#/ Darkness swirls across the land / (INTROSPECTION)

[m-y-fandoms]

COMMISSION: Joker/Akira/Ren x Reader Part 3

This fic assumes Mishima isn't a confidant, the reader is the Moon arcana instead, keep this in mind.

word count: 6.3k words, SFW

- Admin Myah

Over the next few weeks spent with Akira, or… Joker, as he seemed to be called when the situation demanded, you learned that the world was much more complicated than you ever could’ve dreamed. Sure, you praised yourself for being a little less of a sheep than the idle-brained teenagers of your everyday life who thought of nothing but gossip, status and appearances, but now you felt insignificant, like you’d been asleep all this time until Akira, Ryuji and Ann had placed six symbolic hands upon you, and shaken you to life. Layers upon layers, he explained the subconscious world that lay beneath, which ached to be revealed, only to those who’d open their eyes.

＊

It’d been a rush, your first time in the Metaverse. You’d insisted to Akira, though he protested, that you wanted to see what all of this near-unbelievable nonsense he was explaining was all about. He’d never taken non-Phantom-Thief confidants into the Metaverse, and he was hesitant, silent for a long while before deciding that your help was worth the risk. After all, he’d already told you everything, and they had no way to erase memories… yet.

You remember Akira taking your hand, the skin on skin contact. Up on the school’s rooftop with Ryuji and Ann flanking you, Akira had told you it was a precaution, to make absolutely sure that you transferred into the Metaverse with them and landed in the same place. You had to be touching one of them, for your safety, and he’d eagerly volunteered. With the cat in his bag seeming to smile at you over his shoulder (an occurrence which made you feel like you were going looney already) he tapped an app icon on his phone, some scary red little square, and with that, your body lifted, began to float, or so it seemed. Red completely consumed your vision, red and black ink like those blobs you’d seen the Phantom Thieves appear from when this all began. You gasped, stumbling back a step as if you could escape the all-encompassing wave, and Akira, sensing your trepidation, squeezed your hand slightly.

The rooftop faded, and you felt like a character from a videogame fast-traveling to their destination. Almost as fast as it appeared, the trippy red and black sludge subsided, and before you sat a dark, dreary scenery. A castle, one that obviously belonged to a malevolent ruler sat amongst a purple sky and the smell of despair.

“What the…” your mouth hung agape for a second, taking in your surroundings before letting your eyes trail down to where your hand met Akira’s. Assuming you no longer needed it, you shook him off gently, not even sparing a glance his way, and his eyebrows creased just the smallest amount, not that you noticed. You were too focused on the giant cat before you, knee-height, with a round, bulbous head. “Is… are you-?!”

“Much more handsome and dashing in this form, wouldn’t you say?” Morgana - now confirmed - gave you a sly look as you leaned down to his height to run your hand along the fur on his head.

“Wow… so cute!” You cooed.

“Hey! Stop it! Stop it! I am a warrior and to be taken seriously!” he whined, shooing away your hands, his fur on end.

“Ha!” a sharp laugh rang out behind you, and you turned to see that Morgana wasn’t the only one who’d made a drastic change. Ryuji was now clad in some kind of leather pirate’s uniform, his demeanor far more fearsome and a skull mask across his face. Ann donned a skin-tight body suit and cat mask, and Akira wore a lavish long coat, red gloves, and a masquerade mask. He looked like a magician from some fairytale, or perhaps the leader of some band of Robin-Hood-inspired band of vigilantes… although you supposed that was kind of what he was now… either way, he would make amazing source material for your main protagonist. Such swagger, a commanding presence… he didn’t seem to exactly be the same Akira you’d met earlier.

＊

The trip to the Metaverse was almost completely uneventful… almost. Just once, when you’d begged Akira to press forward and show you the inside of the castle, something called a “shadow” attacked, and you got to see the band of thieves in action. It was shocking, leaving chills running down your spine. Here were your classmates, people your age with ghost-like spirits materializing at their backs, flipping through the castle’s corridors, shooting guns and slingshots and magic at terrifying beasts. It was all so fast-paced, so stunning, that your body locked up witnessing the battle. A shadow spotted you in the background, defenseless and clearly not part of the Phantom Thief entourage, and taking the petty opportunity only a sore-loser on the ropes would take, struck out against you. You shrieked, your hands uselessly coming up to defend your face as if it would help. Akira’s eyes widened, his reflexes so much faster in this realm, and turned on his heel, diving in front of you to deflect the blast of frosty energy swirling toward you. It bounced off of the side of his large steel dagger and ricoheted back at the shadow. After assessing the situation and asking if you were okay, Akira decided it was time to return you back to the real world. It was too dangerous for someone without a persona to wander here. The thieves would return later, once you were safe at home.

＊

Anyway, now you believed him, you knew everything he was saying, about Kamoshida and his fucked up mind, about confidants, personas and metacognition was real and very much a serious matter. Now all that was left was to decide just how you could help them, what kind of deal you could strike with the clever leader of the Phantom Thieves. Of course, he didn’t expect you to get something and give nothing.

It was decided that you’d offer your knowledge as a writer to help with negotiation and charming shadows in the Metaverse. You’d turn those golden lines you wrote on the pages into real-life lessons, and Akira would learn to seduce shadows, to out-smart them, to persuade them to give up everything they had: their money, precious belongings, even their very selves. He would flirt, threaten, intimidate, any honeyed word or silver-tongued method he could use to make deals with shadows go along more smoothly. Perfect. It would help him out immensely. But, what did you want, he’d asked again.

It felt embarrassing, now that you were put on the spot, forced to disclose it, but although those “golden words” translated well into lessons for others, you found that you couldn’t as easily take your own advice. You struggled with human interaction in your real life, especially of the romantic kind. You could write a healthy relationship out on paper, create the ideal love interest from scratch for a story, but stumbled along words like some socially incompetent fool once it came time to apply that knowledge. As much as you hated to admit it, these days even getting true, realistic romantic moments down on paper was a struggle. The well was drying up, writer’s block, as you’d explained it to your online friends. It was near impossible to make something from nothing, and you had nothing. No real romantic experience. You couldn’t help but think this was the route of the problem. Your writing, your precious romance novel would flourish, if only it’s author wasn’t completely clueless.

“Date me…” You mumbled, surprised out how your long moment of pensive introspection had accumulated into this clunky statement.

“What?” Akira let out a breath he’d seemed to be holding the entire time, just watching you think on what method of reciprocity was worth your help. Losing your nerve at the incredulous tone of his voice and the raise of his brows, you shrunk back a bit, ready to defend your words.

“W-wait!” You held a hand out between you. “Not really. I mean…” how to word this…? “Like, fake!” He looked even more confused than before. You released a noise of frustration. “What I mean is, you take me on dates - fake ones - stupid little stuff couples do, for my writing, of course…” You looked toward the ground, suddenly extremely interested in your shoes.

“How does that benefit you in any way?” He smiled, a bit forced, a blush dusting his pale cheeks.

“Well I- I’ve been having writer's block lately. I mean sure, I can give you lines and lessons from my previous works, drabble and things I’ve learned, written down in the past, but I have no fresh material. Stagnation is every writer’s downfall, but I have no experience, I need more to go off of… and then maybe I can even transfer what I discern from our… interactions - er… dates I mean - to you. Does that make sense?” You looked up at him hopefully.

“Uh… no,” Yeah, you knew it didn’t, but that’s all you had for him. His hand shook, much less confident as Akira than Joker, and he shoved it in his pocket.

“It’s hard to explain, I just… that’s my deal. Will you take it?” You clutched your bag a little closer to your body. “We don’t even have to tell anybody. I just want to experience it… going out… with someone…” It sounded a little more pathetic now that you were actually hearing yourself. You both stood in silence, Akira contemplating your words. It wasn’t that he didn’t like you as a person… it was just… complicated…

“Give me a day to think about it,” he spoke quietly, giving you a polite send off before parting ways.

That night, anxiety set in as you rolled around in your bed restlessly.

Did you sound like a creep? Were you being unreasonable? Was this asking too much of him? Does he think you’re crazy? You’ll probably never hear from him again. He’d probably rather find a way in that crazy Metaverse to erase your memories so he can forget the awkward exchange ever happened. Maybe he’ll kick your shadow’s ass one day.

You debated going to school the next day.

＊

Akira’s night, though not as horrendous as yours, was not a peaceful one. Like so many nights, he found himself awoken to the clink of a ball and chain, dressed in striped rags as he stood and walked to the bars of his cell. The twins were waiting, as always, anger in their eyes.

“Look alive, prisoner!” Caroline spoke.

“Our master would have a word with you!” Justine chimed in. Akira looked up, meeting Igor’s large grin.

“You’ve forsaken a bond, Trickster. One must ask, why?” Igor’s hands splayed over a deck on cards on his desk.

“Huh…? What do you mean?” Sleep lingering in his mind, and confused as to why he was here this time, Akira replied.

“I’ve told you, the bonds you strengthen over time and the new bonds you form, they will be what wins this fight. You can only complete your mission, save all that is, through the support your confidants provide, so why have you abandoned this bond?” Igor’s fingers folded together, hands clasped, a show of disappointment. “Now is not the time to not try hard enough.” Was that a hint of frustration in his tone? If so, he didn’t show it.

“...I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Akira rubbed one eye lazily.

“You’re not trying to understand, worm! Wake up!” Caroline’s fist banged down across the bars, startling Akira slightly. He looked to Igor again, who held up a single card between two fingers. On its face sat two wolves, both howling up at a glittering moon.

“The Moon.” Igor stated plainly. “Illusion, fear, anxiety, intuition, uncertainty, complexity, secrets, the unconscious mind. A friend, a possible lover, someone unsure of themselves and others. Creativity, shadowed by doubt. Someone who supports others but not themselves.” As he spoke, images of your face flashed in Akira’s mind. Igor threw the card into the air, catching it upside-down, letting the wolves fall into the moon, swimming in its glow. “Reversed: release of fear, repressed emotion, clarity, misinterpretations overturned. Someone who can fix what was upright. But you’ve passed over the opportunity.” Igor swipes his free hand in front of the card, and it disappears.

Scenes play out in Akira’s head. Confrontation with shadows, confrontations with real people, but these aren’t real… or rather, haven’t happened yet.

He receives clarity.

The Moon has more to offer than lessons on charisma, seduction, trickery, persuasion. His intuition will grow, his ability to perceive things before they happen, the ability to read and understand people, and be understood in return. Other bonds will grow, empathy will grow. More friends, closer friends, a flash of blue hair, white uniform, red hair, headphones, then a tidy uniform, a Shujin uniform, gloves, a beige jacket, and finally bouncy curls and a soft, high pitched voice. With your help, the Phantom Thieves can grow. Bonds will strengthen. Complexity, Igor had said. More than meets the eye. Was there more to you? You weren’t too bad, obviously intelligent… a bit odd, but kind enough, and he did find you cute… but pretending, a fake relationship? How could a fake bond strengthen

The card reappears, as if out of thin air, and Igor points to one upside down wolf.

“Me.” Joker whispers, as if guided by an unseen force. Igor points to the other wolf.

You.

He awakens with a start, nearly knocking Morgana off the bed. He has an answer for you now.

＊

He finds you at school the next day, huddled in the library and not where you’d said you’d meet him. You’d been dreading this, waiting for the rejection, your hand trembling slightly on the book in your hands. He sits across from you, a look of determination on his face. Waiting for him to speak was torture.

“I’ll do it.” He holds out a hand, waiting for you to shake it, seal the deal. A contact has been signed.

＊

Your first date with Akira is clunky, unpracticed, unprecedented of course. He doesn’t know much about what to do, either, so he takes you to Le Blanc for dinner. Some coffee and curry, maybe a soda and some conversation on the side? It couldn’t be too bad, right? That’s what dudes do, he thought, bring their... pretend sweetheart somewhere for dinner, right? Sojiro is teasing, of course, wondering who this new person was, why Akira was holding their hand. He smirks like a dad proud of his boy, and Akira, too embarrassed under Sojiro’s scrutiny now to sit down and serve you curry, rushes you upstairs.

After being dragged by the hand up rickety old stairs, you end up in Akira’s room alone. You look around, taking in his sparse decorations, humble belongings. It then strikes you that you are, in fact, alone. Alone with a boy in his room, for the first time in your life. You didn’t know how you got here, and so fast. Maybe you were in over your head. Maybe you just needed to calm down. This was part of the process, right? Real couples did this, to get to know each other. He beckons you over, gestures for you to sit on his bed with him. You’re hesitant, but Akira isn’t making a big deal out of it, and you’re not really alone, with Morgana right there, so you sit, as far from him as you could be on the surprisingly soft bed. Struggling for words and new to dates himself, Akira decides to treat you first and foremost like his friend. That makes this all easier.

