tempting and forbidden. There is also the feeling of being included, she knows they all meet up without her when they think she won't notice, or perhaps they simply don't care. Diego's eyebrows are raised in a challenge, waiting for her to chicken out, expecting it.

"Give it here," she orders, pulling herself up straighter, despite still being much shorter than him. He chuckles handing her the bottle, watching her carefully as she takes a tentative sip, before spluttering and pushing the bottle back to him.

She expects him to tease her, to laugh at her and tell the others another example of how she is inferior to the rest of them, but instead he wraps his arm around her shoulder.

"Damn, Vanya, I didn't think you would actually do it."

She decides immediately she likes the feeling of his arm wrapped around her and leans into it. He tightens his grip for a moment and she is sure that she feels the pressure of his thumb against her bare elbow, moving gently across her skin. He has never acted like this before, she is sure he has never actually spent this long alone in a room with her since they were children. But then Luther comes barging into the room and he jumps away from her like he has been electrocuted.

“Dad’s coming and he is pissed!” Luther shouts as he eyes the bottle in Diego’s hands, rolling his eyes.

“I’ll distract him,” Vanya offers, earning a grateful smile from Diego, and a shocked look from Luther at her uncharacteristic boldness. “Go, put it back,” she tells him, ignoring the little butterflies that have taken residence in her stomach, when he smiles broadly at her.

“Thanks, Vanya.” He gives her a little salute before he leaves the room, leaving Luther shaking his head at the two of them and Vanya quickly concocting a plan to distract their father for long enough for Diego to make it back to the office.

“Are you okay?” Diego’s voice cuts through the memory and she feels the ground return beneath her feet, the solid arms wrapped around her preventing her from crashing into a heap on the cold concrete.

“Vanya,” she blinks her eyes open looking up at him, seeing concern etched across his features, while she stares blankly back at him, “Vanya!,” he repeats again, louder this time and the world finally comes back into focus. As he holds her steady she grips onto the balcony managing to support her own weight and he lets go, his hand still resting on her forearm.

She notices the flask has fallen to his feet, the liquid pouring out onto the pavement. “Five is going to kill you when he finds out,” she remarks as she nods to floor. Diego doesn’t even glance in it’s direction his attention centred on her.

“Let him. What is going on?” She takes a deep breath, the methodical pounding behind her eyes, continues to thump on. “Vanya? What was that?”

“I’m still remembering things.” She pinches the bridge of her nose in the vain hope that it may subdue the thumping and she almost considers taking another sip from Five’s fallen flask.

“I thought that everything came back?” He bends back down to pick up the flask, replacing the lid before pushing it back into his pocket.

“I did too, I mean there was so much, but I keep getting these flashes, memories of … before, back at the academy. It’s like everything in my brain is still trying to connect it’s…” she searches for the best words to describe the sensation of her head splitting in two, “overwhelming.”

Something crosses his face and before she can question it it’s gone again, pushed down somewhere. Diego has always been so difficult to read. She thought that she understood him back when they were children, but perhaps she had only ever been able to just scratch the surface.

“Maybe you should go back inside.”

“I’m okay, really,” she assures him, “just a little longer,”  and while he does not seem convinced he leaves it be. They continue to stand there in silence, looking out over the empty parking lot. She feels oddly at ease. Perhaps that’s what gives her the confidence to say what she does.

“I didn’t understand it at first,” she muses out loud.

“Understand what?”

“Why you hated me more than the others did,” she replies quietly, eyes focused on her own fingers.

“I didn’t,” he tries to explain but she continues.

“When I first saw you at the electronics store there was something else there when you saw me, it wasn’t fear or disappointment like the others. It was something more visceral like ... betrayal.” She looks up from her hands to meet his gaze.

“And I needed you to accept my apology more than the others, and I didn’t quite understand why.”

She had looked out  over that porch at Sissy’s farm, watching the quietness of the hills, feeling at peace with her decision, when he came to sit down next to her. Closer than he had before, no longer treating her as some fragile, breakable thing. A thing to be wary of.

He had been the one that she had felt the most confused about. She felt that in her gut they should be closer. But there were barriers between them she could ‘feel’ them.

The memories that she had regained so far had told her enough to understand.

She leant her head against his shoulder, needing to feel that connection again however fleeting it may be, half expecting him to pull away, but instead he moved his head to rest against hers, as they sat in silence.

She felt the same urge now, knowing all that she did, to reach out and place her small hand over his as it clung to the railing beside her.

“So you remembered … ” he asks her, as he holds onto the railing tighter, his knuckles becoming white with the pressure.

“Yes,” she replies quietly, barely above a whisper. “Sort of.” She knows what he is asking really. Whether she remembers him and the memories that they shared together, some good, some not so much.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her and she feels a weight lifted from her shoulders. Two words, that she has been waiting to hear since he left her on that evening, leaving her alone in a world where she felt so unloved. It is a weight that she inherited when those memories came back, and it was crushing. “For everything.”

“Me too.” She lays her hand across his, a thumb tracing the skin of his knuckles, encouraging him to release his grip, she wants to feel his hand against hers. The way he would take her hand in the middle of the night, when the thunder rattled the windows of the old mansion and he would whisper to her that everything was okay, it was just a storm and it would pass.  

They always did.

She holds onto that memory, it’s a good one.

victory in the wrong clothing;

pairing: (adult) richie tozier x reader

summary: richie returns to his s/o after having left abruptly for derry. still grieving for eddie, he struggles to talk about what has happened. his s/o is there to comfort him, learning more about what richie had once wanted as a child and what he wants now for his future as an adult. 

warnings: canon-typical themes, fluff & angst, language lmao // word count: 2.2k (oops)

you felt like an impostor here, sitting on richie tozier’s couch inside his chicago high-rise. richie trashmouth tozier’s couch; comfortable, luxurious, expensive. despite this, you knew what you’d find if you were to have a look around: the awards in his office, the display of rare vinyls next to the record player in the living room, his collection of bizarre ties that he reserved for formal events only. god, you thought a little wildly, the tea in your hands long since gone cold, i feel like a stalker. an outsider who had broken into the comedy star’s apartment, an avid fan whose mind had gone a little haywire with obsession.

and, perhaps just as a stalker would’ve, you took richie’s absence personally. first, it had manifested as anger – you had half a mind to trash trashmouth’s apartment by day two – but then it transformed into a type of gnawing worry. even now, as you sat wide awake at midnight (like every other night of this past week), your gut roiled and your heart pounded as you stared out the big window over the city. chicago’s lights – once exciting and bright – were barely coherent against the night’s darkness, twinkling pitifully as it seemed moments from being swallowed up.

richie was out in that darkness somewhere, his number no longer in service. he had left on a tuesday, home only a moment after a show of his at one of the city’s intimate comedy clubs. your friends had said things like what a bastard! and maybe all those voices finally drove him crazy and oh hon, can’t you see? he found someone else. if it had been anyone else, perhaps you would’ve believed such things, but the way richie had left…

you still remembered it vividly, because it was scary.his hands were shaking, his face pale and drawn as he was throwing clothes into a suitcase, eyes glazed over. in answer to your bewildered questions, he’d been mumbling about home and a call and a promise. some of the panic dissipated into grim determination, but richie tozier had left still looking like a dead man walking.

i don’t understand, you’d nearly wailed, richie, please! talk to me!

richie barely remembered his childhood. for him to return to the town he couldn’t name – or perhaps wouldn’tname – on some sort of random whim…

it had you guiltily checking the medicine cabinet, fearing some sort of break – but no, he’d packed his ADHD medication too. there was this, but also the way he had turned back to you before closing the door. don’t forget me, he’d said, before giving you a desperate, rushed kiss.

the smell of sweat was still in your nose. the smell of fear. richie tozier had been afraid. so no, then. he hadn’t left you. he was running towards something, even if it was the absolute last thing he wanted to do.  

 so here you sat in the silent apartment, watching the night deepen. you were so in thought that you didn’t register the roll of a suitcase, or the click of a key turning the lock, but then the lights flicked on and footsteps shuffled and you turned and the mug shattered on the floor and there he was, richie tozier, your boyfriend, your goddamn lover.

god, you almost couldn’t believe it. perhaps you were gaping at him, but richie looked older, almost like a stranger. but then his face crumpled, long legs taking stagger-steps as he reached for you, and you all but jumpedhim, wrapping him up in your arms.

“richie! oh god, richie—richie, i—”

“i’m sorry, baby,” he whispered, leaning over you as he hid his face in your hair, almost crushing you as he held tight – but you didn’t care, you welcomed this almost-pain, reassuring you that this was real. his shoulders were shaking, his breath haggard, nails digging into your skin. richie was crying.

you whimpered against his chest, clutching at his crinkled shirt. it almost hurt to hold him like this, body all tense, but it was all you could do for a while, still standing there on the threshold of the living room. when he got a little too heavy, his knees too weak to even hold himself up, you gently pulled him onto that couch.

richie was loathe to let go of you; he clung on, manoeuvring your legs over his lap and your head to his shoulder. cradling the back of your neck, he pressed his lips to yours in a wet kiss, mouth moulding to yours slow and steady, again and again. you cupped his jaw, the scratch of stubble against your palms and as you held his face close, his nose cold as it brushed yours.

“i missed you,” you said, and he ran his thumb over your cheekbone. “i worried for you. you scaredme, richie.” he scared you a little even now, his eyes so solemn. it was a far cry from the richie who would shock audiences with sheer audacity, make you flustered in public, make you giddy and soft with his kindness and affection. i fucking adore you, he’d once whispered into your ear.

richie winced, averting his eyes. “i know. i’m sorry. but i had to, baby. and it—it worked, but—fuck!” he shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut. “not everyone—eddie—”

he was shaking now, removing his glasses before pinching the bridge of his nose. you shook your head, feeling your own eyes well up. he wasn’t making any sense, but he was clearly in such despairthat it made your heart ache. “baby,” you murmured, gently taking his hands. “baby, what happened to you? where did you go? who… who’s eddie?”

richie looked at you, taking in your careful grip, your soft tone, your honest face. his chest seized at the way you had said eddie, no suspicion there but only concern and sympathy. god, he didn’t know how to even begin to tell you. i killed a killer clown from outer space, baby, and his psychotic henchman! they both used to pick on me and my friends in middle school! i remembered a whole life i’d forgotten and lost half of it, all in one night! i had some fucking wild TIMES, BABY!

he wanted to tell you the truth – fuck, some part of him needed to – but for all the love he knew you had for him, any sane person would make moves to have him committed. there was this, yes, but it was mostly the burden of knowing which stopped him. to know that there were horrors lurking amongst the stars, things beyond human comprehension, things which had set foot on this fucking earth – it had broken stanley’s mind, the one who had been the most adult of them all. no, he couldn’t do that to you.

“richie,” you said, reverting to a much more simpler question, “are you okay?”

and he broke, a sob escaping his throat with a hitching, ugly sound. he leaned into your touch as you hugged him close, nuzzling his face in your neck as he shook against you. it hurt to cry like this, throat constricting and nose stinging and head aching and heart breaking. the memories in his head ran like a well-watched film reel: the scrape of ground beneath him. eddie’s smile. the splattering of blood. the harsh tug of hands all over him as he screamed, they screamed, the cavern around them screamed. it was all swallowing him again, the smell of the sewers, the unspeakable sights—

it was gradual, but richie started to shift his focus back to the here and now, guided out of the black hole that was the memory of derry by your murmured reassurances, by your hand running through his hair.