He spends the next hour or so describing Mementos, his mentor Igor, the twins. He wants you to know everything, and it surprises him. His other confidants, save for the actual Phantom Thieves, don’t know anything about the hidden world their bonds are healing. He describes the arcana to you, the tarot, the way his soul resonates with The Fool, Ryuji The Chariot, Ann The Lovers. His doctor friend is Death, Sojiro the Hierophant. Morgana here is the Magician, and proud of it. He explains how he feels a bond with them, as he now does with you. They make him feel like he can do anything. You’re included in that now. You feel warmth rise to your cheeks. How could he say that so casually? It wasn’t like it was a love confession or whatever, but you had trouble seriously telling your online friends you appreciated having them in your lives without adding a joke or meme in there somewhere. Why did he even need your help? He seemed well spoken. You said so, voicing these opinions aloud.

“Huh.. you know, I actually don’t usually talk this much,” he smiled. “Must just be you.” He was only half teasing. You looked away nervously, feeling the need to change the subject.

“S-so, what am I?” You began to stroke Morgana’s fur, and this time he didn’t seem to mind.

“You mean your soul?” He scooted a bit closer.

“Yeah.” It didn’t go unnoticed.

“The Moon.” He replied softly.

He spent the rest of the night explaining the levels of Mementos, and some of the wicked people whose hearts he’s had the displeasure of seeing inside, but the absolute pleasure of changing. You say you aren’t surprised so many people are walking around so hurt inside or eager to hurt others. When the “date” ends - neither of you having even gotten that promised coffee or curry downstairs - you’re touching, sitting shoulder to shoulder looking at the moon outside his window with Morgana on your lap. The room seems a little warmer, a little less humble. Akira mentions with a sheepish grin that it’s getting late, and offers to walk you home.

Rank Up!

＊

You sit in your bed that night, Akira now having returned to Le Blanc, and think about if this will make good writing material or not. You had to have learned something, right? There was something to be gained from every experience… but you can’t help feeling like you’ve warmed up to the thought of Akira a bit more… not too much, however. You smiled to yourself at the thought of The Fool, tricked into dating the Moon, for all it can offer him.

He’d been so awkward at your front door when he dropped you off. You could tell he had no clue what to do. He was frantically looking around. People in movies kissed their date at this point, cheek or lips, depending on how the date went, right? He confessed that he’s one of those people who truly don’t know anything about romance, like you’d mentioned earlier in one of your conversations. You tell him it’s fine, that you didn’t expect anything, that you just met the other day. He thought he was being clear, dropping hints that he might want to peck your cheek, just a quick gesture to kick off your fake relationship, but maybe he wasn’t as slick as he thought. The hints seemed to go over your head. Maybe he really did need help.

＊

Your second date comes in the form of you begging to go back into the Metaverse for some inspiration. He fights you, bringing up the last time a shadow attacked you, but you are persistent. He gives in, taking you to the highest rung of Mementos, where the shadows are weak and he can keep you safe adequately on his own. It is a date, after all, no Phantom Thieves tagging along. Mementos is a bit more frightening than Kamoshida’s Palace, you mention, and he eases your fear, promising to protect you here, always. You take in his Phantom Thief uniform in more detail as you walk the long corridors of the realm of the subconscious and decide he looks quite handsome in it.

You watch him battle a demon that is the personification of lust, a succubus-like creature dripping with temptation and love, or so it thinks. Joker uses all that you’ve taught him so far, which isn’t much, and cons the false idol of love out of their money. It was quite comical yet a bit sad to watch the shadows expression fall from a cocky to a defeated one, but preformative love you’ve decided, is doomed to lose. The irony flies over your head.

From this experience, watching Joker fight with speed and grace, you settle on a genre for your novel. It will be a high-fantasy romance. Joker will inspire your main character, of course, but the love interest… was still undecided. You started drafting her to look like Ann, act like Ann, give off the energy and power Ann does. Ryuji was an option at first as well to inspire the love interest’s personality, but he was a bit too brash. You wanted someone strong, but soft and elegant at the same time. These characters were loosely based on the Phantom Thieves, anyway, so it didn’t really matter.

＊

When you leave the Metaverse, though Akira is a bit exhausted, he takes you to a local casual restaurant to make up for the last time at Le Blanc. There, sitting across the counter from you two is an older gentleman. Yoshida, Akira whispers, is a friend of his, another confidant. The Sun. Yoshida makes small talk, asking politely if you’re with Akira, and you feel your stomach clench. You knew this was fake, the agreement was clear, but hearing it aloud, the awkward ‘we’re just friends’ that was coming made you sweat. It still felt like rejection anyway. When Akira confirms that yes, you are in fact dating, your eyes widen, the coil in your stomach releasing. He smiles, taking your hand. This has to be an act, a show to play up the relationship. He’s just performing his duty, his role, holding up his end of the deal in order to simulate a real relationship and give you worthwhile source material… right?

Either way, you appreciate not being publicly humiliated, and smile back. That night, you write down everything, and what it’s like to not be alone.

Rank Up!

＊

Days pass, Kamoshida coming and going, justice being served, and you spend more and more time with your fake boyfriend. Your parents let him come over, and in your room you let him read some of the old poetry you’ve written, some lame pining drabble from your younger years, and some more recent things you’re proud of. He scours your room, digging up old hobbies and photos. You tell him all about them. He tells you he enjoys learning these things about you. You simply smile. It doesn’t seem to be the reaction he was looking for. Not liking the small frown that adorns his features, you pick the conversation back up, asking if he thinks you’ll ever have a persona. He smiles, maybe someday.

Rank Up!

＊

The Phantom Thieves are gaining fame, only more fodder for your writing. The more you hang out with Akira and his friends, the more real it feels. Your online friends can feel it, too. They sense you changing, talking less of writing and more of Akira. They tease you, of course, but they don’t get it. He’s just a main character… just a muse.

This time, Akira walks home to Le Blanc alone, wondering if he should tell you how he feels. He doesn’t like it, holding up this pretense of a fake relationship, pretending the glances and touches don’t matter. He wants to tell you…

...that he’s slowly falling.

You receive a little gift in the mail the next day. It’s a deck of tarot cards. The return address is blank. You call him to tell him all about it, and end up discussing the pros and cons of each card all night. What a coincidence that you should receive your own deck all of a sudden.

Rank Up!

＊

There are moments where you’re afraid you may be falling, too. There was the time that a blue-haired young man stalked you and your friends through Shibuya, turning corners when you did, always on your trail. When Ryuji finally got fed up and confronted the weirdo, asking why the hell he was following you guys, he’d revealed that his name was Yusuke, a student of a painting master, and that he was simply following inspiration where it lead.

“Your friend there, I was drawn to them,” he points elegantly, like some manga bishounen, past Ryuji and toward you. “I beg of you, allow me to paint your form. Something about your normalcy stands out. What I mean is, there is beauty to be found in not standing out, a silent grace in being so plain.” You could tell Yusuke meant no harm, that he simply may be a bit socially inept with his words, as well, but the way he was talking about you set something in Akira on fire. He stood in front of you, shifting until his body blocked yours from Yusuke’s sight.

“They aren’t plain.” He spoke with a dangerous edge to his tone, and you felt your heartbeat speed up. The hint of jealousy in his voice at Yusuke’s request for you to model for him, and anger at him calling someone he found so fascinating plain was evident.

＊

Yusuke seemed to be in denial in the coming days. Though your little troupe seemed to constantly be bumping into him, offering him sound advice and trying to awaken him to the mire of corruption that was the truth behind his mentor, Ichiryusai Madarame, he refused to see reason. He dove further into his art, but you could tell he was hurting. You used your time with Akira these days to teach him how art, much like film and literature, can reflect false truths and influence people. The deception, corruption and shallowness of the media extended to the art world, as he learned after one or two gallery visits with you.

It was then, in a gallery displaying Yusuke’s work, as you sat in a secluded corner alone discussing ways to take down Madarame, that Akira started to flirt incessantly.

He takes your hand, bringing up romantic tropes in movies he’s seen that seem so forced, one-sided, cliche, uncomfortable. He mentions that he would’ve done better, explains how those scenes would’ve played out if he had any say.

“Is that so?” Your brow raises, amused by how animated this usually quiet boy could be when he was passionate about something.

“Yeah! Of course! What, you don’t see me doing that?” he laughed breathily, going on about how the male lead of some high-school romance film Sojiro rented for him was clumsy, forceful, and didn't give his lover time and space to think about their feelings. “I would’ve treated them much, much better… “ his words trail off, as if lost in thought.

“...Is that so?” You ask again, studying his face and asking yourself how you didn’t notice before how beautiful the hue of his eyes were. You sure as hell were noticing now… steely grey, sharp, deep, purposeful. You’d have to write that down… for research purposes of course. When you pull yourself back to reality, no longer lost in the swirl of his irises, you realize he’s staring at you, and has been for some time.

“Do… can I-” he speaks, throat dry, and scoots himself closer. “May I kiss you…?” His voice is soft, so soft, scared.

“...Yes.” You answer, naturally, impulsively, voice just as soft. When Akira leans forward, and softly presses his apprehensive lips to yours, you feel like you’ve been set on fire. Your mind begins to go crazy, while your body is frozen. It’s not that you didn’t like it, some part of you did. You wanted more, but it felt wrong. This wasn’t real. You didn’t truly like him… right? This kiss was fake, for research purposes… to cure writer’s block…

...right?

You were frozen more from guilt than nerves. Weren’t first kisses supposed to feel like little butterflies in your stomach? Did he think he owed you this? Were you taking advantage of him at this point? Did he feel forced to kiss you to keep up his end of the bargain?

Akira deepened the kiss, a hand on the back of your neck, guiding you, begging you to reciprocate. When you didn’t, lost in your own head, he pulls away, a small frown tugging at his lips.

“W-we… we should head home. I’ll walk you…” he sighs. You both stand, make your way back onto the main street from the museum, and are silent the entire walk home.

You think he’s silent because you’ve forced him to think he needs to kiss you, and now regrets his decision. He thinks you’re silent because he’s just forced a kiss upon you, just like some Chad from a movie who can’t understand boundaries. Neither of you know your silence is for the exact same reasons.

Akira drops you off at home with a quiet ‘goodnight,’ and walks home, clearing his head in the cool night air.

“Stupid… jeez… fuckin’ stupid,” he huffs, repirmanding himself. This wasn’t real. You’d stated that from the beginning. This relationship was to benefit your writing, to help him in the Metaverse, nothing else. Nothing else.

Nothing. Else.

It was his fault he let himself develop real feelings. He has no right to be sad, to blame you, to get upset. You’d stated the terms from the very start…

Maybe he really was The Fool.

Rank Up…?

＊

The next few weeks are awkward.

Both of you think it’s your fault.

You go on dates like usual, but they are strictly business. You get writing material, he gets advice, no touching, and certainly no kissing. Yusuke joins the group. Things are great… friendly… strained, tense. Akira wonders what the hell he’s doing, if this bond is even worth it. Weeks pass. He feels your bond with him growing, but not in the way he wishes. It felt like all of his other confidants: visit, gain, rank up, gain power, learn. He wonders if he can keep this up. His heart aches. He wants to touch you more, but can’t, wants to tell you more, but won’t let himself.

＊

One rainy night, he calls you, like he often does when you can’t meet up in person, and tells you he can’t do this anymore. You lie, and say you agree. The guilt won’t let you tell him the truth, that you want to end the farce, move onto something more real. You can sense your feelings for him growing stronger each day, and it’s not fair to him. Without fighting, without the big “it’s not you it’s me you” you’re used to reading about in books, you tell him you respect his decision, and it’s over. When Akira hangs up, he finds himself a bit angry inside. You didn’t even try to fight for the relationship. There was a tiny little part of him that hoped you felt anything for him, that maybe it meant something to you. He cries that night, for the first time in a long time. They are angry tears, frustrated ones.

＊

In your bed, you find yourself sitting upright, dead inside, unfeeling, empty. You feel like a part of you is gone, but can’t pinpoint why. You don’t even notice the tears sliding down your own cheeks as you sift through the pack of tarot cards that mysteriously came into your life. You find The Moon, and play with it, twisting it between your fingers before sending it flying across the room like a paper dart. Did this mean you couldn’t hang out with the Phantom Thieves anymore? Were you losing your only in-real-life friends and… boyfriend(?) all in the same day?

You sifted through the cards and gently set aside the Emperor, the Lovers, the Chariot. Then your hand drifted over the Fool. You held it out in front of your face. A dancing man looking up at the sky with a jesters cap perched upon his head smiled back at you.

The start of a great journey, freedom from constraints. Each day is an adventure. Courage, anything can happen. There is a need to experience new things, to let yourself experience the love you deserve. Be willing to take risks.