“i’m sorry,” he croaked again, but you only hushed him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“i’m just glad you’re back.”

richie sighed, lifting his head to look at you. he felt a little pathetic, practically draped over you and weeping incoherently while you were being patient, so patient. “geez. fuck me,” he groaned, but you didn’t laugh. instead, you wiped away at a track a tear had left.

he caught your wrist, held onto it as he turned his head to kiss your palm. with a deep breath, richie steeled himself, trying to think of some way to frame the recent horrors into a reasonable narrative. eventually he managed, twisting the truth into a tale of how he and childhood friends – brought back to derry to reunite after hearing one of them had died – were targeted by a serial killer. it all culminated in some unstable underground tunnel, where eddie had died and the damned thing had collapsed before richie could get him out.

“eddie…eds,” he was saying. you had tears in your eyes, squeezing his hands tightly as richie swallowed hard, eyes shining. “oh, baby,” he sighed, wincing at you in weak apology but you shook your head, managing a small smile. you could already tell – it was in the way he had said eddie’s name, in the sorrow that lined his very shoulders. “i… i loved him. when—when we were children. the fucking hypochondriac. he was so fucking neurotic, you know? god… and i never told him. i fucking forgot—how could i—”

oh, it was so painful. when richie had seen him again, seen the whole loser’s club again, they had fallen back into their childhood roles so easily – the things they said, their behaviours, their feelings. there had been moments when richie felt it again – love – but it was tainted by derry’s ugly, ugly attitudes, his own insecurities and doubts. and when eddie had died, in richie’s fucking arms, eddie had ended it with a joke and richie still hadn’t told him, his confession left silent and anonymous on the kissing bridge for those two boys of 1989.

“and we left him there, in the ground, oh fuck he’s gonna hate it—”

his voice faltered as guilt started to gnaw at him again. every night since that horrible, fateful day did richie think about this, about the fact that they had left eddie in the sewers, left him to rotnext to that horrid fucking bitch clown monster fuck and turn into the very thing he feared the most: a putrid leper. a decaying corpse.

you didn’t know what to say. all you could do was watch as richie’s face hardened, eyes rimmed red and lips set in a thin line. there was no anger in you, no sense of betrayal. you knew how strange it could be, to return to your childhood friends – a kind of regression took place, and some part of your old sense of self was reasserted, if only for a little while.

you splayed a palm over his chest. “i am so sorry, richie.” perhaps a cliché phrase, but it was the truth – you wished all of that horrorhadn’t happened to him, wished that he hadn’t suffered such a tragedy. “i love you,” you added, because this was still the truth, too. “i’m here for you, in whatever way you need.”

richie’s brow furrowed, fingers curling over your own. studying the lines of your hand, his thoughts raced, stumbling over each other as emotions roiled and bubbled up within him.

“marry me,” he blurted, head snapping up as he looked at you with wide eyes. “life is so fucking fickle. marry me. marry me, baby.” he was leaning closer now, searching your eyes. “i love you. i know i sound like a fucking two-timer but i’m still in love with you. so much. but when, when he died i just felt everything i did as a kid—”

“you don’t have to explain it away, richie,” you murmured. your heart was pounding as the question – the proposal – settled in your mind, not entirely unrealistic but certainly abrupt. he squeezed your hand once – perhaps in acknowledgement, or perhaps with impatience. “but of course – of course i’ll marry you,” you smiled, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. richie gasped a laugh, grinning wide as he hugged you close. his big hands were roaming your back, eager to touch and to hold.

you had meant what you said – of course you did – yet knew him well enough to know that sometimes he said things before really considering them. careful to keep your voice low and gentle, you said, “but maybe reconsider when you’re not… when you’re not grieving, baby.” you pulled away to see his face fall, but richie nodded, reaching for his glasses.

“i’ll still be asking you,” he murmured.

“and i’ll still say yes.”

richie’s mouth quirked, kissing your forehead as he gathered you back into his arms, his heart still aching a little but warmer now. indeed, when he had first set eyes on you tonight, he realised that it was only now that he felt truly safe again.

“i think a part of every person who we love stays with us,” you spoke, and richie had to agree, because the scar on his palm and the one on his heart were never going to go away. and eventually, hopefully, a small stretch of skin on his ring finger would always be lighter, showing the impression of a ring which he only would seldom – if ever – take off.

with this image in his mind, richie kissed you again, big hands gentle as they curled over your ears. “wanna stay with you forever,” he murmured, hand sliding down to your neck to feel your pulse. such a fragile thing, the heart. but capable of extraordinary strength, too. perhaps his would heal in time. but if it didn’t, if the cracks proved too big to mend, then at least he had you there for him, with him, to hold him if the hurt was to stay.

and he was quite alright with that.

Temperance (13/?)

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Female, Non-HoF Cousland

Story Summary: Nathaniel and Elissa were childhood friends, but time and distance tore them apart. In the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, and Ferelden’s Civil War, both Elissa and Nathaniel must attempt reconstruct their tattered lives. As a series of events lead them to be reunited, both are reminded of so many years ago when things were much simpler.

Chapter Summary:    Nobody expected an attempted assassination of the Warden-Commander. They probably should have, but they didn't.

First Chapter Previous Chapter [AO3 LINK]

Vigil’s Keep, 9:31 Dragon

When Nathaniel was a boy, his father told him about the Blackmarsh and how it had once been a town that simply vanished in the years before the Rebellion. At the time, most people suspected dark magic, and thus, a legend was born.  He always dreamed of returning to the marsh someday and setting things right. Though, he’d never expected the legends about the place to be mostly true. Had someone told him he’d visit the Blackmarsh as a Grey Warden, become trapped in the Fade, and assist a spirit of Justice in a battle against darkspawn and demons to heal the wounds of the past, he would have laughed at them.  Yet, that was exactly what happened. He wasn’t sure if it was the excitement he enjoyed, or the distraction.

Nathaniel had lost so much in such a short amount of time, staying busy was all he could do to keep himself from falling apart.  His fragile armor of anger and bitterness had cracked beneath the weight of the news his sister broke to him, and it was now desperately close to shattering.  He couldn’t let that happen. If the wave of grief that loomed over him crashed through his defenses he would drown.

And that damned portrait of his mother was staring at him.  He could almost hear her gentle voice scolding him for bottling up his feelings like he always did as a child.  Before she died, his mother had been a source of reprieve from his father’s criticism and constant scrutiny. Father hadn’t seemed so bad when she was alive.  Funny, considering all of the things that could have been taken or destroyed that a portrait of his long dead mother would still be at Vigil’s Keep. It was even funnier that it was hanging on the wall at all.  His father despised the thing.

“Your mother, I take it,” a voice said, startling him from his internal chafing.  He turned to see Lucia standing a few feet behind him, shoulders back, and without an ounce of self-consciousness. “She’s beautiful.”

“Good guess. That’s her.” He laughed dryly and turned his attention back to the painting. “My father hated my mother.  Once she died, he only brought this painting out to impress her parents — my grandparents— when they visited.  It wasn’t often. I don’t think they ever approved of the marriage.”

“If that’s the case, then I wonder why it’s on the wall,” Lucia observed, stepping forward so that she stood by his side.

“I don’t know.” Nathaniel shrugged, “Perhaps the Wardens needed it to cover a hole or something.”

“I am happy to have it taken down if it makes you uncomfortable,” she replied seriously, the concern shimmering in her eyes.

“It’s fine.”  The emotion resonated in his voice and he was certain the woman noticed.  She noticed everything. “The painting may have some unpleasant memories attached to it, but I loved my mother.  It is good to see her face again.”

Lucia nodded but didn’t say anything, seeming to understand his words more deeply than he would have expected.  Then again, nothing about the woman had been what he expected. Not only had she given him a second chance, when he’d given no reason for her to believe he deserved one, but she had also done everything in her power to return the tattered remains of his family to him.  He owed her a debt he could never repay, but he would certainly try.  

“I… owe you an apology,” he said at last, breaking the easy silence between them.

“That’s not necessary, Nathaniel,” she answered, smiling gently, “It’s alright.”

“It is necessary, Lucia... and it’s not alright,” he protested, turning to face her. “ When I returned from the Free Marches,  I was so angry about what had happened to my family that I believed the rumors that my father was murdered by the Wardens for being on the wrong side of the war.  My sister informed me that Father did it to himself — no conspiracies, just one man who cared for nothing but power and wealth. I should have known better.”

“You had no way of knowing that what you heard wasn’t true.”

“Didn’t I?  He was my father after all.  I knew him better than most, and still I let myself be motivated by lies.  I should have dug deeper before I acted. I was an idiot, and like a child I blamed you and the Wardens.  I was wrong… about everything.”

“Nathaniel, nobody can blame you for making impulsive decisions in response to grief.” She frowned and shook her head. “Everyone behaves irrationally when they’re hurting.”

“Stop making excuses for me,” he snapped, annoyed at her apparent need to not be apologized to.  “I could have killed you.”

“Fine,” she said, her words clipped, but an amused expression crossed her face, “I’ll endeavor to be less reasonable.”

Nathaniel sighed. “I appreciate that you are able to be understanding, but I was horrible to you.  And here you have proven to be a good person… and even a friend, above that” He brought his eyes to meet hers. “Or am I wrong about that, too?”

“You think of me as a friend?” Lucia laughed in what appeared to be disbelief.  “I killed your father; conscripted you into an order you despised against your will, and dragged you on countless life-threatening missions.  I’d think you would want to pick better friends.”

“You did those things as Warden-Commander,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder, “Outside of your duties, you have returned some of my family’s important heirlooms to me, reunited me with my sister, and given me a second chance I never deserved.  You’ve gone out of your way for me countless times. I know, without question, that I can count on you. That’s not something I can say about most people.”

“You hold me in such high regard.”  She frowned and looked down at the floor, kicking at the stone with the toe of her boot, a nervous fidget of hers she’d done many times in the months he’d known her.  “I’m bound to disappoint you.”

“And I you,” he reassured her, “Friends disappoint one another from time to time.  That’s part of it.”

She nodded and placed her hand atop his that still lay on her shoulder, and as she did so Nathaniel noticed movement in the shadows behind her on the opposite side of the hall.  Firelight reflected from the buckles of leather armor, the tip of an arrow catching his eye. Lucia said something, but he didn’t hear, heart throbbing in his ears telling him to act, and fast.

“Get down,” he shouted as he grabbed her other shoulder and pulled her to the ground.  The arrow that had been trained on her struck the wall behind them instead.  

“What was that,” Lucia asked, breath quick and shallow as she moved to sit up. “Don’t move,” Nathaniel hissed raising up to push her back down again, his years of training screaming at him not to. He needed to stay down and hope that she could dodge on her own. The odds for both of them were best that way.  He knew exactly what would happen the moment he moved to protect her, and he didn’t care. It didn’t matter. The white hot pain that seared through his chest moments later came as no surprise.

“Nathaniel,” Lucia cried out as he fell, the force of the shot knocking him back against her, and every hair on his body stood on end as she summoned some sort of magic shroud that surrounded the both of them. “Why would you do that?”  

“If I had known you’d be so ungrateful, I wouldn’t have bothered,” he rasped and smirked at her.  He could taste blood in his mouth, and it was becoming increasingly more difficult to breathe. The injury was more serious than he would have preferred.

“Of course, I’m grateful but…” She trailed off, her eyes moving to the same arrow protruding from his chest that he desperately tried to ignore.  He’d never been so aware of his own mortality. “That arrow was meant for me. I should be dead.”