A sad, thoughtful smile crosses your lips. You turn the card upside down.

If you disregard the repercussions of your actions, you are the Fool. You cannot see the position you’ve put yourself in. Is everything what it seems to be?

A breath catches in your throat, a wave of nausea hitting you. You scramble for your phone, and dial a number.

Silence, ringing, silence.

“...Yeah…?” Akira sniffles. He’s been crying???

“I want… can we talk… can I come over?”

“It’s late.”

“It’s not, we came home way earlier than usual. You’re just using that as an excuse.” You were feeling a little braver than usual, the spirit of the Fool within you. You heard him thinking, a sigh that came through as static.

“Yeah… fine, I’ll be waiting.” Relief washed over you.

＊

When you knocked on the door after speed-walking to Le Blanc, Sojiro let you in with a warm smile. He obviously didn’t know about your falling out with Akria, yet.

“He’s upstairs,” he gestured, exhaustion evident in his voice. You rushed past, thanking him with a small bow of your head. Only now was the inevitable fear starting to sink in. Akira heard footsteps creaking on the stairs. Sojiro never came up unannounced, and with that realization, his back stiffened. Morgana picked up your scent, excusing himself, passing you on your way up the stairs. He could take a hint.

He stood immediately, stepping toward you, stopping halfway. You shrunk into yourself, unable to meet his eyes.

“Akira… I wanted to talk…” you muttered.

“You said that… about what?” He was more than a little pissed, but he was always one to hide his temper well.

“Can we sit…?” You gestured to his small sofa. It didn’t feel right to sit on the bed. He hesitated, before shuffling over and sitting next to you. “I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?” Oh, there were so many things, but he wanted to know what you thought was worth apologizing over. Maybe he wasn’t being fair, he dialed back his attitude a tad.

“For… making you enter into the agreement in the first place. Someone’s affections, their love, their touch and body… it’s not something that can be forced. It should never be pretend.” You felt like the biggest hypocrite ever right now. His head shook a bit in disbelief, blinking hard.

“I wasn’t pretending!” His hands flew to his hair, mussing it. “That was the problem.” He sighed heavily.

“What?” You couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

“I wasn’t being forced… are you… you must be the most oblivious person I’ve ever met.” He laughed cynically.

“But-”

“Wait, wait, why did you think I ended our” he put air quotes up, “ ‘fake’ relationship.” He needed this clarification, now. For closure, for redemption, to fix things, whatever may come next.

“Because… because I was forcing you to date me! You were uncomfortable?!” You could feel your voice begin to break, tears clawing to escape. You’d never felt so disgusted with yourself as you did right now.

“Are you serious?” He took both of your hands, looking you in the eyes. You nod. “Answer truthfully. Do you have feelings for me? Real ones?” You bit your lip, that feeling of selfish guilt creeping like bile up your throat. You nod again. “This whole time?” Another nod. He releases you, turning away. “Sheesh, maybe I’m the oblivious one here…” he spoke more to himself than to you. You both sat in tense silence, not sure what to do, what to say.

“Akira…”

“It was real to me,” he moved closer, trapping you against the end of the couch.

“Really?” Your heartbeat was going crazy, and he leaned ever so slightly closer, his hand on the back of the couch for support. “I broke up with you because it was hurting me to pretend I didn’t have real feelings for you, and to think you didn’t want me back, not for real. I thought… that you’d always think of me as just some character for your book.”

“No… Akira… had I known you felt this way…” He leaned in further, your noses bumping slightly, clumsily. This time, he felt no discomfort, no hesitation from your side. His heart fluttered in excitement. You could feel his breath on your warm cheeks.

“May I kiss you?” He asked again, a secondary, unspoken question sitting beneath his words.

“Yes.” Your voice was shaky, but you were sure, for once, of what you wanted. His hand went to your back, cradling you into his chest to lay down flat against the couch. With a passion he’d been holding back, he pressed his lips to yours without reservation. You sunk into the warm, plush feeling, tilting your head at a better angle. He kept the kiss soft, shallow, low pressure, looking for you to give him the signal to stop. When your arms reached upward, snaking around his neck and pulling him harder down into you, he groaned softly, barely audible, before passing his tongue over your lips a single time. You parted your lips, allowing him access, and his hand, pale and trembling, came up and found its way under the hem of your shirt, splayed nervously against the smooth skin there.

[eat0crow]

Not So Dead

Summary: Kakashi’s regretted a lot of things in his life. More than he can ever hope to put a number on. He never imagined not being more philosophical would make its way onto the list.

Notes: Written for @amusl02 as part of the @akatsuki-gift-exchange. I”m so sorry this is late!

You siad you wanted angst so I tried to be emo about it :D

_____

Kakashi’s never cared enough to worry about whatever bastardization of the afterlife his soul would end up in.

Most shinobi’s don’t as a general rule. How can they when they stain their hands with enough blood to fill hundreds of small basins for a paycheck? Sure, there’s a few like the Hyuga and the Uchiha, whose clan lore glamorizes battle so much they have a clear picture of their soul’s destination. But the general population of nins are more than happy with understanding that wherever their souls go...it can’t be anywhere good, and leaving it at that.

Avoiding the afterlife is a much more pressing, present, concern.

But fuck if the information wouldn’t come in handy right about now. He’s regretted a lot of things in his life. More than he can ever hope to put a number on. He never imagined not being more philosophical would make its way onto the list.

He should have listened to Sasuke when he’d had been explaining, in excruciating detail, to Naruto and Sakura just where the departed go, last night when they set up camp. He would have, but the temptation to remind Sasuke that technically, he was oversharing clan secrets, had been at the tip of his tongue and—

Seeing Sasuke start to open up, even if it was over something morose like death, with progress that was downright groundbreaking for him, kept Kakashi from saying anything. He’d never heard the boy talk even a third as much. So what was the harm in him giving away lore.

Sasuke is the clan, it’s his right to decide what gets guarded fiercely and what gets given away freely.

Tuning the kids conversation out, while immediately satisfying, evidently, had been a mistake. Because Kakashi has no fucking clue where he is. Probably not hell? He feels like his soul would be a lot more tormented than it is right now, if it was. Definity not heaven. Not ever heaven. Not after Rin. Or Obito. Or Kushina. Or Minato. Or—

All he knows for a fact is that he isn’t alive anymore. He can’t be. And it’s not the darkness that’s telling him that, not the nothingness or the weightlessness or the cold that seeps into his bones and bites at him harder than the chakra exhaustion that knocked him out had.

No, it’s none of that.

No.

It’s Obito that lets him know that he’s no longer part of the world of the living.

Obito, who’s older than he was the last time Kakashi saw him, who’s his age, which makes sense and doesn’t at the same time. Death, he supposes, gets to make its own set of rules. Whatever they are, aren’t nearly as important as the fact that Obito is here.

Not as the boy Kakashi remembers, who’d been sunshine and summer, warm smiles and endless hope. Or even as any of the variants he’s spent years creating as the answers to half his ‘what ifs’.

No, he’s here and all hard edges. Mangled and torn and cold and so much more beautiful in that he exists. That he’s in front of him. Kakashi has missed him, more with every precious person he’s lost, and the longer he’s lived. Seeing him with his arms crossed, with an orange, swirled mask dangling from his side that screams Naruto, is like stepping back in time. He feels like a genin. Albeit one with slightly more trauma, not to say he didn't already have his fair share than.

The glare on his face is like none of the expressions Kakashi can remember from his friend, but exactly what he always imagined when thinking about them meeting again in the next life. It causes a weird sense of validation to flood him. How could any of the people Kakashi failed possibly do anything but hate him?

Saving Kakashi was the last thing Obito had done, and for what? Him to turn around and kill Rin? For him to shove his hand through her chest and carve out her heart with lightning? Obito loved Rin, in every way he couldn’t. Didn’t want to, for that matter. Kakashi was happy to let her love him, if it meant she was happy and stayed in his life. Existing in her life, being her friend, was enough—all he was capable of.

Rin, was a butterfly. She was always destined to outgrow him once she found someone who loved her back, in the way she wanted and not just in the ways he could manage. She deserved to. Rin was amazing and wonderful and worth so much more than team seven.

He’d have been more than happy to let her fly away, if fate hadn’t been a bitch that decided thirteen was old enough for her to die.

“Bakakashi.” There’s a warning in Obito’s voice, his eyes are murderous, and it goes against every single one of Kakashi’s instincts to stay where he is. Not that he thinks he can move much. Apparently dying doesn’t come with a healing session, he still has all his injuries, and he feels just as drained as he did in Wave.

“Obito,” he finally says, he’s doing nothing to disguise any of the complicated knot of emotion that’s had more than a decade to tangle up from his voice. Maybe Obito will hear it and be able to understand them more than Kakashi himself does.

All he knows is that he’s feeling something.

Whether it’s a good something remains to be seen.

Though, he doubts that he can be part of any something that’s good.

Naruto, Sakura, Sasuke, they’re proof of that. He’d worried so much about them getting to keep their childhoods, he hadn’t actually prepared them for the reality of shinobi life. Despite team 7’s history of cursed C ranks, he’d let them take this mission with nothing more than academy skills and D ranks under their belts. Fuck.

And now he’d gone and died on them. He’d left them behind in the middle of Wave with no one.

Desperately, he hopes they have the common sense to terminate their mission and return to the village.

Realistically he very much doubts they do.

“Pay attention to me, God damn it,” Obito hisses at him, voice sharp-edged and dripping with venom. He’s standing at Kakashi’s feet, kunai angled toward his throat. When did he get there? It’s hard to focus in wherever the fuck they are. “I guess some things never change, huh?”

“That’s not true,” he answers, he can’t stop himself. It’s Obito. No amount of post mortem introspection is going to prevent him from being at least a little bit of a bastard to him. “I’m taller than you now.”

Obito’s breath catches. He freezes, goes impossibly still, his fingers curling around the hilt of his knife so tightly his arm shakes. “You don’t get it, do you?” That’s not his angry tone. No, Obito's beyond that. This is his furious one. The one Kakashi never actually heard but always assumed he had. “Unbelievable. Fifteen years. After fifteen fucking years, here I am, a living corpse standing over you with a knife to your god damned throat and you still won’t take me seriously.”

“That’s not true,” Kakashi says, only, his words come out thick, slurred together around his tongue and the black spots thickening in his vision. “I always pay attention to you.”

How could he not?

Above him, Obito looks seconds away from dismembering him. He says...something. All Kakashi can hear is the rush of blood in his ears. Whatever cutting remark that Obito has to say—that Kakashi deserves to hear—is lost over the sound of his breathing.

He doesn’t want to pass out. Not when he’s just gotten Obito back and there’s a good chance he’ll wake up somewhere else, alone. He doesn’t know how this whole afterlife thing works. He’s terrified that if he closes his eyes, he won’t have the chance to find out.

It doesn’t seem to be up to him, though. The darkness keeps slipping into his vision, the cotton clouding his brain getting thicker with every second he forces himself to stay conscious.

The last thing he sees before he's swept away in the waves of chakra exhaustion is Obito’s face, hovering inches from his own with something that might have been concern flashing across it.

Kakashi’s next return to the land of the not so living (purgatory?), is a bit easier. There’s less of the bone-deep cold from before and more of the floating sensation. Like he’s stuck somewhere with just enough gravity to keep him steady in one place. He doesn’t hurt as badly, the only aches he feels are the ones he’s always had. It would be stranger for him to wake up with them gone, so he counts himself fully healed.

He pushes himself up into a sitting position, his muscles stiff and protesting even with the simple movement. His side is tender, but, considering Kakashi remembers his ribs being broken by that fucking overgrown sword, it’s nothing more than an inconvenience.

“It’s not the same if you roll over and die,” a quiet voice says, off to his left. Kakashi blinks, his mask is gone, so is his hitai-ate. All he can do is run his hands over his face and blink the last bits of sleep from his vision. Obito’s breath doesn’t catch when he turns to look at him, which makes sense, assuming he was the one to take his mask off in the first place. And really, who else is there to do it? “I have to be the one to kill you.”

“Sorry,” he manages after what feels like a small eternity. His brain hasn’t caught up with his tongue just yet. “You can. If you want to.”

Keeping his shoulders intentionally relaxed, his movements loose and lazy in a way that takes effort, Kakashi reaches toward his thigh, grabbing the tanto still strapped there. For a moment he weights the blade in his hand. It's standard issue, the same one given out to all jounin. Nothing remarkable about it.

Handle out, he offers it up to Obito.

And Obito stares, for a long endless moment that stretches into the next. Around them the landscape echoes the tension in his shoulders, the dark grey nothing rising up into jagged peaks, sharpening with every fraction of tension that makes its way into his frame. “Just like that. After everything, you’re not going to fight back?”

“I would,” Kakashi says, looking away first. “If it was anyone else.”

“Then why?” Obito asks, searching.

Kakashi cuts him off before he can continue. “Because you deserve to. Obito, I’m the reason you died, if anyone has the right to run a blade through me it’s you.”

Long, spindly fingers curl around the handle of the blade, and even though they don’t touch his skin, Kakashi can feel the phantom sensations of them across his hand. “I’m not killing you for me, dumbass.”

Kakashi swallows hard around the lump in his throat. He still doesn’t turn to face him. It’s weird seeing Obito with only a single Sharingan flashing red in his face. In a way, it’s a bit like seeing his own reflection mirrored back to him, and Kakashi has never been good with looking at his own face. “I know, and if Rin or Minato or Kushina was here I would let them kill me, too. But they’re not.”

“So what,” Obito scoffs, harsh and cruel as he throws the tanto sheath. “I’m the consolation prize? A get out of jail free card? I’m here so I might as well absolve you of your guilt like a convenient little escape-goat, is that right? Do you even care?”

Obito laughs. It sounds like a sob. Like something wretched from a wounded animal that’s hurting and has been hurting for so long it’s forgotten how to feel any differently. Kakashi hates that sound, he really really hates it.

Before he can help himself, Kakashi turns, grabbing the hand not clutching the blade between them in a white-knuckled grip that looks painful, and pulls. The tanto goes chattering forward and Obito is mashed against him into something that might resemble a hug and what feels more like a lifeline.

“Of course I care,” Kakashi says into the crown of Obito's hair. He smells like clay and metal and something not quite natural that doesn’t matter nearly as much as his warmth against his chest. “You’re not an escape-goat Obito. You’re the one I owe the most to. I’m sorry I couldn’t find some way to make it up to you before I died and ended up here.”

Against him, Obito stiffens further, pushing away with bony elbows that dig into his stomach until clawed fingers make their way into the skin of his shoulders. Obito holds himself there, arms-length away and propped up enough for Kakashi to have to crane his neck to make eye contact. “Wait. What? Kakashi, where the fuck do you think you are?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Kakashi says, doing his best to make his voice come out breezily. “I don’t know anything about the afterlife”s geography.”

Obito pinches his side, hard. “You’re not—Bakakashi—I’m not dead. Neither are you.”

“Wait, what?”

“How you—this whole time you thought you were dead?” Obito shakes him, throwing his whole body weight into moving Kakashi’s upper torso. “You were going to let me kill you a second ago!”

“In the metaphorical sense.” Kakashi raises an eyebrow at him, the confused look on his face natural with not even a bit of exaggeration. “I figured after you got your justice, I’d move on to whatever hell comes next.”

“You were bleeding when you came here. You’re sitting in a patch of dried blood right now.”

“I haven’t died before, I don’t know how death works.” Kakashi shrugs.

For all he knows the afterlife could just be a really bland version of...well life.

Maybe if he wasn’t recovering from the after-effects of what he now knows for a fact had originally been a concussion, he’d be a lot more suspicious. Probably not though, because even without the head injury he’d have a lap full of Obito and there is absolutely no way he could be skeptical about his living or dead status with his arms around the ghost of a boy he watched die.

“My heart's beating, you idiot.” Obito protests, reaching down and placing Kakashi’s palm flat against his chest. On reflex, Kakashi tries to jerk it away, the only time he ever touches anyone's chest is when he’s tasked with carving out their heart. Obito’s grip is crushing, though. He holds his hand there firmly in place, not allowing even a fraction of give. “Don’t you think It would be a lot more still if I was a ghost.”

Kakashi wants to say he doesn’t know. Wants to point out that he can’t feel Obito’s heartbeat through the overwhelming panic that's nipping across Kakashi’s skin—and fuck, if he didn’t already have enough triggers, he should have expected to have a little trauma surrounding this. He can’t get the words out of his throat, though. Not through his breathing, that’s coming out in harsh pants. Not over the panic attack that had no business ruining this and is a good chunk of time past due.

For his part, Obito just watches him through it. Immovable as he keeps his grip welded around Kakashi’s wrist.

Eventually, after however long time takes to move here, he forces his mind to steady itself and compartmentalize this into the little boxes in the far-off corners labeled do not revisit. When he finally does feel, not okay, he’s too shaky for okay, but solid, he makes the effort to feel what Obito’s trying to show him.

When he does, he’s met with the steady thump of a heart beating under his hand. It feels like a bird, beating its wings—and that’s enough of the fragile animal metaphors for today, thank you very much. “Oh. Oh you’re real.”

Obito blinks at him, and the final bits of anger that have steadily been falling away, drains out of him. “Yeah,” Obito breathes, letting go of Kakashi’s hand, finally, and slumping forward, back into his arms. “Yeah, Kakashi, I’m real.”

“You’re alive,” Kakashi whispers. His grip must be painful, but he can’t stop himself from tightening his hold. Afraid that Obito will slip away as some figment of his imagination the second he eases up. “You’re alive.”

“Come on now,” Obito huffs. Something hot makes its way to the crook of Kakashi’s neck. He can’t be bothered to check and see which one of them is crying. “You didn’t think I’d actually let Iwa kill me, did you?”

Yes.

Yes, Kakashi very much did. If he had suspected for even a second that Obito was still out there, somewhere, alive and whole, he would have hunted him down with enough vigor to make his ninken jealous.

But saying that feels cheap when actions speak louder than words and enough time has passed for anything along that vein to ring as hollow platitudes.

Kakashi thinks Obito expects him to get angry at him, to demand to know where he’s been for the last fifteen years. Don’t get him wrong, Kakashi wants to know, he really desperately does. But the answer isn’t nearly as important as the fact that Obito is alive and whole and with him, so instead he settles on asking, “Where is here, then.”

Obito lets out a breath, slumping impossibly more against him. “This is a part of Kamui. Somehow when you exhausted yourself, you managed to find your way into the pocket dimension created by the Sharingan. Since we share the same set, we can access the same place. You’re lucky I was already here. You really would have been dead if I wasn’t.”

“Oh,” Kakashi says, simply. He supposes, in a way it makes sense. Their Mangekyou can banish objects, it has to have a place to send them to. Maybe he caught himself in the reflection of Zabuza’s water prison.

Kaskshi closes his eyes, content to just hold Obito there. It’s not like he’s gotten the chance to be close to anyone recently, physically or otherwise. So while he’s hyper aware of every inch of skin Obito is touching, it feels good. In a reassuring, alive, kind of way.

They lapse into a comfortable silence, the only sounds around being their combined breathing which quickly takes the place of white noise.

Obito’s the one to break it, turning his face against Kakashi’s chest and looking up. “Hey, Bakakashi, if I asked to kill you right now, would you let me?” His voice is soft without the venom in it, with nothing to hide the uncertainty.”

Kakashi doesn’t have to think about his answer before he responds, “Yes.”

He’s not his father, he’s not about to throw himself down on his own blade just to run from his ghosts. But, he thinks if one of his ghosts, the one that’s not quite dead yet, wants him to be, that’s okay. It’s different.

“You’d really give me your life, just like that?”

“Just like that,” Kakashi agrees, because it really is that simple. For him at least.

He hopes though, that Obito will want to wait just a little bit longer to kill him. Kakashi’s waited so long to see him again, he’d hate to have to wait until the end of Obito’s life to do it. Though, that would be fitting, in an ironic sort of way.

“In that case,” Obito starts, moving to stand up. Kakashi helps him the best he can, supporting him with a gentle hand against his back even if he misses the warmth instantly. “Will you come with me?”

Part of Kakashi wants to ask Obito what he means, won’t he come back with him? Back to the village, to Konoha and….and a stone carved with the name of almost everyone that made the place a home.

A large part of Kakashi, the part that makes him bite his tongue, reminds him that Obito’s had fifteen years to make his way back to the leaf. Back to him. If he was going to return to the village it would have happened by now. No. If they’re going anywhere it’s going to be on Obito’s terms.

This time it’s Kakashi’s turn to chase after him.

So he doesn’t have to think about it before responding, “Okay.” The only thing truly holding him back is….Naruto, who won’t get another instructor who will look at him as anything but a monster and fuck, he can’t abandon him again, not after finally being allowed to see him. And Sakura who’s going to be flushed out as a paper nin, which is a complete waste of her potential. And Sasuke, who’s going to be snatched up by Danzo’s grimy hands the second he comes back to the village with no one to keep him in the light and away from the shadows and— “But I have some kids I need to pick up first.”

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hi Steph!!! Hope you're doing fine and well!!I've jumped back into the Johnlock fandom and rewatched it again! I'm looking for fics to do with Sherlock being drugged, a drug addict, crazy, insane or trapped in his mind palace. That's about it, thank you!! Take care!

Hey Nonny!

Ahh, welcome back to the fandom, Lovely!! <3 I hope I can help you out!

For Drug fics, I have these lists here:

Self Harm, Danger Nights, and Drugs

Drugs and Drugging Pt 2

Realistic Drugs/Drug Rehab

As for mind palace fics, I’m going to use this opportunity to post up a list of fics relating to Sherlock’s mind palace, just because I did actually start tagging fics with it, so I wanna actually use it, LOL. Feel free, my lovelies, to add your own fics for this or anything Nonny is looking for! Hope y’all like what I got for y’all!

SHERLOCK’S MIND PALACE

A Perfect Figure by ecb327 (K, 622 w., 1 Ch. || Romance, First Person POV Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Introspection, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Light Angst) – Sherlock build a spot in his mind palace for John.

Once Upon A Time by ProfessorSquirrell (T, 908 w., 1 Ch. || Family, Snippets of Life, Romance, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Implied Drug Use, Angst with Happy Ending) – There is a room in Sherlock's mind palace where nothing gets deleted. And it looks like this...

Sherlock's Mind Palace by Valkyrie Of The Dead (K+, 1,091 w., 1 Ch. ||  Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Deaths, Self Reflection) – Sherlock needs to change his mind-palace once again. He had hoped he wouldn't, he had thought he wouldn't, because they were invincible, weren't they?

Ode to a Well-Worn Chair by hogwartswitch (G, 1,274 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TSo3, John’s Chair, Angst, Love Confessions, Mind Palace) – Takes place the night Sherlock left John's wedding early. Why did he move John's chair and where did he move it?

The Simple Separation Will Not Come Between Us by The Circus (T, 1,278 w., 1 Ch. || Hurt/Comfort, MCD, Violence, Heavy Angst, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Prose) – The choice is simple. Real, and No John. Or Not Real, and John. For a prompt that says 'John dies and Sherlock loses himself in his Mind Palace’

Upon This Throne by ifonlynotnever (T, 1,773 w., 1 Ch. || Pre-TRF, Angst, Romance, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Introspection, Imagery, Pining Sherlock, Drug Use, Passage of Time) – Inside Sherlock's mind is a Palace. Inside the Palace are many rooms. Within the largest room is the Throne. Upon the Throne sits the King.

The Three-Word Tin Collection by TheBookshelfDweller (K, 1,885 w., 1 Ch. || First Person Sherlock POV, Mild Pining, Angst, Romance, Hiatus) – What happens when Sherlock has to store the things he wants to say to John while deconstructing Moriarty's web, but the Mind palace proves an inadequate place to store them?

Duvet (green) by Mazarin221b (G, 2,021 w., 1 Ch. || Post-THoB, Mind Palace, Revelations, First Kiss) – Sherlock recalibrates and restructures his mind palace so it looks like 221b. What he chooses to put in John's room is a bit of a surprise, and a revelation.

A Room of One's Own by whitchry9 (K+, 2,174 w., 5 Ch. || S2 Timeline, Hurt/Comfort, Supernatural, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Coma, John Whump, Worried Sherlock, POV John, Angst, Friendship/Bromance, Hospital) – When a severe head injury lands John in a coma, somehow he ends up in Sherlock's mind palace. It's actually pretty nice there, and John is entertaining the notion of staying there, rather than returning to his broken body. But Sherlock isn't taking it as well, and John can feel him breaking around him.

Heart's a Mess by svenjastrange (NR, 2,249 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, Sherlock’s Mind Palace) – Sherlock's heart is a mess.

Green Carnation by glenien (T, 2,616 w., 1 Ch. || Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Meta-Fic, Angst and Fluff, Communication, Post-TAB) – John takes Sherlock home. Part 1 of It’s No Longer Eighteen Ninety-Five

The Trial of Sherlock Holmes by jenna221b (G, 3,015 w. across 3 works || TAB!lock, Metafic / TJLC, Victorian AU / 1895, Christmas, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Oscar Wilde) – Scripts based on speculation that Sherlock will be put on trial in The Abominable Bride to parallel the Oscar Wilde Trials of 1895.