“Then, we’re even,” he said in more of a gargled whisper than anything resembling his voice.  His vision blurred and began to fade to black. “No, no, no! Stay with me,” Lucia commanded desperately, words echoing in his ears as his consciousness began to slip away, “Nathaniel! Nate!!”

Nathaniel awoke with a jolt, heart pounding in a chest that -- to his relief -- did not ache or have any projectile weapons lodged in it.  Either Anders had worked wonders, which he doubted, or it was just another dream in which the Taint tried to kill him. It seemed that his days of dreaming that he was back at the castle in Highever, Liss’ arms around his neck squeezing him tightly as she always did, were over.  He never understood how she managed to make her hair smell like lavender flowers. Perfumed soaps, he supposed. Perhaps her hair had just smelled like hair all along, and his memory decided to be dramatic about it. In any event, he hadn’t dreamed of her since he’d taken the Joining.  He figured it was for the best.

He yawned, stretched, and sat up, pulling away the heavy sheets that covered him and sliding out of bed.  The stone floor was cold against his bare feet as he made his way to his dresser across the room, path illuminated by a lone sconce he didn’t remember lighting, but was thankful for nonetheless.  There were no windows in his room, and as he slipped into a shirt and trousers, and laced up his boots, Nathaniel wondered what time it was. Judging from the sounds, or lack thereof, in the halls of the Vigil, he figured it was late, and that he would be the only person awake for sometime.

If his nightmare had done anything but scare the piss out of him, it told him that he needed to talk to the Commander, to Lucia, to apologize and to thank her.  He’d probably also be hypervigilant about the potential threat of assassins for the next few weeks. It couldn’t hurt, especially considering that Bann Esmerelle was openly scheming against the Wardens of Amaranthine and their leader.  It would be nothing for her to hire some Crows to do her dirty work. Nathaniel would not let harm come to Lucia, and he would not be caught off guard.

The Great Hall was mostly empty, except for the usual contingent of guards that stood like statues at their posts as they did every night.  Nathaniel walked up and down the spacious room, scanning every nook and cast shadow for any signs of traps that had been laid or hiding spots.  He found nothing, and one of the guards eyed him judgmentally. He had a shield that bore the Howe family crest.

“You’ll have to forgive me for not trusting you lot to check for traps,” he stated dryly, “Or just in general for that matter.”

In a typical Fereldan fashion, the guard grunted, rather than say actual words that might have offered reassurance that he was not among the men that remained loyal to Nathaniel’s father, and that his insistence on carrying that wretched bear was from loyalty to the family instead.  None of it settled well with Nathaniel, especially not since… He shook his head. It didn’t matter.

Just as he had assured himself that the hall was reasonably safe, the large doors at the front of the room swung open, and there was clanking of armor as the guards in the room all collectively turned to face the hooded figure that entered, small and unimposing against the backdrop.

“Nate?” The voice was so familiar his breath hitched in his throat.  He knew who it was before she even dropped the hood.

“Liss?”  He could hardly believe it.  She was dead, or at least she was supposed to be, and yet here she was standing not fifty feet away.  He was frozen, unable to process what was happening, and unable to make his feet move.

Liss, as she was wont to do, rushed to greet him, her swift walk becoming a sprint, and as she did so, the guards in the room stirred more.  

One gasped and shouted, “It’s that Cousland bitch !  Get her!”

The others roared with various utterances of, “You were foolish to come here,” and, “She won’t get away this time,” among some other vile things that made Nathaniel’s blood boil.

“No,” he shouted desperately, breaking out of his stupor to run toward her, but he wasn’t fast enough.  Arrows soared from various directions across the room. “Liss, look out.” His voice cracked as he met her in the center of the room, throwing his arms around her protectively.  She smiled up at him, and then there was a thud, her big brown eyes widening in pain and horror, a grunt escaping her throat as she fell forward collapsing into his arms.

His heart shattered, and he looked around the room, dismayed at the guards who clapped and cheered as if they’d just shot some prize-winning game.  The guard he’d spoken to before looked at him and grinned, pointing to his shield. “Don’t look so sad, boy. Far as I’m concerned, I did you a favor.  Real Howe men don’t get distracted by pretty faces.” He sounded just like Father and Nathaniel wanted to be sick. The guard returned to his post, as did the others, none seeming interested in harming Nathaniel.   As much as he wanted to gut the rotten bastards, they’d have to wait.

Liss coughed and sputtered against his chest, and he lowered them both down to the floor, where he sat cradling her.

“Nate,” she said, voice hoarse as she reached up to touch his cheek, her fingertips already cold.  She was losing blood. Too much of it. Too fast.

“I’m so sorry Liss.” He shook his head.  “I should have… I couldn’t… this is all my fault.”

Liss shook her head and frowned, moving her finger over to cover his lips in a shushing motion, before her arm fell limp, a final breath escaping her.  

“No,damn it,stay with me,” he pleaded, embracing her more tightly, pressing his lips to her hair. “Please.”

A sudden, sharp pain surged through Nathaniel’s own chest, and he looked down to see blood seeping through his shirt, but there was no wound.  He hadn’t been struck. He looked around and the guards had vanished. Then Liss had vanished. And then he woke up.

Nathaniel blinked his eyes open slowly, groaning against the heavy throbbing pain in his chest that was not entirely physical.  Blinking away the tears in his eyes, he rose up on his elbows, wincing at the sharp, stabbing sensations that coursed through him with each movement.  Across the room, Velanna sat in a chair, focused intently on the potion she was mixing, eyebrows furrowed as she bit her lip.

“So,” he said with a grunt, “That’s what it’s like to be shot.  It was… not pleasant.” His thoughts were fuzzy in a way that was not unlike being intoxicated.  The effect of one of the elf’s potions, no doubt. Still, if it was helping to cut the pain at all, he was grateful.

“You should not move so much.” Velanna stood up abruptly and rushed to his side, her voice giving away some measure of concern that she did not show on her face.  “You’ll reopen the wound.”

“Too late,” he said with a laugh as he looked down at the blood seeping through the bandage. “Sorry.”

“Fenedhis,” Velanna said under her breath as she reached forward and began to remove the bandages that covered most of his torso and back.  Nathaniel didn’t know what the word meant, but he knew it was a curse.

“You should ask before you touch someone, my lady,” he teased, for no other reason than to watch her get flustered.  At any other time he probably would have thought twice before upsetting the person treating his wounds, but he couldn’t seem to care.  Another effect of the potion, no doubt. At least that’s what he hoped. It’d be a shame if he’d knocked his head and somehow lost his sense of restraint permanently.

Velanna huffed. “I’ve already touched you hundreds of times while you were unconscious.”

“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows.

“To tend your wounds, you stupid man!” She threw her hands up in frustration before crossing them over her chest.  “But if you object, I will kindly let them fester.”

“I don’t,” he said more softly, not wanting to embarrass her further. “Object, that is.  Thank you for taking care of me, Velanna. I am surprised Anders isn’t here instead.”

“I may not be a healer, but I am perfectly capable of --,” she began to rant, but stopped when Nathaniel laughed at her.  “What?”

“You find a way to make everything an insult, don’t you?”

“I thought you meant that you would prefer Anders.” She frowned, shifting her gaze to the ground.

“I meant that Anders is the healer among us, and that it’s odd he’s not doing this instead.  That’s all.”

“Ir abelas,” Velanna sighed and shook her head, “I tend to jump to conclusions, let my temper get the best of me.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Nathaniel offered her a smile, which she returned and refocused her attention to his bandages.

“After Bann Esmerelle and her assassins were dealt with, there was some urgent business in the Knotwood Hills,” she explained as she worked,  “Apparently some hunters found some openings to the Deep Roads there. Anders needed to accompany the Commander and the others to investigate.  I offered to stay with you.”

“It would be unwise to enter the Deep Roads without a healer,” he said with a nod, “Did you say Bann Esmerelle? Is that who I should thank for the hole in my chest.”

“Yes, and her hired birds.”

“You mean her hired Crows? ”

“Yes, though I would think a guild of assassins who call themselves “Crows,” would be more intelligent.  The Commander was… very upset that you were injured on her behalf. She blames herself.”

“She should,” Nathaniel blurted, playfully, “ The bloody woman doesn’t know how to stay down when there are arrows flying from every direction.”

Velanna laughed as she pulled the last portion of bandage free from his chest.  “I see that the potion I gave you for pain has loosened your lips.”  

“A little.”  He watched as she moved in closer to examine the wound, touching the swollen area around it.

“You are lucky,” she asserted, “It looks like the stitches are still intact.  The main wound is just seeping a bit.” She moved to retrieve a damp cloth from a basin of water that sat near his desk, and then returned, using the cloth to wipe away the blood that trickled down his chest.

“Have I ever told you that you remind me of a woman I knew in the Free Marches,” Nathaniel asked, an abrupt change in subject.

“No, “Velanna answered, returning the cloth to the water basin and retrieving a small poultice vial and a roll of gauze.

“Well, you do,” he said, hissing as she applied the poultice that burned like fire.  “She was an elf, too. Beautiful. Fierce. She nearly killed me. I never stood a chance.”

Velanna stopped her work, frozen, bringing her eyes up to meet his.

“What,” he asked, “Did I say something offensive?”

“You said that I remind you of a woman who was beautiful.” Her words were cautious and she returned her attention to dressing his wounds, as if to distract herself.

“Yes, and fierce,” he added nonchalantly.

“Are you implying that you think I am…,” she trailed off, seeming to be too embarrassed to finish the question.”

“You are beautiful and fierce.”

“You are only saying these things because of the potion,” she muttered, furiously wrapping him in gauze,  “You are out of your head.”

“You’re probably right,” he admitted, “But I’ve thought them plenty of times before now.”

“Stop it,” she ordered, “You mock me.”

“I can’t have been the only person to ever call you beautiful.”  He was in disbelief, searching her face for some sign that she was joking.

She finished up with the bandages and brought her eyes back up to meet his. “And what if you are?”

“Then you haven’t met enough people.” He offered her a smile, and she continued to hold his gaze for several long moments before looking away quickly.  

“This woman in the Free Marches… she was your lover, then?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he answered with a smirk, “It didn’t last. I was still in love with someone else, and I couldn’t quite move on, no matter how hard I tried. I think that was difficult for her to accept.  Not that she should have accepted it.”

“I see.”  A heavy silence stretched between them, as Velanna appeared to search for words. “Do you still love that other person.”

“I suppose I do.  Not that it matters anymore.” Nathaniel laughed bitterly, the events of his dreams rushing to his mind.  “She’s dead.”

“I am… so sorry.” Velanna touched his arm in an expression of sympathy.

“Yeah," he sighed, bringing his hands to his face. " Me too.”

Mary Jane Watson hated her codename. She was a SHIELD agent, for Christ’s sake, and teasing her about her nickname—MJ—was tacky and tired. But Nick, in his way, was trying to help her adjust to her first undercover mission and a little symmetry did make the transition from the SHIELD base to field work simpler.  

So, if he wanted her to go by that ridiculous name, she would comply. After all, orders were orders. And Mary Jane was a compliant agent.

She had been that way since she had begun her training as a SHIELD agent at ten when the world went to shit with aliens and superheroes and Gods from other worlds. Her world was irrevocably changed when the New York Times office tower collapsed and both of her parents had died in one fowl swoop. It changed again when Nick Fury scouted her from her dingy, tattered foster home on Staten Island and took her out of the system to place her in another.

When she arrived at the SHIELD base with a group of fifteen other kids all around her age, all knobby knees and no parents, it had been the most terrifying moment of her life. The next four years taught her that day one was a walk in the park compared to what lay ahead. When the four years ran out, she was at the top of her class, and a finely tuned weapon for SHIELD to harness and use at their discretion.

She had expected to be dropped into enemy territory to bring down unjust regimes. She had thought perhaps they would station her in the belly of some company with ties to HYDRA.

Instead, she got Midtown School of Science and Technology.

And babysitter duty for one unruly, misguided and inconveniently beautiful spider-menace. Peter Parker.

Every day he ate a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast. It came in foil with a post-it note tacked on the front. The notes their freshman year ranged from soft reminders about his afterschool activities to lovely, kind words from his Aunt May.  When his Uncle Ben died, the notes turned into reminders to breathe. To center himself and soldier through the day. He struggled the first few months, wracked with guilt and Michelle pretended she did not know why. But Mary Jane had been trailing him and saw the whole gruesome murder.

The agent saw Ben Parker die. The girl watched as Peter Parker failed to keep his uncle alive.  

At school, Mary Jane catalogued the post-its in her ratty notebook from her perched point at the end of his lunch table. It didn’t seem important, but all intel was better than no intel. Besides, it almost felt like the notes were for her sometimes. The little reminders to have a good day, to smile, to remember that life was beautiful helped when being undercover at seventeen threatened to consume her completely.

Her job was to be invisible. Her Michelle persona was perfectly crafted to watch him up close and personal. No one minded the weird girl with the purple streak in her hair and the cutting frown. And if Michelle was like Mary Jane in many ways— from their passions in literature and justice to their sarcastic wit—well, Mary Jane told her superiors it was merely a coincidence.

She was on the outskirts for nearly a year. Until she was deep undercover. Friend of the Spider-man.

Mary Jane became his friend, as part of her cover, after the Liz Allen-Toomes debacle. Tony Stark had been practically distraught when he found out that his protegee had followed a murderous villain sixty-thousand feet in the air on the back of an invisible airplane. SHIELD looked for someone to place the blame. It feel very easily at her feet as the agent assigned to his safety.

Fury had stormed back and forth at their debrief in one of the abandoned conference rooms upstate, then, and ranted, “Your job is to keep that kid safe!”

Mary Jane had bit her tongue and countered, “I couldn’t very well chase after him in a prom dress. It would’ve blown my cover.”

Fury fumed, “Then, you need to change. You need to be on him 24/7. Stark will pull out of the Accords if that kid isn’t kept safe. That’s the deal.”

She had pinched the bridge of her nose and taken a deep breath, “It’s already out-of-character for Michelle to be at all of those parties, to be a part of all of those afterschool teams. What do you suggest I do?” “Innovate,” had been his reply.

And so, she innovated. Michelle turned from purposeful loner to tentative friend in six months. She infiltrated the Leeds-Parker two-some without much hesitancy on the boys’ end. It had almost been like they were hoping for more friends, as if being outsiders was exhausting. Mary Jane tried not to empathize.

Friendship was easy to navigate. The growing heated looks between Michelle and Peter were not. She ignored the looks he gave her over the tops of chemistry books in class or the soft smile that engulfed his entire face when she laughed. She pretended it was her cover, the way she looked back, but she was not a good enough agent to gaze at him the way she often caught herself doing. There was an inexplicable pull that hooked into her navel and tugged them closer and closer.

Day by day.

Hour by hour.  

It was only a matter of time when the heat exploded into a full-blown fire.

On her seventeenth birthday, Peter took Michelle out of the city, out of the borrows, and into nature. They sat in silence the entire train ride to his surprise and the silence was a heavy, relentless beast. It only quieted when Peter exhaled out of his nose and inched their fingertips closer, barely touching.

Michelle sucked in a breath and Mary Jane felt her heart run wild. It pattered furiously and then ceased to beat at all when he bravely linked their pinkies.

She glanced at his profile, but he did not look at her. His eyes were settled pointedly on the horizon out the window. The world whipped by as the train chugged forward.

The final whistle, the last call, jerked the pair of them out of their daydreams and Michelle cautiously unwound their fingers. The two padded along in silence as they boarded off the train. And if their hands brushed with each step off the platform, well, Mary Jane told herself it was all for her cover.

They took a taxi to the outskirts of a field as the sun began to set. The sky was miraculous shades of pink and purple and scattered sunlight. She gnawed on her lip as she watched Peter wade out into the unruly flowers and grass. He looked over his shoulder and grinned at her so openly, so carelessly that she suddenly ached for the youth that had been stripped of her when she was shuttled upstate to become a spy.

“Come on,” he beckoned.

She foolishly followed him. Mary Jane climbed through the green and watched as Peter settled into the flowers on his back. She rolled her eyes, ever in character, and tsked, “We took a two hour train ride to lay in the grass.”

He propped himself up on his elbows and a smile crinkled the corner of his eyes, “No. We took a two hour train ride to see the stars. Light pollution is too intense in the city.”

With a huff, Michelle dropped her bag to the ground and lay beside the boy with grass in his hair. She turned her head to look at him when she settled. He was so beautiful up close. The sunset danced all kinds of rosy hues across his barely-there freckles. Looking at him this way, feeling the overwhelming string of connection pulse between them, was not her mission. He muddled her purpose. Damn him, the beautiful, noble boy with one floofy eyebrow.  “Well,” she swallowed, “You got me to lay on some grass. Congrats.”

He beamed and wiggled closer to her, almost touching her flattened hand, “And all I had to do was ask. You getting soft on me, Jones?”

Michelle playfully shoved her hand in his face, “How dare you.” He caught her fingertips and the air was vacuumed out of the vast field. “Peter—”

“Shh,” he hushed her gently.

She felt her eyes flutter shut out of her own control and she cursed this day, this moment, these feelings, and this boy. “Peter,” she whispered, again.

His breath was tickling her cheeks. Without even looking, she knew that he was so close all she had to do was press her head an inch or two forward and they would be kissing. “Look,” he instructed.

Her eyelids danced open and the sunset was nothing but a vague glow of pink in the distance. The real miracle was the wealth of stars that littered the sky above her head. They were not overtly bright yet. The sunset and the stars were both fighting for command of the heavens. But she could see them. Twinkling above the heads of two teenagers with far too much responsibility thrust upon them.

Michelle gasped, “Oh wow.”

She felt him watching her. She could nearly imagine his stupid smile, “I know, right? My, uh, Dad used to take me here to watch the stars.”

Mary Jane could not help the flood of information that skipped across the stage of her mind. She knew all about Richard Parker. The scientist that died in a plane crash when the star boy was only four years old. It was not something Peter had ever told Michelle, but it was a case study that Mary Jane knew all too well.

She suddenly felt guilty for owning private parts of his life, especially when those parts had not been gifted but taken.

Mary Jane did not dare look at him.

Peter hardly minded. He plowed on, enraptured by the grass, the sky, and by her. “I don’t remember much. I was four when he died. But I remember these nights, this sky. Who could ever forget a sky like this one?”

Mary Jane made herself ask, “Why did you bring me here?”

“I want to share it with you.” His answer was so simple, so heartbreakingly earnest, Mary Jane shifted her head to look at him. And found him already watching her.

“Peter, there is so much I want to tell you,” her voice broke on the start of her confession.

He shook his head and brushed the pad of his thumb across her cheekbone. His eyes flickered between her eyes and her mouth. Eyes and mouth. And Mary Jane shivered. “We’ve got time,” he replied.

And then, he was kissing her.

And she was kissing him back.

“I’m compromised,” Mary Jane announced, hanging in the doorway of Fury’s office.

The man raised his one good eyebrow, “Watson, don’t you have some kind of MOCA fieldtrip today?”

“I’m out,” the seventeen year old lifted her chin, all steel. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Her superior labored out of his seat and turned the corner of his desk to sit on the edge, “What do you mean you’re out?”

She firmly repeated, “I’m out. I’m done. I quit.”

Fury laughed, “You can’t just quit, Watson. It doesn’t work like that.”

Mary Jane was not afraid anymore. There had been a boy and moonlight and a kiss that made her brave. There was so much he didn’t know, so much she couldn’t keep from him anymore and she would not. Her resolve was unshakeable. It had been so many years since she had been looked at by someone that cared about her. All of that had crumbled when her parents had died. But Peter had lit that flame of affection back in her chest and she would not forsake him for her job. Her stupid, ridiculous prison.

He deserved better than that and so did she.

If Mary Jane was an agent, maybe she had to die to let Michelle crawl toward the light.

Fury paused and was visibly flooded with cold understanding, “You got too close to your mark.”

“Nick—”

“Damn it, Watson! What is our one rule?”

“I don’t care. I can’t do this anymore.”

Nick Fury cut straight to the heart of her failings as an agent, “You got soft for a pair of pretty eyes.”  

The accusation was so visceral, she splintered, “I was a kid, Nick. You took me away from my life and made me a weapon.” Fury snapped, “I made you strong!”

Mary Jane roared, “You stole my childhood!”

The silence that enveloped the room was keen and vicious. It was the kind of silence that colored the darkest hours of night when everything dangerous came out to play. Fury squinted, “Get out.”

“Gladly,” she retorted.

The lengthy train ride back to Queens was liberating. Mary Jane knew she had to explain everything to Peter, but, for the first time in a long time, she hoped. There was a future for her beyond the never-ending half-life of espionage. There was a boy with uneven eyebrows and a lopsided grin that lit up whenever she walked in the room that was worth gambling on. Because he was loyal and wonderful and kind. And when he kissed her she felt her stomach swoop and make room for more emotion than she had ever dreamed. For that, for him, she would do whatever she had to do to make up for the lies and be worthy of him.

Her phone buzzed.

There was only one google alert that she had on her phone—Spider-man.

Mary Jane watched the grainy video from downtown in horror. One minute Spider-Man was clinging to a light post and the next he was being swept up in an alien beam and disappearing from sight. Anxiety filled her, hot and overwhelming, and she began to frantically search for answers as to where he went and if he was safe. The news reported that Iron-Man flew up to help Spider-Man and neither had returned.

She fumbled off the train in a daze and tried to gain her bearings.

Her phone rang, again. “Ned?” she whispered.

“MJ,” his voice cracked. “MJ, I let him go. I let him go.”

The two friends spent the next two days at the Parker’s apartment in a constant state of worry. There were no answers and all of the theories were less than comforting. Twelve hours into their vigil a man on the news suggested that both Tony Stark and the Spider-Man were dead. Mary Jane broke the television in a flurry of violent, uncontrollable anger.

May Parker had swept her up in a cuddle, after, and rocked her back and forth. She imagined that the warm comfort might have been what a mother’s touch felt like. It had been so long that Mary Jane had forgotten.

When she woke up on the third day, she was alone. Ned and May were nowhere to be found. She padded into the kitchen, expecting to find May slaving over some lost-cause of a breakfast and Ned to be silently and politely making a back-up breakfast when May’s cooking went downhill.

She glanced at the clock and saw it was well past nine. “May?” Mary Jane called out, “Ned?”

Nothing. The world was still. The silence was universal. And she knew she was alone.

She called out more frantically, “May?? NED?”

Mary Jane fumbled for the phone in her pocket and began to search the news. There had been some kind of fight in Wakanda half-a-world away in the early hours of the morning New York time. And then, there had been something Twitter was calling the dusting. There were no answers. No rhyme or reason to these killings. Just death. A worldwide genocide.

She tried to call Nick with no answer. Then, Maria Hill. And every agent she could think of, but every call was met with a sickening silence.