Entanglement by orphan_account (G, 3,218 w., 1 Ch. || Confessions, Physics, Metaphors, Texting, Pining, Christmas, Mind Palace, Sick Fic, Fluff, Humour, Praise Kink) - On Christmas Eve, snow covers London, John visits Harry, and Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson untangle some knots.

Nineteen Seconds of Falling by EmmyAngua (T, 3,739 w., 1 Ch. || Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Falling in Love) – Sherlock spends exactly nineteen seconds zoned out after John asks him to be best man. He retreats to his mind palace in the desperate hope of figuring out what he wants, unfortunately for him his mind palace is full of people who keep trying to give him advice.

Jukebox by standbygo (T, 3,990 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, Singing/Music, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Hurt/Comfort, Humour, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss) – After the music halls of Sherlock's mind palace get damaged by accident, John learns that Sherlock never forgets a song. Even the ones he'd rather forget. But the random singalong brings some unexpected benefits.

Sink Like a Stone by pennydreadful (T, 4,348 w., 1 Ch. || Angst / Dark, Cuddling/Snuggling) – After defeating Moriarty at the pool, life isn't quite the same around 221B Baker Street...it's more peaceful. And stranger.

Times Two by WhimsicalEthnographies (E, 5,595 w., 1 Ch. || Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Victorian John, Modern John, Sherlock has a Good Imagination, PWP, Bottomlock, Spitroasting) – “But you’re not that John…”“Of course I am,” John’s lips and mustache brush against Sherlock’s mouth as he talks. “All us Johns are that John, now. That John is in every room in your Palace.” He leans in for another messy kiss, tongue swirling all around the inside of Sherlock’s mouth. “In fact,” he moves to suck on the sensitive skin underneath Sherlock’s ear. “I think I hear him coming right now.”

The Death of Doubt by Gingerhermit (E, 6,584 w., 1 Ch. || Alternate Canon, BAMF John, POV Sherlock, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Hurt/Comfort, Angst/Drama, Meddling Mycroft) – Mycroft asks for John’s help in rescuing Sherlock from his Serbian captors.

Better Than Fiction by Irrevocably_Sherlocked (E, 6,813 w., 1 Ch. || Pining Sherlock, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Masturbation, BJ’s, First Time / Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Anal) – ...he opens his eyes, but instead of seeing John he is staring at his bedroom ceiling, the pale plaster a startling contrast from the scene in his head. It had felt so real. He can only imagine what the feel of John’s lips would be like, his taste. But luckily for him, he thinks with a smirk, he’s always had a brilliant imagination.

The Five Stages of Mourning, Plus One by SunnyRea (T, 10,557 w., 1 Ch. || MCD, Pining / Grieving Sherlock, URT, Heavy Angst, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Drug Use, Graphic Death, Depression, Unhappy Ending) – Sherlock did not want this, did not want another stalemate with John in the middle, a gun in Jim's hand. This cannot have happened without a sign. There has to be something he missed anything which said today is the day I kill for real.

Sherlock's Head, John's Heart by Altego (T, 17,252 w., 7 Ch. || Tragedy, Heavy Angst, Heavy Bromance, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Mary is Nice, Friendship) – After Mary dies, John tries to cope, and Sherlock blames himself but tries to make John understand how important John is in his life.

A Study In Auto-Signatures, Sniper Dolphins, and Sex Holidays by cwb (E, 32,689 w., 8 Ch. || Case Fic, Post S3, Evil Mary, Dev. Rel., Beach Holidays, Confused Sherlock, Friends to Lovers, Honeymoon, Epistolary, Bottomlock, First Kiss / Time, Fluff, Secret Agents, BAMF!John) – John and Mary go on their sex holiday, and Sherlock is grumpy and pining about it. Part 1 of HOT DOLPHIN SEX

Hell Sent, Heaven Bound by ConsultingHound (M, 64,381 w, 16 Ch. || Angels / Demons AU ||  Fallen Angel Sherlock / Angel Cop John, Alternate First Meeting, Slow Burn, Case Fic, John & Lestrade are Friends Before Sherlock, BAMF John, Mind Palace John, Friends to Lovers, John in Denial, Sherlock Picks Out John’s Clothing, Clubbing / Dancing, Mildly Jealous John, Awkwardness, Kidnapping, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Sacrifice, Worried / Anxious Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Immortal to Mortal) – Ex-War healer and current angelic guard John Watson is not having the best day. He overslept, he’s underpaid, and now there’s someone tagging the Council’s building walls. However things may be about to get interesting: there’s an unusual stranger hanging around (the definition of tall, dark, and handsome), a literal underground cult is brewing, and rumblings are coming from hell. Can he keep his neighbourhood safe, how and why is he being connected to all this, and who the hell is Sherlock Holmes?

Being John Watson-ish by elwinglyre (E, 69,902 w., 17 Ch. || Bodysnatcher AU || Author John, Cranky Sherlock, Angst, Sexual Tension, First Kiss / Time, Falling in Love, BAMF John, Past Soldier John, Feelings, Inside Someone’s Brain, Shy Sherlock, Sherlock Loves John, POV Sherlock, Switchlock, Slow Burn, Internal Dialogue, Mental Turmoil) – When consulting detective Sherlock Holmes steps on one toe too many at a crime scene, he's consigned to a desk job in an archaic office on the seventh-and-a-half floor of the New Scotland Yard. It’s in this bleak office that Sherlock discovers a portal into the mind of renowned author John Watson. Grander than his mind palace, this new wonderland affords Sherlock new vistas of experimentation. To learn more about the mystery behind the portal, Sherlock seeks out and befriends Watson. But then it all goes wrong when others find the secret portal door—including the man whose brain he visits.

Not Broken, Just Bent by Schmiezi (E, 87,585 w., 43 Ch. || Pining, Love Confessions, Rape/Sexual Assault, Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Villain!Mary, Suicidal Ideations, Main Character Death, Sherlock First Person POV, Parentlock, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Grief/Mourning, Emotional Love Making, Possessiveness, Depression, PTSD, Kidnapping, Virgin Sherlock, Eventual Happy Ending) – "For a second, I allow myself to remember teaching John how to waltz. There is a special room in my mind palace for it. A big one, with a proper parquet dance floor. For a second, I go there. I remember holding him, closer than the World Dance Council asks for, excusing it with the fact that we are training for a wedding, not for a competition. For a second, I feel his hand on mine again, smell his sweat, hear the song we used. For a second, I allow myself to love him deeply. For a second, only a second, that love reflects on my face." Fix-it for S3, starting at the end of TSoT. Evil Mary.

The Bang and the Clatter by earlgreytea68 (M, 137,049 w., 37 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Baseball AU || Slow Burn / Dev. Rel., Possessive/Obsessive Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Mutual Pining, Body Appreciation, Depression, Closeted Sexuality, Family, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Ogling Each Other, Anxious Sherlock, Panic Attack, Drunkenness, Talk of Forever, Big Feelings™) – Sherlock Holmes is a pitcher and John Watson is a catcher. No, no, no, it's a baseball AU. Part 1 of Baseball

The Adventure of the Silver Scars by tangledblue (NR [M], 142,458 w., 41 Ch. || S3 Fix-It, Post-HLV/ Post-TAB / Canon Compliant, Case Fic, No Baby, Angst, Humour, UST, Slow Burn, Angry John, Reconciliation, Not Nice Mary / Leaving Mary, Dependent Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Caretaker John, Fist Fights, It’s An Experiment, Virgin Sherlock, Dancing, Drugging, John Whump, Pet Names, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Scars) – It’s been thirteen months since Mary shot Sherlock and John finds he’s still pissed off about it. Sherlock had thought everything was settled: John and Mary, domestic bliss. But when John turns up at Baker Street with suitcases, the world’s only consulting detective might not be prepared for the consequences. A new case. Some old scores to settle. Certain danger. Concertos, waltzes, and whisky.

[scoundrels-in-love]

hiraeth for the meme? JB?

Anon, you did what I thought was impossible, as in, made me write again. Thank you for picking one of my most beloved words of longing, ever.

Hiraeth: a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

Also on AO3. Just excuse to write emotional introspection & landscape porn.

---

Jaime hadn’t been shipwrecked and cast onto Tarth's shores, but he might as well have been, with the odd sense of wonder that fills him as he cranes his neck to peer at the cliff faces that give little way to a rocky beach, as if pebble by pebble Tarth has reclaimed land from sea's unending touch, with sheer determination, like its people create houses and turn them into homes upon the rock.

A castaway might feel fear and longing for their home once the marvel of feeling land beneath their feet wanes, but instead, Jaime feels as if he's been castaway his whole life and finally arrived at the gates of his home. The great, sharp gates that lead onto a steep and sometimes narrow path toward the clifftop that he has walked through a hundred times and still feels humbled and welcomed by.

He climbs slowly, because he has nowhere to be right now, other than this moment and this familiar journey upward. And yet, it is still opposite of the aimless days and months he has known before Tarth. Being here is being , in a way that aches as much as it soothes, from the early morning sun carving its way through the clouds as he works the land to golden, wind swirled evenings spent on docks or in Davos' inn or the longing that's on cusp of being fulfilled, but all the more aching for that, that fills him when he is here.

Finally, he reaches the top, hauls his gaze over the even page of clifftop, though its edges are greatly torn and moves toward one of the further ledges, leaning directly over the sea in a far reach. He would call it desperate, but what can a cliff be desperate for, when it holds its opposite in gentle grasp?

From up here, he sees the port and the town to the North with its beach line that he had followed to the base of these cliffs, deeper inland where the Evenfall Hall lays with the villages that have scattered around it, like crumbs of its marble walls sprouting seeds of homes. He knows the little paths connecting them, can spy his own house and plot of land that will bear his feeble farming attempts this year. It’s not the view he needs, right now.

He looks ahead, instead. To the vanishing line of the horizon where the gray of the sky and sea reach to mingle together, though the grey veil fails to imitate the shifting waves below, try as it might. And it does try , shedding streaks of grays from misty white to muted storm almost-black that take up the rest of the sky, gradually toward the meeting point.

The wind tears at his clothes, bites through the unbuttoned shirt collar like a jealous lover -- no, it does not deserve the comparison. And though the thought is fleeting, he already feels his sense of peace wobbling to the side, like a pile of pebbles built to make wishes with he's seen children build on the beaches.

It's odd, how being almost happy can ache. At least Jaime thinks he is almost that. Happiness is a ghost he has only heard of, sees its blurry outline when he recalls how laughter gilded faces of his mother and sister. It's a grief, maybe, that echoes hurt, for time taking the feeling of happiness with careless hand and even more so for all the laughter that died with his mother that could've spun toward the sky, the way he imagines he could've loved Casterly Rock then, the way he might've belonged.

Being here, makes him all the more aware of it, like a gap between something trembling and warm (he thinks about how a week ago, he had ended up helping Old Jenny when her cow had twins and the sticky, slightly bloody warmth that had imprinted into his hands) in him and the emptiness so large it almost feels like a thing has been drawn all the more sharply, marking the width newborn, wobbly thing must cross before it could even brush up against the void in him, risking being snuffed out. But maybe just that it exists before it dies, is enough.

He knows death like every other soldier does, but here on Tarth he's been learning of birth, too, (of calves and gardens, and dreams) and it scares him, some, with the inevitability it brings into the world. Jaime's never been good with constants - maybe because they've never been that, not to him. Not his mother, not even his twin's love and the sense of belonging she had weaved for him like a home of golden spider web (still clinging to his clothes in places he can't reach to brush them off), not honor or justice.

Only the search has remained.

Because it's never been wanderlust that chased him from city to port and across the sea and back again, though there had been a thrill in seeing new places and exploring every nook and cranny he could. Thrill and eventual disappointment, resignation even - no, not here either. Though he has hardly ever known what he's been searching for. Is, still. Because even now, here, where every step feels familiar and soothing like the sea's back and forth that he has always sought out since childhood, something is missing.

Jaime is content, though, more than ever and he is thinking of what he hasn't in over a decade: stopping. Staying. The thought had shot through his mind before a few times across the world, like a bird speeding across the imprint of sun in the sky, but it had never circled back, never sat down and never made a friend of him. Now, it's grown as familiar as his own worn-in work boots.

He has things here that he couldn't even imagine before, like the sense of marvel at how much the great oak tree has grown (since the last time, since the last time that never was) when he wandered up to Evenfall hall for the first time or the cutting clarity of things he cannot find words for when he's up in the cliffs, and things he never thought he even wanted, like people who smile and greet him, a cat that mills evenings into nights, and even a house that's one something short of home. (Just one, when it's never been anything less than an eternal list of indefinable.)

It used to make him angry, the way he knows homesickness as well as his own heartbeat, without ever knowing what it’s like to be at home, at peace. What kind of wretched thing runs in his blood that doesn’t know rest? What kind of love or hate chases him onward without direction, only with a want that he shouldn’t know, if he doesn’t know what the shape of what he’s missing? But the fall storms and quiet months of winter on Tarth have subdued the anger, drawn outlines in the sand that are almost an answer.