Mary Jane laid in the darkness, she allowed it to consume her, for three days after the dusting. No one came looking for her. No one cared. All of the people in the world that she knew and cherished were gone. Dead or missing or dusted.

Just before midnight on that third day, her phone buzzed. Mary Jane dispassionately lifted the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

A spotty, gritty voice called through the receiver, “Mary Jane?” The agent sat up like a shot. “I can’t get ahold of Nick. Or anyone.” There was a significant beat, “I know about the dusting. And I need your help.”

Something akin to hope bloomed in Mary Jane’s chest, “Captain Marvel?”

“Carol will do just fine,” the older woman corrected. “Now, are you in?”

Mary Jane thought of Nick and Maria. She thought of Ned. Of May. And she thought of Peter. Of his laugh and smile and dopey grin.

“I’m in.”

And So The Dragons Fell From Grace | Chapter 2.

Pairing: Spicyhoney (Mapleblossom and papgore will be later).

Universe: Undertale, Underfell, Underswap, Swapfell (both versions).

Warnings: Slavery, Speciesism, Kidnapping, other chapters will be tagged for other content.

Overview: Rus is mindlessly beginning to settle in with his new routine, slowly beginning to forget any plans of escape he may have had. However, eventually, his past will catch up to him.

A/N: Second chapter of the fic, there’s a little jump from the last chapter to this one, but it’s nothing major :3

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Read on AO3: HERE

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The days that followed seemed to progress at an agonisingly slow pace. The dragon, Edge, would leave at dawn before Rus woke to begin his patrol of his territory, scouting out the nearby mountain ranges for any trace of intruders, before returning just before midday. More often than not the skeletal reptile would return with a fresh catch – usually wild elk or the occasional sheep or cow – that he would quickly devour, leaving not a scrap for Rus. The skeleton knew better than to disturb a dragon while feeding.

After his meal, Edge would return to his pile of gold, curling up in it with a pleasant hum as his body converted the newly eaten flesh into usable magic to fuel his soul. Rus had quickly learnt that the dragon was not one for simply lazing about, and while he lay still to digest, he was constantly filling the air with conversation, albeit largely one sided. His claws would tap at the floor with poorly veiled restlessness as he eagerly awaited his chance to move around again. And move he could.

One afternoon Rus had walked to the opening of the dragon’s lair and had been rewarded with the stunning sight of Edge as he effortlessly spiralled up beyond the clouds, before abruptly shifting direction and allowing his massive body to plummet down towards the ground, halting his dissent just in time for him to gracefully switch to a swift glide, swooping down low over the trees. It was in that moment that Rus felt his hope of escape begin to slip further away.

It was on a particularly warm evening that Rus had finally decided to explore the cave in greater detail. With most of the vast cavern lit only by the small torch he clutched firmly in his fragile hands, he cautiously began to examine all of the intricate carvings of mighty dragons on the walls and pillars that seemed to hold up the entire ceiling above them. As he slowly moved, he came to realise that the dragon depicted in all of the art was in fact the same one.

While the drawings offered only little information about it, Rus found his mind wandering – what colour had its beautiful scales been? Did they flicker in the light like the gems it horded? – if one thing was for certain, it was that whoever the dragon had been, it was greatly adored by the humans of the valley. There were images of the dragon keeping their land safe from invaders and offering its service to all who needed it, acting as a benevolent protector and friend.  

The clacking of bone against stone drew Rus’ attention and he glanced away from the carved walls to watch as Edge approached, his head low as if trying not to frighten off the monster. Not that he had anywhere to run anyway.

“What are you doing?” the dragon rumbled, his eyes narrowing slightly, “I thought you were going to retire for the evening.” Originally Rus had stated that he would go to bed early but had perhaps been too absorbed by his imagination, thinking up fanciful scenes of humans and monsters living at peace with dragons. It was a foolish, naïve idea, but weren’t all stories about love and happy endings fabricated by the mind of a hopeful child?

“I was just looking at the carvings,” he explained, motioning to the pillar beside him with the torch, “but I can head off to bed if you would prefer, master.”

The dragon hummed to itself for a moment, its eyes scanning over the art as a distant look began to take over his face, “They loved their dragon,” Edge finally breathed, his eyes seeming to lose their normal focus, “They built him shrines and would provide him an offering at the beginning of every spring in thanks.”

“How do you know?” He knew it was improper for him to question a dragon without invitation, but Edge either didn’t seem to notice or didn’t mind the inquiry.

“I remember it.” He said simply with a soft puff of smoke, turning away to signal the end of their conversation. The answer had done nothing but further his confusion and for a moment Rus simply stood staring dumbly, even after the dragon had returned to its pile of treasure to prepare for his inevitable slumber.

Realising he was making an even larger fool of himself the longer he continued to watch, he quickly made his way towards his own sleeping quarters. He had a small bed, a slightly worn pillow and a small pile of plush blankets to pick from. It was a rather humble set-up, but it was far superior than sleeping on the floor. While it wasn’t exactly a closed off room, he still received a pleasant amount of privacy from the way his sleeping area was dug deep into the side of one of the cave’s walls.

Taking a moment to release some of the tension in his back with a few cracks, Rus swiftly moved to removing his hoodie, noting with a slight frown that it was due to be washed. He was just about to begin taking off his shorts and was more than a little startled when a large head appeared at the entrance to his room causing him to jerk slightly.

Upon noticing what Rus was doing Edge made a sound unbefitting of his fearsome appearance, immediately aborting whatever he had planned and retreating back around the corner once more. The sound of valuables clinking was enough of a signal that the dragon had gone back to his horde, obviously deciding against speaking to Rus again.

It hadn’t really registered with Rus that the dragon wasn’t exactly a real dragon but a monster in possession of a dragon’s soul until that point. He could feel his skull warming slightly as he considered Edge’s reaction as the reaction of another person, another skeleton just like him. He wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about it but decided that standing half naked in his room wasn’t going to help him decipher his emotions.

The following morning Edge was acting completely normal – leaving early on patrol, taking some time to track down a meal and then sleeping it off – his mind no longer lingered on the concerns he had held the evening just passed and he was quick to return to routine. While Rus was by no means the cleanest monster out there, he had quickly learnt that if his cleaning skills were not up to par he would be rather harshly reprimanded; the scars that lined his back were a testament to that. He had yet to see Edge’s true ire and if he could he would try his utmost to keep it that way.

His morning was spent sweeping out all of the leaves and dust that had blown into the dragon’s cave during the night – a surprising amount of work due to how enormous the cave was – and he was only just finishing up when Edge had returned from his morning meal. Rus shivered slightly as he watched the fat drops of crimson drip from the dragon’s maw, a tongue snaking its way from his mouth to lick away the final remainder of whatever it was he had hunted down.

With a soft sigh Edge stretched out his joints like some sort of overgrown cat, his chest vibrating slightly as he prepared to sleep off his breakfast as normal. His eyes scanned the cave, seeming to roll over each and every one of the dragon’s possessions in turn, including Rus himself. Once satisfied that nothing was out of place, he happily padded over to his usual napping place.

Before Edge could completely settle in to sleep Rus finally managed to find his voice, “I-I need to clean some of my clothes down by the stream,” he began, pausing slightly when the dragon narrowed his eyes on him suspiciously, “With your permission, of course, master.”

Edge tilted his head to the side briefly in what seemed to be contemplation before growling slightly, “Fine. But don’t even consider running away,” he hissed, his tail thrashing in obvious agitation, knocking a large antique wardrobe over. Dragons hated letting their possessions out of their sight, and for Rus to leave Edge’s den while he slept? It was no wonder the reptile was anxious.

Rus gave a slightly awkward bow, “I wouldn’t dream of it, your eternal eminence.” The flattery seemed to at least calm the dragon, even if only slightly, as he merely waved for the smaller skeleton to leave in feigned disinterest. Unfortunately, the regal effect was ruined by the way he seemed to preen at the compliment.

He was able to hold in a snicker until he was finally outside the cave, it was rather entertaining to watch how easy dragons were to please. They were by no means dull, simple creatures, but it was almost ridiculously easy to play into their good graces with a few sweet words and admiring looks from afar. Perhaps Edge just wanted someone to tell him he looked handsome every morning. Thinking back on it, he wouldn’t exactly put it past the dragon to do such a thing.

The woodland air was clean and crisp, the scent of fresh pine heavy in the air. The smell filled Rus’ nose with a familiarity that had his heart aching and his mind wandering to a simpler, kinder time when everyone was safe. The sun above shone strong, and yet, it almost seemed that underground the world had been brighter.

Rus could see the nearby village in the distance at the base of the mountain. A kindly old lady had allowed him to stay in her stable one evening, even going as far as to bring him breakfast when he woke and a mug of sweet tea to wash it all down before he left to continue his journey. He wondered if he would ever be able to repay her kindness.

It was no secret that humans hated monsters, they always had and likely always would if those deemed ‘fell’ monsters had their way. Most humans would have turned Rus away or simply slammed the door in his face if he’d asked for somewhere to spend the night. When he wasn’t out trekking through the wilderness he usually found himself huddled up on a cold street corner, hoping that no one would pay him any mind or pass him off as just a poor beggar.

It was quiet as Rus began to walk down the mountainside toward where he had been told there was a small stream he could use to wash his clothes and himself. He had been completely lost in his thoughts, but he slowly began to realise just how quiet the woods were. There were no sounds drifting up from the usually busy village below and not a bird to be seen in any of the trees.

At the eeriness of the forest he slowed his movements, contemplating returning to the cave and cleaning later on. There were very few things that could scare away all the animals of a forest, and Rus wasn’t eager to encounter any of them.

There was a loud snap as a nearby branch was torn from a tree and Rus found himself running before he had even registered where the sound had come from. Much to his dismay, running back uphill was a far more tedious task than it had been to leisurely stroll down and he found that no matter how quickly he tried to sprint away from whatever dangerous creatures lurked in the woods he made no significant ground.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise when something snatched Rus’ legs out from underneath him, causing him to fall face first into the hard ground. He gave a weak groan, his hand seeking out the front of his skull to clutch his face as it seemed to pulse with pain. He felt something warm and wet trickling onto his phalanges and pulled his hand away from his face to see it stained red with marrow. It seemed that the rocky ground was a little sturdier than his face.

A laugh sounded from behind him and Rus felt his blood run cold, “You seriously thought you could get away from us?” It chortled in amusement, a clawed paw easily grasping his legs to prevent any attempt at escape. Even if he had wanted to, Rus was unable to even consider trying to get away, not with the way his head seemed to be spinning, red liquid dripping down into his sockets from his forehead and only serving to disorientate him further.

He fell limp against the ground, his mind growing fuzzy and drowning out whatever it was his attacker was saying. He could hear roaring and there suddenly seemed to be a lot of fire everywhere, but Rus didn’t mind, even if it was a little warm. Why was Edge looking at him? When did he get there? It likely didn’t matter, Rus was tired, his sockets growing heavy. Edge seemed to be saying something but Rus ignored him, he’d ask him what he was trying to say when he woke up.

Childhood

Gwen tried not to wax philosophic about things very often. It normally that led to her getting too caught up in her own head, swept away by her thoughts and wrapped up in overthinking. Occasionally it could be enlightening or insightful, but usually it left her with a headache, a worsened mood, and anxieties about perceived past missteps tangling together with questions and second-guesses about others’ feelings and opinions, leaving her over-analyzing every detail she could remember about an interaction.

Despite that, watching the Mol children dashing about the Steppe had her thinking about childhood.