The sun breaks through the clouds then, pouring like rain in rare, bright streams onto the sea and he inhales deeply, as if he could take the light in him to dispel the smothering at the edges of his emptiness. And that's when he hears steps behind him. He half turns to see who it is, expecting one of the children though they're told not to play up here, but instead he falls - no, is pierced by, no, falls - into eyes impossibly familiar, when he knows he's never seen a blue like this, not even in his dreams that often spin blue and gold and gray across his heart.

But he knows them still, somehow, and if colors had sounds then this would have the soft bell of the final piece falling in place, of first notes of welcome home hymn, of relief's sigh - oh. Oh , it's you. You're here. (I've been waiting for you.)

Jaime draws a shuddering breath, tries to ground himself in taking in the rest of the person that makes him want to run away and toward them all at once.

It's a woman, taller than him he gauges even with the distance between them, and broader, too, with features arranged just shy of wrong, but not shy enough for most to not call her ugly, he guesses. (But he can't, because factuality doesn't stand a chance against the gale so high up.)

There's scowl on her face, maybe from the sun or the wind though he feels it's not, and wind has untangled pale strands from her braid to whip into her face and tug along in its rush. Freckles dot her face and for a moment, he believes he could find well-loved patterns in those and the rest, hidden by her dark blue coat and the slightly wrinkled shirt seen beneath the blue and gold brocade vest.

Jaime swallows and looks into her eyes again, trying to remember what is the image of the puzzle that feels complete now, but it's been locked away already. He finds that he doesn't care, he's just happy, because not seeing it doesn't change the truth of it. Just yesterday, he had planted apple trees in his garden and the promise of the pale pink blooms against bowed branches that always seem to remember the weight of all the fruit they will ever bear, alone had been enough to make his step light all the way to this moment.

So he smiles at her.

"Lady Brienne Tarth, I presume."

[ichigo-daifuku]

Biblical Sense

Obey Me! Fanfiction [Read on AO3]

Angel!Lucifer/Succubus

Frustrated with the state of affairs surrounding his father's rule in the Celestial Realm, Lucifer the Archangel descends to the human world with a purpose: to commit a transgression against the Most High and soil his virtuous hands.

There, he meets a succubus who leads him to engage in a different kind of corruption altogether, one defiling the virtue of chastity.

Explicit | Pre-Canon, Introspection, Mentions of Canon-Typical Violence, One Night Stand, Oral Sex, Loss of Virginity, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Blasphemy

Contains references to Lucifer's Devilgram Story, The Glory Days. 

Word Count: 7k

To know someone in the biblical sense is to have sexual relations with them.

In the beginning, the Morning Star descended from the Celestial Realm.

Engulfed by the brightest of the lights, he came down from the night sky like a shooting star. A thud resounded from his feet the moment they landed on the human world’s soil. He folded his wings, their brilliance fading as he switched from his armor of light to his casual clothing and assumed his human-like form. Alone in a garden, the darkness brought by the current time in this realm made him blink a few times, his eyes adjusting to this change for a moment while the chirping of crickets filled his ears.

Lucifer the Archangel stepped out from the shadows, fallen leaves crumbling under his feet with every step. Rumors had brought him to this place—rumors angels weren’t supposed to hear yet he was privy to due to his status. A wishing fountain stood in the middle of the courtyard, a little demon in its zenith wearing a hat and holding a pot that trickled the water down to its base. Surrounded by trimmed hedges, the scent of red and white roses hung in the air in the most intoxicating way possible that he could imagine the taste of rosewater on his tongue. Though calm and composed on the outside, the normalcy of this wicked place took him by surprise. He expected something more… sinister.

Beyond the maze of the courtyard, a mansion that could only be described as lavish stood. Its exterior’s grandeur was all he needed to see to know that whoever was residing in it was far from impoverished, but he supposed that would be the case for this was a territory of demons, the creatures of indulgence. He made his way closer to the mansion, noting no sign of anyone except for the lights illuminating the windows. His hands balled into fists, he stood in front of the tall doors, unable to bring himself to swing it open and be done with his purpose in a minute. However, his dilemma was short-lived as the lock clicked, the door creaking as it opened.

A woman revealed herself from beyond the wood, her stature barely reaching his shoulders. Long tresses cascaded over her back, the straps of the cotton white nightdress she wore hidden by the locks of hair falling on her shoulders, the hem reaching the middle of her thighs. Barefoot, she cradled two objects with her hand and separated them when she had let go of the knob.

“Apple?” Unfazed by his sudden appearance, she offered the fruit inside her outstretched palm to him, taking a bite of the half-eaten apple on her other hand.

It was unlike any regular apple he had seen before; a considerable portion on top of it purple while the bottom looked a regular green. Suspicious, he narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

“Don’t you think I should be the one asking you that question?”

Lucifer shot her a glare to which she responded with a sly smile curving up her lips. 

“A premium item found exclusively in the Devildom, Princess’s Poison Apple. Despite its name, it’s safe to eat,” she took another bite, the crisp sound an evidence of its freshness, and swallowed before adding, “and delicious.”

She loosened her fingers on the apple and shifted her wrist sideways, the movement leading his attention to shift from her face to the movement of her hand. On reflex, he reached out his palms and set them together to catch the fruit, the gravity of his actions dawning on him the second the deed was done. Pleased with the turn of events, she chuckled and raised her own apple as if she was saying a toast for their meeting and chewed on another bite.

It wasn’t Lucifer’s first time to encounter food from the Devildom, and it wouldn’t be his first time to partake in it. He brought the fruit closer to his face and inhaled. No strange scent emanated from it. He parted his lips and took a bite, the sourness of the apple and an unexpected sweetness blended perfectly with it satisfying his palate.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” she asked and spun around without waiting for his answer. “Come inside.”

Her nonchalance and her every action so far irked Lucifer, but he couldn’t complain when they worked in his favor for he would never admit to this strange apple being delicious. He bit into the apple once again and stepped inside the house, sealing the door shut behind him.

With quiet footsteps, she led him up the staircase and into a series of corridors. Portraits of females, both in demon and human-like forms adorned the walls, a variety of depictions of horned women performing illicit acts with mortal men alternating with them. He shook his head and sighed, finding these poor excuses of art tasteless.

“Ever been to the Devildom?” she asked out of the blue, neither looking back nor slowing down her steps.

“That’s none of your business.”

In truth, Lucifer had been to her world. Darkness prevailed in the Devildom, and he could still recall the way mud went flying everywhere and soiling his armor when his feet touched its ground. Up to this day, it was one of the worst experiences he has ever had, and he made sure that this fact was known to his hosts. Still, he had no reason to share the experience with this stranger.

“I’ve never been to the Celestial Realm myself,” she told him.

“For a good reason.”

“What was that?”

“Demons such as yourself have no place in the Celestial Realm.”

“I see. So, you really are an angel.” She faced him but continued walking backward, the spring in her steps an indication of her liking the confirmation of her suspicions.

He had just spit out an insult directed to her and her kind, so why and how was she, at the very least, unoffended? “How did you know?”

“I can feel it, the purity radiating off you.” She halted in front of one of the rooms, turning from him and opening the door. “It’s impossible to ignore and so… enticing.”

It was the same for him. An aura of evil radiated from her presence, masked by the fragrance of roses. He was unsure where it emanated, from her body or from the garden outside, but he recognized the sweet scent of it all too well: temptation.

She ushered him inside a drawing-room that matched the lavishness of the house’s exterior. A candelabra chandelier illuminated the space together with the lamps on the walls, the fire in the hearth contributing to the light and providing warmth to the space. The giant mirror hung menacingly by the bookshelf caught his attention at once. On the corner of the room, a sleek grand piano rested, an untouched chess game across it. An intricate table with matching plush seats served as the room’s centerpiece.

“Welcome. Feel free to sit wherever you like,” she said and exited the room, leaving him to observe the place for himself.

Out of curiosity, he wandered around, passing by the mirror and getting a glimpse of his reflection. He looked quite weary, he thought, but nevertheless, alert and ready for anything. Casting those thoughts aside, he strode to the bookshelf and scanned the spines for their titles, judging the residents of this house through them.

Before he knew it, she returned with a tray of refreshments and arranged them on the table. Swirls of steam flowed from the matching pair of teacups as she poured the fresh brew inside them. Beside each cup, a slice of sponge cake waited while other baked goods were also in the middle of the table, ready to be eaten.

“What is that?” Lucifer marched over to her direction and asked, his tone both cautious and accusatory.

“You might have already heard of it, but it’s called black tea.” She paid no heed to his unfriendly behavior and continued, “Teatime wouldn’t be complete without pastries, don’t you think so?”

He set his half-eaten apple on the tray and sat down. “There better be no strange ingredient in this, demon.”

An amused laugh bubbled from her lips. “I promise you, there isn’t.”

After serving the refreshments, she took her cup and saucer with her hands and sat across him, blowing the steam for a second before taking a sip. It was only when she had begun indulging in her slice of cake that Lucifer sipped his own tea, assured that he would not drop dead if he were to partake in whatever she had served him. He couldn’t help it; her hospitality left him unsettled. The brew was flavorful, yet he held back compliments and set the cup down. The lightness of the sponge cake would be the perfect pair for it, and he picked up his fork to take a portion but was halted midway by her query.

“You’re not going to say grace?”

“No,” Lucifer threw back irritatedly. It didn’t cross his mind to say grace at all, and the small victory on his part satisfied him.

“Interesting,” she commented and indulged on a forkful of sponge cake, dabbing the corner of her lips with a napkin.

Lucifer disliked how she was treating him like a spectacle. He was no creature for a demon’s amusement, and he had an urge to let her know of this fact, seeing how unguarded she was acting around him and how pleasant she was treating him. With complete sang-froid, this demon was underestimating him, but he wasn’t about to make the same mistake. He sized up his opponent and weighed in his options.

She picked up her teacup and leaned back in her seat, still as relaxed as ever. “Why are you here?”

“And if I told you I am not here for anything?”

“You wouldn’t have found this place if you weren’t. This mansion is a succubi’s den,” she stated and sipped her tea. “And in the human world, too.”

“A succubi’s den?” The rumors proved to be true; this was a place established by demons, but the fact that it was by the succubi was an unknown tidbit to him. He refused to imagine why the succubi needed a place like this in the human world, but with one of their kind sitting in front of him, images of these female demons—including her—preying on unsuspecting mortals made their way into his mind so vividly that he had begun to wonder if the incubi had established something similar.

“Yes. Every being that comes and goes from this place is here for life’s carnal pleasures.” She crossed her legs, giving him a glimpse of the skin on her upper thighs, which he couldn’t decide if she intended to do or not. “So, tell me, angel, what is it that you are here for?”

Angel. She spoke the word in a way that it was almost like an affectionate pet name. He hated it. The implication of her statement sparked wrath within him. “You have no right to speak to me that way, vile succubus.”

To his surprise and further vexation, she didn’t even flinch at his tone or insult. “Do you want to leave?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He would not. He wasn’t going anywhere until he had accomplished his goal. Once he had set his eyes on something, he would consider it done, and this wasn’t an exception.

“Alright. Let’s enjoy our tea?”

For a while, nobody spoke. The clink of the ceramic as she set her teacup down accentuated the pin-drop silence. He started eating his food in an attempt to collect himself and think rationally, as he always did. She let him be, filling his cup once she noticed it was empty and doing the same to her own.

As she placed the teapot down, Lucifer found himself saying, “To begin a rebellion.”

“Hm?”

“You asked what I am here for,” he replied, “that is my answer.”

He clenched his hands, the forlorn faces of his younger brothers etched inside his mind, the memory of the tears streaming down his sister’s face so crystal clear to him. So much has happened, and though his siblings were a messy bunch at times, they didn’t deserve this. It was the last straw. It was time to put an end to their suffering.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“Shameless creature. Why don’t you stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?”

“True.” She chuckled and placed her elbows on the table, folding her fingers together and setting her chin on top of them. “An angel is going to sin. How lovely.”

There it was again, her fascination with him that bothered Lucifer so much. It made him want to expose her true colors—her nature as a demon—and push her buttons to make her lose her cool.

“Aren’t you concerned for your well-being?” he challenged, giving her a hint of his intentions.

“That depends. Are you here to kill me or are you here to sleep with me?”

“You seem to be rather calm about the first prospect.”

“I’m not going down without a fight if that’s what you mean.”

“I’d be disappointed if you would.”

She stretched her arms and stood. Wordlessly, she made her way to the piano and picked up a ribbon he hadn’t noticed earlier from above it. Her fingers deft, she stepped in front of the mirror on the wall and gathered her hair. The delicate skin on the nape of her neck as she encircled her locks with the bow and tied it piqued his interest, and she met his eyes through her reflection, unsurprised that he was already staring. “Battle me, then.”