In technical terms she’d had one, just like every other person on that star. Everyone was a child once, though how long they were considered one, or considered themselves one, varied greatly.

For many, being a child was a light, easy thing, a time that was spent growing, observing and learning. Sometimes there would be responsibilities mixed in, like the Mol children gathering fuel for the fires or young nobles having to learn proper conduct, but for the most part that time of their lives was a simpler one than adulthood.

Sometimes people had to skip all of that entirely, having to go straight to being an adult as soon as they were able. Their live necessitated a pragmatic mind and realistic --often grim-- outlook on the world. Maybe they skipped their childhood because they had take care of themselves for one reason or another. Most of the children in the Brume or the orphans in Ul’dah lived such lives.

By her own reckoning, Gwen had fallen from the first to the second before her fifth birthday, when her mother died. Taking care of baby Aifread and father (or the husk of him that was left after mother died) was exactly the sort of trial that turned a child into a ponze-sized adult, even rendering of her hair platinum and gray in the process. Taking care of them had served to prepare her for taking care of herself some four-odd summers later, the sickness that struck their home taking them while leaving. That sickness that still didn’t have a name, according to Mother Miounne.

There had been help, of course. Children had more options than adults. But Gwen had looked on Zezekuta, the orphanage and its helpers with a sort of hollow, aching anger woven through with a low, pitiful guilt. She didn’t want that place. She didn’t want to need it, either. 

Despite the heavy emptiness where her heart should have been, she didn’t want to be near others, nor did she want to take. Being close to someone meant she had someone to lose, didn’t it? And taking may well have been what landed her in such dire straights. 

But, when times grew too tough, they greeted her with open arms all the same. Eventually the ache had softened, and work and the happiness she could give others had started to fill the hole with something meaningful and long-lasting.

Gwen frowned out at the open air, eyes shifting from the distant ridges to the rolling plains. She picked out the shapes of the Mol children scampering about as they carried out their responsibilities.

But having a rough, lonely childhood didn’t mean she hadn’t had one at all.

And if it had been different she may not have wound up where she was. Even the smallest change could have meant the difference between doing or becoming something more mundane and becoming the Warrior of Light. If Gwen hadn’t grown up as she had she may not have become an adventurer, or met Thancred, or joined the Scions, or any of the hundred other things that led to her sitting on the grass of the Steppe right then.

She may have been more sure of her path in life. Words stated in desperation and anger rang through her ear, dredging up the questions and doubt they’d instilled.

Gwen started to tip backwards, intending to flop on the grass, but arrested the motion at the last moment, wavering awkwardly on her tailbone before returning to sitting properly. She was supposed to be keeping an eye out for possible threats because, quick as they were, the children didn’t stand much chance against the wildlife of the Steppe. She could hardly do that lying on her back staring at the sky.

Perhaps Gwen looked her life through a gritty and bitter lens, as even while living alone there were bright moments. Her time as a child may not have been pleasant, but it had been vital. She wouldn’t trade where it had lead her, to the Scions and to her role as Warrior of Light, for anything.

Gwen shook her head, pushing herself to her feet. Too much thinking and too much dwelling, if she had her journal she’d have filled a couple of pages by now. And with how scarce paper was, she needed to ration what she had left.

BEING DEEP IS HARD. IT’S SO HARD. BUT I TRIED OK?? Also, self-sufficient orphan child trope GO!

Doing a super questionable/bad job of actually having Gwen interact with people a lot. Gotta work on that....

Touch

Heyo, I wrote a thing. First thing in forever. It’s angsty Ithlen and Solas, of course.

An aching for touch, memories, and words heavy with truth.

Fingers trailed along Ithlen’s back. They moved up and down, up and down, across her shoulders and along her arms. She hadn’t been touched like this in years. She wanted it, needed it. Her body ached for it. It was pleasure bordering on pain.

Ten years she’d spent in armor, both physical and mental. Everyone knew the commander’s story. Alistair’s death put them both on pedestals. Him for making the ultimate sacrifice to end the Blight, her for picking up the pieces and looking after his legacy. The Warden Commander’s great love had died. She’d dedicated herself to the order and would never love another again.

Or so they said. No one bothered to ask her. For a long time it was easier, simpler, to not challenge their assumptions, but by the time she realized she’d lost control of her own story, it was too late to change it. For many, Ithlen Mahariel was gone, if she’d ever existed for them in the first place, and only the Warden Commander remained.

She watched others pair off with best wishes and envy, trying to remember what it felt like to kiss someone or be wrapped in their arms. On occasion, someone might brush against her in passing, an accidental touch of skin that went straight to her core. They would apologize and she would try to hide the sudden swelling of emotion radiating out to the tips of her fingers and toes.

At night, alone, she would run her fingers against the same spot on her skin, trying to recreate the feeling, but it was always a pale imitation. A ghost of a ghost, slipping further and further away. She’d close her eyes and try to remember the times Alistair touched her like that. Anymore, she wasn’t sure if they were memories or fantasies. Like plants meant to add beauty to a garden, they had now overgrown it, the original buried somewhere beneath. Other times she thought of no one in particular, a nameless, faceless someone, anyone, it didn’t matter who.

“Vhenan?” a voice whispered in her ear, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Ithlen said automatically, but her heart pounded in her ears and her body was tense, coiled like a spring. She took a deep breath, and exhaling, tried to relax her muscles.

“Are you sure?” Solas’s hand rested on her hip, a weight to ground her in the present.

“It’s just been a long time since I’ve done something like this. I forgot what it was like, how intense it could be.” She didn’t speak of the memories it brought back, but she suspected Solas knew that was part of it too.

“Indeed, passions can take many forms and sometimes the simplest gestures have the strongest effect.” He began drawing a small circle over her hip bone, “I’ve found myself caught off guard on a few occasions as well.

Ithlen turned to face him and was met with a sly grin. “If that’s the case, you hide it well.”

“I’ve spent years having to hide who I am or risk the threat of greater powers, although that mask carries its own risks. One can easily forget the beauty and importance of emotions,” he gave her a soft kiss, “as I’d almost done, until I met you.”

Her eyes darted away from his, “You become the label, or the goal, and not a person.”

“Yes, it’s easy to lose ourselves isn’t it.” He reached for her hand with the anchor, examining it, feeling the familiar thrum of magic pulsing within. “But you’ve handled being Inquisitor well. It can’t be an easy burden to shoulder.”

“It forces you to be in the moment. In many ways, trying to stop the Blight was easier than living through the years after. We had a clear goal and limited means. Our only choice was the path laid before of us. We knew some of our actions would have consequences, but we couldn’t afford to think beyond the immediate threat.” She paused, “There were other things we could never have anticipated and what their effects would be.” Her eyes met his once again, “I try not to think about what the world will be like after we defeat Corypheus. I can’t afford to. It’s too many questions and possibilities.”

Solas was silent, mulling over the truth of her words and afraid of saying too much in response. Finally he spoke, “You are truly a remarkable woman. There are many who could go their entire lives without having gained half as much wisdom. It is wisdom hard bought though.” He leaned close, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “Perhaps we should follow it and focus on the moment while we can.”

He prevented her from saying more with a steady kiss, one eagerly reciprocated, until almost all thoughts of events past, present, or future, faded from their minds and what remained was only for each other.

The Cringe Wave - the YGO edition

Finally feeling up for tackling this meme! I was tagged by @sunkenscruffycat~

Tagging any and all writers/artists that follow me, if you feel up for it! Please tag me in it, so I’ll definitely see it - I’m curious :>

Rules: 1. Post a quote or short excerpt from your early days of writing/ARTING. (I’m talking old fanfics/ART, slash fics/ART, original fic/ART, etc., that are barely edited and have a ton of technical errors and misspelled words.) This is the cringe part. Don’t edit anything! Let it be horrendous. Don’t Panic. 2. Post a quote or short excerpt from one of your most recent works/WIPs. Something that you’re proud of. Something that you’ve written/ARTED that makes you smile when you read it. 3. Tag a writer/artist you admire, anyone who you think is amazing, new friends, followers, writeblrs, anyone who you’d like to know more about. If you think someone is a great writer/artist and you want to see how they’ve developed their skills, tag them! Everyone started somewhere.

*

So I’ve had this meme sitting around for a while being very indecisive about which fics to choose, until I realized this is an excellent opportunity to compare my old and my more recent YGO fics! :D The Cringe Section:

This is a part of a drabble from my earlier years of writing in English (2011, to be precise). Weirdly enough, I wrote better fics with better English back then, too - it was sort of hit or miss, depending on subject and form of the day. I’m a bit surprised actually that I can read most of my English fic without actively cringing despite their mistakes and flaws! Most cringy fics I wrote back then are cringy due to their subject matter which I often tackled in rather ignorant, superficial ways, but being uncomfortable with a fic content-wise probably does not fit this meme. 

So I opted for something harmless: the Kaiba brothers adopting a kitten. Which is... awkwardly written, to say the least. And the OOCness actively hurts me sdfklfkf

Seto raised an eyebrow when Mokuba looked at the cat that was tugging at the sleeve of his striped pullover. “He thought I might like her because she has so strange eyes”, he said, grinning at his own explanation, as if it was a joke that Seto just didn’t get. “What is with its eyes?”, the CEO asked, impatiently. “They are-…” “Noah said she looks like you.” Mokuba was beaming at him. “You know, we could call her ‘Seto’”. Now Seto was completely convinced that Noah had planned to work his last nerve with that ridiculous idea. Seto felt the urge to yell at Mokuba for daring to call a female kitten by his name, but the younger one already saw his expression and looked down at the floor. “… I knew you’d think this is stupid. I’ll give her back, okay?” Seto felt a sudden rush of guilt, which he surely didn’t feel very often. Only Mokuba could make him feel this miserable. “No, it’s yours”, he said immediately. “You can do with it whatever you want. I don’t care.” Mokuba let the kitten jump to the floor and hugged his brother tightly around his waist. “Thank you, Nii-sama!” Seto sighed, as he awkwardly patted his little brother’s head. Perhaps it was better this way. Now Mokuba had something to occupy him and it would surely make him happy for a while. And if this was the case, Seto would be able to ignore the fact that he was compared to this little fuzzy ball of flees. “As long as it stays out of my room and my bureau…”, he concluded aloud.

But to get to the really cringey stuff, I have to dig out my old German fics that I wrote in 2005 - so here’s a little snippet from my very first fanfic that I posted online, featuring a Yugioh Mary Sue (who crushes on Yami Yugi, of course) and my impeccable sense of humor :,D

Set after a very dramatic moment in which Yami Yugi and the Sue bond over almost killing Seto...

Schließlich sagte Yami leise: "Danke."

"Also hör endlich auf, Trübsal zu blasen!" Ich stand auf, packte ihn an den Schultern und schüttelte ihn kräftig. "Dein Selbstmitleid ist ja nicht zum Aushalten!"

Yami musste lachen: "Schon-gut-mi-na-ko-du-kannst-auf-hö-ren-mich-zu-schüt-teln."

Ich lachte und lies ihn los.

"Danke!" Er grinste. "Du solltest später Milchshaker werden."

"Scherzkeks!", erwiderte ich lachend. Da fiel mir etwas ein: "He, ich weiß ja gar nicht, wie ich dich nennen soll!"

"Du kannst mich ruhig Yugi nennen, dass macht mir nichts aus."

"Das geht doch nicht. Mit zwei Yugis komme ich völlig durcheinander!"

"Meinen richtigen Namen weiß ich leider nicht, aber wenn du darauf bestehst, könntest du mich Yami nennen."