Lucifer had been scrutinizing her every movement, noting gracefulness up to the smallest of things. The challenge she issued took him out of the trance-like state he was having, and he internally chided himself for letting his mind wander.

“How very foolish of you to propose such a thing,” Lucifer replied. But also very bold, he didn’t say. He gestured over the laid out chessboard on the corner of the room. “Very well. Be my opponent in a game of chess.”

“A game of chess? That’s strange, but sure. If I win—”

“You don’t get to make the rules, succubus,” he said with a glare. “If you defeat me, I’ll spare you and leave, but if I win, I’ll choose what I’ll do with you.”

“I didn’t know that angels had it in them to be so unfair.” She turned around, pleasantly surprised. “But since everything about you is so irresistible, I agree to your terms.”

Irresistible. She wasn’t the first demon he had the chance to encounter, but everything she said threw him off. The sight of the hair behind her back bouncing as she strolled to the chessboard attracted his attention, but this wasn’t the time to dwell on his initial impression of her. He followed suit, aiming for the dark crystal pieces he had always favored over the light and clear variations. It seemed she was in agreement with this as she immediately went behind the clear pieces and sat down.

“Ladies first,” he urged.

“My, what a gentleman you are.”

Foolish demon. He was giving her a handicap, yet all she was thinking of was how much of a gentleman he was? She was careless. The two of them sat closer now as compared to when they had their refreshments. Lucifer’s eyes darted from her to the chessboard she examined, clearing his throat the moment he found himself distracted once again. Her dainty fingers moved a pawn forward to another square, and the game officially began. Strange as she was, it didn’t take long for her to ask him questions.

“Is it true that it’s eternally daytime in the Celestial Realm?” she queried once it was her next turn.

“What do you think?” he fired back absentmindedly, deciding on which piece to move. He broke into a pleased smile as he made the first capture and eliminated her pawn, placing it on his side.

“There it is,” she pointed out.

His eyes flickered from the chessboard to her. “What?”

“Your smile. It’s radiant.” She smiled in return and chuckled. “You seemed tense. It’s fine. There’s no one for you to impress here. It’s just me.”

“You know nothing.”

“You’re right about that, I don’t. Are all angels this stoic?”

“Is that an insult?”

“Only if you consider it one,” she quipped. “Well? Are they?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Good to know.”

If there was anything he learned from his loss in another chess game with a certain demon, it would be underestimating his opponent. She might look all innocent and conventionally attractive, but she was still a demon; a cunning creature of the dark who existed to bring disorder and chaos, wreak havoc among the three worlds, and exploit the weaknesses of her enemies. He just knew she was setting a trap somewhere and fooling him, but to his frustration, all she did was continue firing one question after another.

“Do you have any siblings?”

“I have several brothers and a sister.”

“I see.”

Her lips curved into a frown as she calculated her next move. Up until that moment, she had been nothing but all smiles, but the seriousness in her demeanor caught his interest further. She moved a rook in silence. Every time she asked him something, he assumed she would share about herself, yet she never did. How odd.

“What about you?” he asked.

“Hm?” She raised her gaze at him, pausing her competitive train of thought. “You could say my fellow succubi are my sisters, in a way?”

He nodded, considering the thought. In his long existence, his one and only sister has caused him so much trouble, but she was the dearest and most precious angel of all, the one he and his brothers adored and doted on. All that aside, he could only imagine how life would be like with a lot of sisters. At the furrow that made its way into his brows, she began laughing. For an evil creature, the peal of her genuine laughter was similar to carefully crafted notes in a musical piece, and Lucifer found it hard to believe that he was able to make such a comparison.

She proved to be a worthy opponent, he would give her that, but not good enough to beat him. Despite her assumption that she has a chance of winning, he captured all of her pieces with only a few to spare on his own. 

“Checkmate,” Lucifer stated proudly, ending the match.

Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she stood and sauntered to the tall window, gazing over the courtyard. Lucifer concluded that she must have known the moment he stepped foot on the succubi’s property. His train of thought was cut short as the breeze billowed her hair and the skirt of her nightdress, the curtains in rhythm with them, hiding and revealing her from his sight in flashes. The moonbeam illuminated her form in the most unearthly way, and his throat bobbed as he took in the sight to behold. At that moment, she was far from the horrific creature that he assumed she would be, but the certainty that she was a demon—a succubus—stood out, for she possessed a beauty so sinful that he had no doubt only a being meant for seduction could be so alluring. Like he was being summoned by a siren, he stood and followed her, the air highlighting the fragrance of roses which, right now, in all the senses he possessed, felt holier than incense.

“Do it,” she dared as she lifted her head to look his way, the fire in her eyes telling him that she truly wasn’t going down without a fight.

This night was the turning point in Lucifer’s life. In the clash against his father, his siblings needed not to stain their holiness nor stand beside him; he was prepared to do this on his own. Still, he had a hunch that they would follow him for all of them had always counted and trusted his decisions, but if that were to happen, as their eldest brother, he needed to be the one to take the brunt of everything, especially this initial step. Determined, Lucifer would soil his hands in an act of disobedience to his father. His holiness was one of the main ideals that tied Lucifer to him, and Lucifer would sever it and burn the image his father expected of his son, tainting his purity and showing his father that he was no longer his child. His father, all-knowing and all-powerful, would know at once when Lucifer would appear before him that Lucifer disobeyed. As his father organized the appropriate chastisement meant for him, Lucifer would face him without regret and declare, I will no longer follow you.

Lucifer would scale the heavens, and above the stars of his father, he would set up his throne. He would ascend above the tops of the clouds. In the process, he would leave no stone unturned. Always true to his convictions, he vowed to reach his end goal, and this was a leap in the path he was walking on.

To soil his hands with another’s blood or to defile the virtue of chastity; she had asked him earlier which one he was here for, and though he evaded the question, she was able to tell which was the answer in the end. In truth, he had only had the former in mind. The sin he aimed to commit was murder. A demon would be dispensable, he had decided, and it wouldn’t matter if there were one or a hundred demons in this mansion; he came prepared to destroy all of them with his bare hands, and if he were to be severely outnumbered, he was equipped with the dagger hidden in his coat. It turned out, she was alone. This succubus would be no match against him, a high-ranking angel, one of those who wielded the most power in the Celestial Realm.

But in the game of seduction the two of them played the second their gazes connected, the wide eyes that had stared back at him with intrigue when the door opened held him captive. He was the one who was no match for her.

Lucifer has had enough denying it; he coveted her. She would be his ruin.

He took her by the wrist and pulled her against him, unable to discern what sort of unholy spirit was taking over his body but meaning every word as he whispered, “Sin with me.”

“What?” she exclaimed, bewildered. She was expecting him to strike and fulfill his original purpose, not coax her into giving in to her lecherous desires. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“You refuse me?” he clarified disbelievingly. This succubus, a creature who lived and breathed concupiscence, was rejecting him, Lucifer the Archangel, and his proposition. “You dare refuse me?”

“Don’t get the wrong idea, angel. This is difficult for me, maybe even more than it is to you.” She glared and shook her wrist from his grasp, staggering backward to put space between them. “This wasn’t what you were here for. You were here for your bloodlust, not your lust.”

He supposed it was correct; she was drawn to his light while he was enticed by her darkness. It was true yet ironic that an angel and a demon would be each other’s temptation, but here they were, the very manifestation of the iniquitous idea. 

His resistance thrown out the window, Lucifer stepped closer and pulled her in again, trapping her body with his by the window. He slowly dipped his head, his heated gaze connecting with hers in a silent challenge while hers searched for an ounce of hesitation in his choice, her resolve faltering when she found none. The tips of their noses brushed, and her eyes fluttered closed, his own doing the same at the first caress of their lips. She kissed him back, pliant and eager when his tongue slid to the seam of her lips and met her own, satisfying each other’s curiosity but awakening another hunger altogether.

She pulled away, close enough that their lips barely touched but still shared each other’s warmth. “You’re actually serious about it?”

“I want you,” Lucifer stated as he traced her collarbone with his fingertips, cradling her shoulder with his other hand.

“I…” She averted her gaze. “I want you, too. Of course, I do.”

“I know. Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” he stated, the blush on her cheeks telling him as much. “Where’s your room?”

“Right across this—”

That was all he needed to know. He wasted no time and took her hand in his, leading her to her bedroom. Once inside, he removed his gloves and coat and hung them on a chair, his vest following suit. As he loosened his tie and pulled it off, he chuckled at the feeling of her gaze boring into his back and pointed out, “You’re looking at me so wantonly.”

“I think I’ve been doing that for quite a while now…”

He turned around and strode closer to her, giving her a challenging stare. “Show me what’s been running inside that mind of yours, then.”

She reached out and unbuttoned his shirt, taking all the time in the world and savoring the slow pace of revealing his skin. With hesitant fingertips, she brushed over the contours of his abdomen, moving upward to splay her hands over his torso before taking his shirt by the collars and discarding it. She kept quiet and continued to take in his appearance up close. Warm palms reached to cradle his cheeks and slowly moved to touch the hair on the sides of his forehead, coming back to trace his jawline. Her touch was gentle, and her was voice full of reverence as she said, “Everything about you is so radiant.”

A strange feeling washed over him and caused his skin to flush, and he sought her lips again before she had the chance to notice. He carded his fingers through her soft locks and caressed the nape of her neck, his palm sliding over the small of her back to draw her closer. She broke the kiss and pressed her lips on his shoulder, moving down to his chest and his abdomen, worshipping his form. With a glance at him, she sank to her knees, and Lucifer has never seen a more beautiful sight. From below, her hands worked to remove his footwear and undo his trousers, baring his body completely. At first, Lucifer thought that she undressed him for her eyes to have something to feast on, but all he found in her wide-eyed gaze was awe, as though she was a firm believer of a deity and was looking at one. He liked that; it stroked his ego and made him feel powerful.

It gave him a sense of pride.

“Open your mouth,” Lucifer commanded.

She swallowed but responded by doing as he asked which satisfied him, immediately knowing what he wanted. Her lips parted, she took the tip of his hard cock in her mouth and ran her tongue across it. Slowly, she slid his length further, all the while holding his stare, and her head bobbed forward and backward as she sucked him with zeal and innate talent that suggested her nature as a sexual being. He closed his eyes and marveled at the sensation in his groin, her hand that grasped his base running up and down in rhythm to the ministrations provided by her lips and tongue. How could something so sinful feel so heavenly? It was too good in the way only forbidden things could be, he was unsure if he could get enough of this feeling.

Caught in the haze of sensual pleasure, his eyes fluttered open and found her doing something which… displeased him. Lucifer cradled the back of her head with his palm and urged her to take him further, testing her limits. “Are you touching yourself? Who told you that you could do that?”

A strangled noise of surprise and confusion rumbled from her throat, making him release the groan he had been trying his best to hold back. She retracted the hand that was nestled between her thighs and placed it on the floor to steady herself instead. Satisfied, he released her and wiped her wet lips with his thumb, urging a response.

“I wanted to,” she answered haughtily, panting, “that’s why I did it.”

“Come to me, evil one.”

Her legs wobbly, she stumbled as she stood and braced herself with her hands on his shoulders. Lucifer let out a sigh of disapproval but proceeded to take her by the waist and hook her legs around his hips, carrying her to the bed. He undid the ribbon in her hair, leaving it to splay over the sheets like a grand halo, and between the two of them, it was difficult to differentiate who was the angel and the demon. The hem of her nightdress hiked up by the sudden motion, he leaned back, and his gaze traveled downward and was welcomed by the sight of her sex, dripping for him through the fabric of her underwear. After a curious swipe of his finger over the cloth, he said, “All you needed to do was ask, and I would have done it for you.”

She whined, shifting her hips in search of friction, her voice so pleasant in his ears that he yearned to do more to hear it again.

Did she add a dose or two of aphrodisiac in the black tea she served him? In the Princess’s Poison Apple she liked so much? Lucifer couldn’t recall, but he was positive she didn’t. He could find no explanation why he was being like this, his whole body blazing with arousal for this woman. “Or better yet…”

He tugged her underwear and slid it over her legs and feet, discarding it to the side. The longing to see the entirety of her led his fingers to trace her legs and slip the nightdress over her head. He was no stranger to the sight of a woman’s body, but it was the first time he stared at one with open desire. She was a true creature of sin. The idea that he would be a notch on her bedpost ruffled his feathers. It shouldn’t matter. No, it didn’t matter. It didn’t bother him at the slightest. A casual affair was all they were to each other, nothing more and nothing less. Unable to deny his yearning to acquaint his skin with this stranger’s own, he parted her legs. She obliged with a moan, her fingers shivering with anticipation as she encircled his shaft and stroked him before guiding him to her entrance. He slid inside her, groaning, but as he went on further, the tightness and the exquisite clench of her walls around him led him to an unbelievable conclusion. “You… You’re a virgin?”