"Yami? Ok, einverstanden." Ich probierte den Namen noch mal aus: "Yami. Weißt du, das klingt irgendwie geheimnisvoll... Oder du schreibst es wie ,yummy' , dann heißt es ,lecker'!"

Bei dem Gedanken fing ich an zu kichern. "YUMMY!"

Yami versuchte, beleidigt auszusehen, doch das brachte mich nur noch mehr zum Lachen.

Ahhh, simpler times :,D But I was obviously having a great time, so go you, past!me, live your teen dreams~

Something I’m Proud Of:

I feel the most appropriate comparison would be some of my more recent YGO fics - and one I’m especially proud of, writing-wise, is Relic, an Atem-centric fic I wrote a year ago. 

Because hey, I finally learned to create an atmosphere and to describe things, instead of stumbling through dialogues with little grounding! :D

Maybe this was why he remembered the little things above all.

He remembered the gravity in Isis’ voice when she predicted the paths of fate, even when they were favourable, as if she was always concerned for the future, and especially for his.

He remembered Mahado’s steadfast presence at his side when they entered the quiet, thick air of a temple sanctuary, the sound of their steps aligned on the stone tiles, and how his calm, low voice would ease Atem’s nervousness and doubt.

He remembered Seth’s challenging, impetuous attitude and how it stood in such contrast to the earnestness with which he performed his duties. Somehow, Atem remembered his provoking smile as vividly as the diligent care in the way his hands would undress and reverently tend to the divine stone-carved body of the god he had sworn his service to.

Something tugged at Atem’s heart, then, like an old ache, and it was to him as if the air about him was heavy with incense and the smell of anointing oil. And there were words, spoken softly, intimately, reciting spells to protect and to guide, as those firm, warm hands carefully wrapped his body in white linen with the same utmost care.

It was not a memory, not quite. It couldn’t be – his body had died and withered long ago even though his soul had lingered on. But with his name he had not only regained the memories of his past self, but also of the body he had once resided in, and as his soul had remained bound to this world, the remnants of his heart, preserved for eternity inside his corpse, connected him to his body still. In a way, Atem had always been aware of it, distant and vague.

Unconsciously, Atem pressed a hand to his left side, tracing a cut that was not there, and the heavy smell of incense mingled with the tangy scent of resin. With his hand on his stomach, he barely felt anything beneath his touch. All inside him was entirely still and quiet, if it weren’t for Yugi’s heartbeat faintly resonating in his chest. But as his fingers brushed over what should have been the swell of his ribs, the cavern of his chest felt strangely full, like it had been lovingly carved out and very carefully filled up again, and the distant smell of resin, herbs and spices did no longer alarm him.

As unsettling as it was to be so aware of his own corpse, there was comfort in it, too, wrapping itself around him like linen bandages, tight, but tender and protecting.

Instead of fear, a weariness pulled at the core of him, as old and ageless as his soul.

We Are Both Sinners

Archerus observes the room he is currently in. A big sofa lies on the center of the room, facing a fireplace, for none of them, Archerus, Lara or Acharon had any sort of interest in television entertainment or technology whatsoever, preferring peace and quiet and admiration of simpler things. A few books were spread on the sofa, all belonging to Lara since she was the reader of the group and Archerus and Acharon didn't hold nearly as much consideration for literature as the crimson hedgehog or, at least, had capabilities to do so. There wasn't anything much in the room, they liked it simple, the walls were just one color but still gave a warm and inviting vibe. He didn't deserve any of this. He was responsible for many deaths... so many deaths. He might not have been the one pulling the trigger or taking the last bow, but he let them happen, technically. All because he believed the girl who caused those deaths, despite everything, still had some good in her... and he thought his feelings could reach her and save her from the darkness. Obviously, that didn't happen. Sapphire was dead now, maybe for the best. Certainly for the best. Archerus had to admit. It ached in the beginning. And he couldn't tell if it was for the fact that his "love" died... or because he felt like he had failed and all those deaths he helplessly assisted to felt heavier in his shoulders then ever. Right now, he can hear their cries, judging him for doing nothing and let them die so horribly. He didn't deserve any of this. He didn't deserve any kind of comfort, any kind of respect or consideration. He deserved to be punished and be locked down in a cell... He deserved to be part of those crying souls... He deserved to be dead like Sapphire... Archerus looked down, ashamed to look at anything else, feeling unworthy of everything and everyone around him. The sound of footsteps stops him from going any further with his self-minorizing. He shots his head in the direction of where the sound came and his eyes find Lara. She was in her casual clothes, the ones she wears at home, light-grey jeans and a black top in which the back was cut further down in order to be more comfortable for her back quills. Her grey eyes stare at him quizzically and worriedly, eyebrows furrowed as she had stopped in the middle of her path at the sight of him. "Archerus? What's wrong?" he hears her ask in that calm and silent voice of hers. Somehow, Archerus feels a little bit calmer. He doesn't know why. It wasn't the first time. Lara had... some sort of influence on him, even before they defeated Sapphire when she was assigned to work along with the lion and the wolf. Perhaps it was her mercy, something Archerus was greatly unused to due to the many years he interacted with the cruel wolf, or maybe her obvious grief that made him feel sympathetic towards her right in the beginning. During that time, they became close, Sapphire finally found some sort of "babysitter" for him, having no longer to deal with his patheticness, and Archerus finally found someone who didn't see him as a mere tool. Lara had never been afraid to express her displeasure towards the way Sapphire treated him, in fact, that almost got her killed. "Hey, Lara." Archerus salutes and does not dare to say anything else as he raises his hand to go along with his call. Lara's expression doesn't change and she remains in her spot for a few seconds, before walking up to him, her eyes never leaving him. It was strange and unusual to see Lara looking at someone directly in the eyes, she rarely did that for she didn't like, or, at least, wasn't used to, any kind of contact. Although that didn't prevent her from burning her enemies with a furious and determined gaze, letting them no she won't go down without a fight. Archerus also admired that about her. There were many things he admired about her. The crimson hedgehog stops in front of him, her eyes looking up at his, for he was slightly taller than her, as she says "Tell me what's wrong." Archerus looks away "It's nothing important, really. Just... nothing..." He feels a gentle and warm hand directing his gaze, his eyes lock with soft, caring and comprehensive grey eyes which comforted him in a way he could not understand, the meaning teasing his fingertips but still out of reach "I respect that you don't want to talk. I have no power over you or right to demand an explanation, for I too do the same. But I don't want you to commit the same mistakes as me." You can still be saved. was left unsaid, she knew he didn't like it when she said those things when she made a worthless pile of trash out of herself. Her hand was still holding his face in place and he wanted to caress her fingers with his own, lean into her touch and think or worry about nothing else. He wanted to keep looking at those eyes that had more emotion to them than the color gave away and leave his mind blank, an unwritten paper forgotten in some shelf and left unused, no back history. He didn't understand why he wanted any of that, he had never felt this way before. "Guilt." Archerus says. The comprehension in Lara's face is radical. She was familiar with that kind of guilt, it constantly haunted her to the point she couldn't sleep, to the point she couldn't feel anything else but the heavy weight of that feeling on her back, her ears left death with the judgments of those who perished under her hands. And she couldn't see anything but red. "There's nothing for you to feel guilty about, Archerus." Lara replies. "I let them happen." the lion answers sternly. "There's nothing you could have done." the crimson hedgehog points back calmly. "I could have prevented them." "She would have killed you!" Lara can't help but desperately raise her tone. It wasn't that she didn't believe in Archerus' capabilities... but he wasn't a cold, merciless assassin like Sapphire, who could easily keep up in a fight against Stella the hedgehog, one Lara was afraid to have as an enemy, however fully respected. If he ever tried to stop Sapphire... his body would be unrecognizable. "At least I would have tried something instead of watching, like a coward!!" Archerus shouted in anger and frustration. Lara's eyes widen slightly, her jaw falling just a bit as she looks at him with shock. She's unable to answer him back for a few seconds before she says "You're not a coward. You cannot say that." "Why so?" his eyes flash with frustration and anger, not for her, but for himself. "Because, if you were, you wouldn't have tried to save me." Archerus looked away. He remembered that day, the only day he had stood his ground before Sapphire Wolf. The day he almost died. Apparently, Lara already knew who Sapphire was, what she had done and what was capable of. This information had been passed to her when she spent some short time with Nila's team, through Stella. Archerus knew that everyone who was considered a friend of Nila or any other of her friends would receive a badge with which they would be able to send a signal in case of danger. Stella had added a button to those badges: Sapphire's button. The white hedgehog warned Lara of Sapphire. And that warning crossed Lara's mind after she saw Sapphire face to face for the first time. She remained quiet for some time until Sapphire had once again shown what kind of feelings she had for Archerus. Lara jumped on her, saying she had no right to talk like that. Lara disrespected Sapphire and that almost got her killed. She would have died if Archerus hadn't stepped on the scene. His special powers unlocked as he saw Sapphire's hands crushing Lara's neck and an explosion dragged several feet away from the coughing crimson hedgehog. That day was the ignition to many changes in his life. "That's... that's different..." Archerus muttered, looking away from her. Lara stared silently at him and it was being so hard for him not to look at her beautiful grey eyes. Her hand moved from his face to his chest, setting his body on fire as her palm pressed where his heart was. Archerus was sure she could feel the speed with which it was running, but whatever Lara thought about that, she didn't give anything away. "Maybe you are right..." she sais after some moments of silence, staring at her hand over his white chest "Maybe you are a coward. But if so, we both are cowards. We were both involved with the death of many people. We could have stopped them, but we didn't, because we were afraid, because we didn't know anything else. We regret those deaths but we didn't do anything to stop them. We would let death come to people once again..." Lara smiled, a bitter smile as the memories came to her mind "We are both cowards..." Archerus stared at her in silence. He wanted to deny every single thing she said about herself, but he couldn't disagree with that logic. Still, he wanted to comfort her, he wanted that bitter smile to disappear. But he didn't know what to do or what to say at this point. What could he say? Her grey eyes looked up back at him "We can't erase what we have done. No matter how many good actions we do in the future. There's nothing we can do to change the past. We are both sinners..." her other hand came to rest on his left cheek, her thumb caressing him gently "But... at least we are not alone anymore. We can both be sinners together. Regretting the actions of our past that are slowly destroying us..." her smile was still bitter, but there were comprehension and comfort coming from it "You are not alone, Archerus." Archerus. For so many years, he didn't even know he had a name, nothing to call himself. When he met Sapphire, she gave a designation, so it would be easier to address him. It wasn't a name, but it was the best he got. After she died, the lion met his parents and they revealed him his name true name 'Archerus'. Despite being thankful for finally having a name, it still felt like it wasn't his, everytime someone called him by that name, he forgot it was him and thought they were talking to somebody else. So why... why does it feel so right when it's her calling him that? Why does it feel like a soft caress? "That name... I'm still not used to it... It feels weird like Archerus is somebody else and not me. So why does it feel so perfect when it's you calling me?" he observed her mouth opening slightly, her eyes shined in a way he had never seen before in her and she obviously didn't understand it either. He moved his hand to hers, the one that was still caressing his cheek. His fingers glided her wrist, sliding his way to the back of her hand and holding it gently. His heartbeat increased as he moved his face closer to hers and whispered gently, in a plea "Call my name again." Lara was confused, but the indescribable feeling inside her chest talked louder as she whispered, obeying to his command "Archerus." her cheeks reddened as she overserved his face, his lips, coming closer to hers. She didn't move. She felt her breath mingle with hers, her lips quivered slightly in anticipation, her eyes starting to close. He seemed to mirror her actions. What was he doing? "Again..." he tilted his head, to get a better angle. Her face moved closer to his as well. He felt like his all body was set aflame, her angelic voice making him go crazy. "Archerus..." He sealed her lips with his and it felt like everything exploded, the fire increased from the point his mouth touched with hers. She was so soft and warm, he felt like melting, he felt like he was touching an actual angel and had to remind himself that he was alive and not dead. Archerus felt Lara's hand move from his chest to wrap around his torso, embracing him gently, pulling him closer to her. He did the same but a bit more eagerly. That seemed to have intensified the kiss. The lion released her hand that moved to caress his black hair, tugging it softly with her thin fingers. Archerus got a handful of her quills that felt like silk running between his fingers, messing them up as he tried to desperately pull her closer. She felt as needy as him. Their legs tangled, he wrapped his tail around one of her slender legs, the fur on its end tickling her and causing her to shiver. Archerus had no idea he felt this hungry, moving his hand up and down on her back, hearing her moan against his mouth. He couldn't get enough of her and he was starting to feel the need to breathe, but he didn't want to break the contact with her skin that, even though not even a paper sheet would fit between them, it felt like they weren't close enough. They broke apart with a loud gasp to reunite immediately, hungrier than ever. He lifted Lara from the ground, who wrapped her legs around his torso for support. Her hands caressed the sides of his face, his neck. The fire was suffocating. He rubbed her sides with eagerness making her shiver under his touch, causing beautiful sounds to come from her mouth, swallowing them immediately. He could this forever, taste her and caress her, find every single detail in her heavenly body, feeling her soft silky fur, tugging her back quills, he found they were her weak point. He moved to kiss her jaw, moving down her neck, leaving love bites on his way down to her collarbone. Lara gave more room to work as she let herself sink into the passion, she let all this feeling swallow her all. She couldn't think, her mind was mush and all she could do was feel him, his soft, eager caresses, running through her scars without tripping, his warmth, his taste, the feeling of his strong hands supporting her all body with ease and whisper his name countlessly. "Archerus..." he answered her by taking her mouth his once again, which she received happily. They didn't know for how long they remained like this, they didn't care either way. But, eventually, the need for oxygen was too much to ignore. They stared at each other, panting heavily. What were these feelings? This fire on their bellies? This heavy feeling on their chests? Was it love? How could they recognize a thing they never had? Was it just the need to console each other, to satisfy each other? They didn't know. Archerus moved for one final kiss, a soft, slow peck on Lara's lips. She responded. He looked at her grey eyes. The lion had never seen them so alive. Her muzzle was almost the same shade as the rest of her crimson fur, her lips were swollen, she had bite marks all over her neck and her fur was a complete mess. He was sure he had the same look. He slowly placed her on the ground and held the female hedgehog as she took her time to gain control over her wobbly legs. They never broke eye contact and their hearts never slowed down. After some minutes of silence, Lara whispered, because she couldn't force herself to speak any louder "I need to make some researchers. I will see you later." "Okay." They didn't move for a long while. Later, Archerus slowly let go of Lara and Lara slowly stepped away from him, her feet seemed to refuse to leave their spot. She walked away, climbing up the stairs and she could feel his gaze on her back, her heart was still racing like crazy and it felt like she could hear his beating in synchrony with hers, just like it had before when they were kissing. Archerus watched her leave until she entered the room that was their library. He stared at the door for a long while, asking himself what had happened, why did it happen, but, most of all, he wished to know when to could happen again. It didn't matter if the feelings behind all the scene were pure or not. They were both sinners, anyway.

It’s More Than Just Us Now

Author: @dylanobsessed​ Prompt/request: Could you do a Stiles x reader imagine and the reader finds out she's pregnant and doesn't know how to tell Stiles cause she thinks he'll hate her and break up with her, but it's really cute and fluff towards the end pleaseeeee❤️ Warning: mild arguing/yelling, baby talk (idk if that needs to be a warning but just in case), and some fluff Pairing: stiles x reader Notes: thanks for this request!!! i had a good time writing it honestly! i hope you enjoy it and if anyone else wants to send some requests my way, please do. Words: 1,798

It looks like you’re at least six weeks along.

Now, you’ll have to come back in a couple of weeks for a check-up so we can ensure that everything is running smoothly with the pregnancy.

Just take it easy and congratulations.

This was the start of my senior year ---- leaving the doctor’s office as a mess of emotions that I didn’t have the first clue on how to handle. That was my first day and here we are four weeks in and I still haven’t spoken a word of this secret to the one person who needed to know. Deserved to know. All because of my stupid insecurities.

Those words echoed in my mind endlessly and each time I heard it, the harder it became for the reality to sink in. To admit that I’m pregnant at the dreadful age of eighteen. A time that’s supposed to be filled with worrying about college applications, how I’ll maintain my relationship with Stiles, and how I’ll adjust to having responsibility for myself. Instead I’m sitting alone in my room, staring at the walls covered in various photos that hold memories of moments that were much simpler than now.

I rubbed the top of my stomach, practically freaked out by the fact that something ( a life Stiles and I created ) is growing inside of me. I was nervous, nervous out of my mind really knowing that he’d be over any minute and was probably aching with curiosity as to why I’ve been acting out of place lately. I found a way to break the news and I hoped it would go as planned --- that somehow he’d be excited about becoming a father and that it’d diminish the doubts that have lived in the back of my mind for weeks now.

I sat up in bed, taking a deep breathe before reaching forward to finish wrapping the onesie and t-shirt that is hidden away in the box. It had to be finished before his arrival, since the clothing spoke all the words that I knew wouldn’t dare to fall from my lips once he’s right in front of me and staring at me with those eyes.

Hearing a knock at the door downstairs, I practically jumped out of my spot as the fear ran throughout my body and I knew that I had to face that fear now or I never would.

“You can come in! It’s unlocked and I’m upstairs.”

He didn’t bother responding, but that’s probably because I could hear his footsteps moving rather fast throughout the house to make to me. I simply couldn’t move another inch, so instead I placed the gift behind my back and stared at my bedroom door with a heavy heart as the other entered the room in a matter of seconds. The goofiest grin across their features as I forced any sort of happy expression upon my face.

“You know, I can’t remember the last time I was in your room.” He said with a certain kind of sadness and I wanted to curse myself for being such a distant and horrible girlfriend lately. He cautiously approached me on the bed, taking the spot beside me before playing around with his own fingers. A habit of his that usually only came to play when he’s feeling nervous but why would he be? He had no idea what kind of bomb I’m about to drop on him.

“About that --- I’m really sorry that I’ve been such an asshole towards you lately.”

He immediately shook his head as if he disagreed with my words, which truly wouldn’t make any sense. Considering I’ve barely been answering any of his calls, texts, or any other ways he tried to contact me. Plus, I avoided many invitations to hang out. Too many, really.

“Listen --- don’t even worry about it, okay? It’s not a big deal.” He reached towards me, his hand resting on my leg before giving it a gentle squeeze. I sat there in such disbelief that even after how I’ve treated him lately he still wanted to be around me without any further questions or answers. How in the world did I manage to be with someone like that? Perhaps now is the perfect time to break the ice, to explain why I called him here, and to let him on the secret that’s weighed me down long enough.

I revealed the item hiding behind my back with a heart that is easily pounding ninety to nothing at the moment but I had to do this now, while I had some confidence that it could end better than I expect.

“You got me a --- “

“Open it.”

I cut him off, playing it off like I’m that excited for the gift to be unwrapped but I felt the opposite at the moment. My eyes flickered in between the various facial expression he’s already giving and the still unwrapped box still in his lap.

He gave me a soft but confused smile, moving his hand away from my thigh before using both hands to force the wrapping off the box and removing the top of it to reveal the articles of clothing inside. I watched as his lips barely whispered what the clothes read and suddenly shook came over his features and I felt terrified for what he dared to do next. His hands grazed the material, taking both items out of the box and staring down at them so intently. Eyes made their way towards me before he dropped everything onto the bed and began pacing the floor of my bedroom.

“Wait --- does this mean I’m going to be a dad? I can’t be a dad. How am I going to be a dad? How are you going to be a mom? How are we going to be parents? My dad --- the sheriff of this freaking entire town I must add is going to freaking murder me and somehow cover it up when he finds out about this.”

“Stiles --- “

“We can barely take care of ourselves, Y/N. Hell -- we’ve spent the last four years trying to fight off the supernatural world and now we are supposed to know how to take care of a baby? What about college? What about our futures?”

“Stiles, if you just let me ---”

“God. We don’t have the money for this. Our parents don’t have the money to support us like this. How did we let this happen? We were finally supposed to have our chance to be normal and go to college and one day get married and plan children. We were supposed to start our boring non-supernatural lives together, Y/N. How can we do that now?”

“Stiles, I swear to god if you don’t let me ---”

“Wait --- so is this why you’ve been distant towards me lately? How long have you known about this?”

That’s when the dynamic of the room changed, he’s no longer staring down at the floor while pacing it aimlessly. Instead he’s stopped right in front of me and his eyes now are focused on me and all I could do was cry.

“I ---”

“Tell me, Y/N. How long have you known?”

I avoided eye contact at this point, the tears actively falling down my cheeks and in this moment I could feel my heart slowly breaking. Not because of his reaction but at how foolish I was for hiding this from him. It’s my fault --- all of it. 

“I’ve --- I’ve known for about a month now but please let me --- “

“A month? Are you kidding me? Why wouldn’t you tell me, Y/N? I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this from ---”

“Stop! Just stop talking and let me explain myself. I was an idiot, Stiles. I should have told you the second I found out but I was scared. I didn’t know how you’d react and I was afraid that you’d leave me. I know this is the shittest time for me to be pregnant but I am and there’s nothing I can do to change that. I know you’re scared about being a dad because I feel the same way about being a mom. I’m not ready for this --- neither of us are but there is one thing I’m confident about, Stiles. I know that we will figure it out and that we will somehow make a plan because we always do.”

I watched as his chest rose only to fall shortly afterwards, the hard expression from before slowly softening and tears were now coating his eyes and I swear we stared at one another for what felt like hours -- silently crying and showing one another how truly we afraid we are of this entire situation.

“Y/N…”

He slowly closed the distance between us, hands reaching forward to rest upon the sides of my face and his thumb cleared away the tears that managed to not roll of my cheeks. I reached out towards him, my arms wrapping along his waist as my eyes never let his for a second. I needed this comfort from him at the moment. I simply needed him.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”

“No. You have no reason to apologize. You had every reason in the book to act the way you did. I shouldn’t have kept it a secret like that and I’m the one who is sorry. I just didn’t want to lose you and I know that’s a really stupid and selfish reason but it’s the truth.”

“Are you kidding me? You could never lose me, no matter how much you tried. Even though I still have no idea how we are going to handle this, I know we will figure it out. Just like you said.”

Hearing all of that carried the weight right off my shoulders and for the first time in weeks I felt like I could breathe with such ease. I leaned forward to press my forehead against his very own and he took it upon himself to kiss my lips very softly. When we broke away, a soft laugh echoed off my lips before I whispered against them.

“Did you at least like the Star Wars onesie?”

I teased, obviously trying to make light of the situation. Knowing that we’d have plenty of time down the road to have the heavy conversation that existed around being pregnant at the age of eighteen but for now, I needed to hear any sort of sarcastic comment roll of his lips. He laughed and I swear it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

“I have to admit that was seriously the cutest outfit I’ve ever seen.”