“Don’t say it like that.” She turned her head away, covering her flushed face with the back of her hand, her chest heaving. “It’s not as if I’m completely innocent. I’m a demon, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Then, why?” he asked, unsheathing himself from her and leaning back, confused.

She pulled away from him and sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping her arms around her naked body, vulnerable at her confession. “You could say that tonight is my initiation. My fellow succubi brought me to this world to lure a mortal man, seduce him, and become a full-fledged succubus.

“It’s all garbage to me. If I fail, I would be deemed unworthy and become labeled as a regular demon, and if worse comes to worst, I could die at the hands of my kind, but then again, I could have done so with yours tonight, and it wouldn’t have mattered. I’m still not going down without a fight.”

As these customs were unknown to him, the possibility of her strange sense of purity being intact was something that never crossed his mind. From the burning need in her gaze to the passion in her touches to the ardor in her kisses… This succubus was a temptress through and through, and yet...

She equated his quiet moment of contemplation with disgust. “We’ve accomplished your purpose tonight, haven’t we? If that’s all, you can leave.”

“No,” he growled, the audacity of her dismissal offensive to him. Lucifer grabbed her by her hips and returned her to where she was before—where she rightfully belonged tonight. Despite her assumption, he found it quite the opposite. To be the first one to bring this creature to the highest of the highs for the first time in her existence, he felt gratification and triumph. He pinned her wrists over the mattress and hovered over her, regarding her with both want and need, intent on finishing what he started thoroughly. “Don’t tell me what to do.” 

“But you… I… I see.” Her eyes flickered from his grasp on her to his carnal gaze, understanding. “Do you enjoy that? Do you like being in control?”

“Yes. Very much so,” he admitted.

She nodded, and as if she was repenting for her behavior, he felt her surrender and submission as her whole body went lax underneath him, giving him permission to do as he desired. Lucifer rewarded her with a kiss, an absolution she was more than happy to receive, her body quivering with anticipation for more.

And so, Lucifer knew her.

He parted her legs, aligned himself against her slick entrance, and once again eased his length inside. She shut her eyes, her eyebrows furrowing and moans falling past her lips with every inch of him she graciously received. Once he had fully buried himself inside her, his body tensed as he kept himself from unsheathing himself and thrusting into her again and again with wild abandon. 

Breathless, she opened her eyes and wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him to continue. “You don’t need to be so gentle. I’m not one to break so easily. I can handle you.”

At the reassurance, he found no doubt in her capability to do so, and for that he was glad. He was done holding back. “You asked for it.”

Guided by his primal instincts, he slammed inside her relentlessly, the grasp he had on her wrist tightening as his every thrust grew in intensity. It was a connection of two troubled souls: an angel and a devil in an act of consummation outside the sanctity of marriage. As he sank into her and her hips met his every movement, they crossed the line between the sacred and the profane. It was as if both of them were each other’s tools. Tonight, he was saving her by ruining her, and she was ruining him as a catalyst for his rebellion. But at the same time, no event in his existence has ever felt so intimate. A decision made with his free will, this was the night he welcomed the dark side he didn’t know he had, or perhaps, he has always had but laid dormant inside him—too enamored by his light to show up, but now shining in its own in the company of darkness.

At the frenetic pace of the meeting of their bodies, her hands clenched into fists, and she trembled underneath him and climaxed. No painting hung on the hallways did this moment justice: the sweat on her forehead, her reddened cheeks, her swollen lips—everything about her screamed unadulterated lust. Every detail dissolved into white light as he chased his own peak. His eyes shut, his jaw slackened, and his cock pulsated inside her with his release, leading him to loosen her wrists from the restraints of his palms.

As she took him in her embrace, found his lips with her own, and shifted their positions for another bout of their illicit liaison, she freed him from the noose surrounding his neck that was his halo. He should be feeling the darkness of the pit, yet he has never felt so high, the pure bliss that any promised land could never compare to taking over his whole being.

Lucifer had sinned.

And he saw that it was good.

Lucifer strode through the mansion’s courtyard, navigating through the zigzag of the maze as if it was second nature to him. The fragrance of roses stronger than ever, he sped past the fountain with the little demon, the water giving off a beautiful sparkle as the night slowly met the day. Soon, he was at the spot he landed on a few hours ago. As he was about to change into his natural form, a voice halted him and made him turn around.

“Wait!” the succubus called.

She emerged from the exit of the maze and ran toward him, barefoot, wearing that white nightdress again and smiling when she found him waiting for her.

Why wasn’t she wearing any sandals? Did she traverse in the maze with those bare feet of hers? Lucifer didn’t care, but through the confusion, he asked instead, “What are you doing here? Why did you follow me?”

“Here. These are for you.” She waltzed over to him and took his gloved hand in hers, securing the handle of the picnic basket she held in it. “More Princess’s Poison Apples and black tea leaves.” 

“I didn’t ask for these.” He attempted to hand the picnic basket back to her, but she shook her head and stepped out of his reach. 

“You liked them, I think, especially the apple,” she told him. “Who knows when you’ll get another chance to have a taste of this Devildom fruit? You’re welcome.”

He frowned, wondering if she was teasing him for trying to hide that fact. The picnic basket remained in his hand. If there was anything he learned in the few hours that he had known her, it was that she was not one to back down so easily, no matter what the circumstances were, including this one.

She roused him from his reverie by saying, “If you are already this beautiful in your human form, then I can only imagine how beautiful you truly are in your natural form.”

He masked his startled reaction with a sigh. Her assumption reminded Lucifer that she was unaware he was heaven’s most prized. To her, he was an angel who was about to stir trouble, and that was all she knew. He couldn’t believe he had almost forgotten that fact, but he still managed to admonish, “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Not if I’m being honest.”

“Vile succubus.”

“That’s me, angel.” She laughed and cleared her throat before continuing, “It’s none of my business, I know, but whatever you’re planning, it’s a big deal, isn’t it?”

He kept quiet, refusing to dignify her question with an answer.

She nodded, neither prying nor asking more. “It’s okay. I wish you the very best of luck.”

“I need no luck to succeed in it.”

“Maybe not.” She ambled closer to him and stood on her tiptoes, pressing a gentle kiss on his lips. “Take care. You know where to find me.”

How dare she brush her lips against his on her own accord, those lips he had so thoroughly kissed? How dare she suggest that the night they shared would have a repeat one day? How dare she suggest that he should seek her for another tryst? Though these questions plagued his mind as he gazed at her retreating form, a part of him knew deep down that she was someone he wouldn’t forget. The night he shared with her was a memory that would be branded inside his mind to last until the end of time.

It was the moment he had shifted his life into a new path with the defiance of his father’s insufferable orders and expectations. His transgressions—his blasphemous behavior—were serious matters his father would never let slide, and his fellow angels, the righteous and holy, would condemn his failure against morality. However, things had changed. All of those he had once loved about himself and now hated and strived to get away from no longer rooted his feet to the authority of someone else. He was no disciple who merely followed, and he would say no more prayers and sing no more praises. He existed no longer for his father’s purpose, but for his own. The sheer power of individualism spurred his ambition for he was now the master of his own fate and nobody else. He would no longer be invisible under his father’s shadow for he would assert his own greatness and take pride in his own merits.

“Be not afraid.”

“Why would I be afraid of you?”

Lucifer laughed, assumed his natural form, and spun around, the shining aura emanating from his wings faltering for a second before retaining their brilliance. He turned his head and took one last peek at her awed and stunned expression from above his topmost wings before he lifted his feet off the ground, leaving a beam of light in his wake as he went farther. Against the morning air, he flew high and soared in his own wings, the fragrance of freedom as fresh as the morning dew on the roses and leaves.

As the light slowly faded, she managed to collect herself and waved at him from below, wondering when their paths would cross again, if they ever would. When she saw him no more, she turned to leave, but something swirled down from the sky and caught her attention.

With a smile, she opened her palm and waited for the white feather to land on it.

Dawn had broken completely when the Morning Star ascended to the Celestial Realm. Standing in front of the gates of heaven, a revelation struck Lucifer and led him to stop and stare at the picnic basket in his hand.

He did not even know her name.

Special thanks to @photoproses​ for brainstorming with me and for being the first reader of this story.

And thank you, dear reader, for taking the time to read this! 💙

Obey Me! Masterlist

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[joeys-piano]

If thou be so kind to bestow thy headcanons for the who would be who ask thing with the ship nakanak? (Aka Chuuya/Atsushi)

Is that seriously their ship name? As a fandom, we could do better than that. If the crack ship of Ace x Chuuya gets a badass name like Chace (pronounced “chase”), we could definitely do better for Chuuya x Atsushi. I don’t have any suggestions, but I would love to hear people’s thoughts on this.

Like Atsuya or something. Atsuya sounds like a name, a ship-name.

Also, it’s okay. You don’t have to speak Shakespearean to me. I’m humbled, but I struggled to understand what was happening.

who’s the werewolf and who’s the hunter

Atsushi’s the weretiger and Chuuya will blast your chin off if you try to hunt Atsushi for his pelt. This man of 5’4” will tear you, limb by limb, with Darkness and Disgrace. Darkness is his left hand and Disgrace is his right. He’s gonna uppercut you with Darkness and send you through a wall with Disgrace. This suddenly turned into a WWE scenario and I find that hilarious.

who’s the mermaid and who’s the fisherman

While off the coast of Yokohama and a trail of smoke lingering behind him, a cigarette crumbles into the sand as the wind picks up, prying Chuuya’s hat from off his head. It’s soaring, it’s dancing in the wind like a gull, and it’s heading straight into the ocean and will never be seen again. Chuuya will not allow that. He’s hustling, activating his ability so he could soar with the wind. His momentum surges him forward and his hands behave like magnets. The hat is ripped from the breeze and is secured in Chuuya’s grasp. He dons it on, gently breaking his fall as he lands back on earth. The wind is pretty ballsy if it thinks it can snatch his hat and get away with it.

((I forgot someone had to be the fisherman and I didn’t want to delete what I already wrote, so we’re just going to pretend there’s no fisherman))

Trekking up the beach to search for his fallen cigarette, Chuuya plucks it from the sand and disposes of it properly. Had he lingered for a moment longer or had he turned his head, he might’ve caught a glimpse of a pair of fins or of a scaly-hand reaching out from the water and caressing the winds to be gentler with Chuuya.

who’s the witch and who’s the familiar

Chuuya is a familiar that Atsushi summoned one night. It was dark and stormy, just like right now, and Atsushi tucks his hair behind his ears as he lifts a tome and calls out to the great beyond and asks if it could manifest a familiar. For you see, Atsushi is about to overtake a perilous quest that’ll likely cost his life. He needs someone to take care of the flowers growing in his garden. He needs someone that can continue his research and documentation of fantastical plants in the case he doesn’t come back alive. He’s aware that this is a burden. A familiar would turn its nose at the thought of being a housekeeper or a gardener. Atsushi’s aware that any familiar he summons right now would laugh in his face and say he better call someone else. Atsushi knows all of that. But still, still he asks for a familiar.

Because the life of a familiar far exceeds a human’s and they would understand the importance of what Atsushi’s research is and why he needs their help to continue it. He doesn’t ask for a strong familiar or a brutish familiar or a familiar esteemed with blood and combat. He just asks for someone that’s willing to help, someone that loves knowledge and botany as much as he does.

Atsushi calls for a familiar thrice. Thunder quakes. Lightning flashes. The wind howls and beats against his windows. But still, no one appears. He’s all alone in his home and he fears that maybe there isn’t anyone out there that can help him. Closing the heavy tome across his lap, Atsushi steels his nerves and sets out to his garden to be with his plants for one last time. It’s storming. The atmosphere is wild and rain lashes against his skin. But still, Atsushi wants to spend time with his plants because this may be the last time he gets to do so. His lantern swings and beats against his leg as he’s treading from his home and makes it up a hill to his greenhouse.

When he opens the door and shuts it, he finds a familiar lingering with his plants. Red spirals and the marks of chaos are etched like blood across the familiar’s skin. But despite his appearance, his eyes are clear and inquisitive. They’re bright light fair weather, a complete contrast to the storm rattling against the greenhouse. Who is this?

“You called for me.” The familar’s voice is rough yet tender, like baked soil watered beneath the sun. “Here I am.”

“I…” When Atsushi called for a familiar, he expected one of the greenish variety. A fellow botanist like himself, but more natural and leafy. The man standing before him is anything but leafy. He’s bold, like an emblem bronzed into a shield, and the curious red swirls around his body seem to stare at Atsushi like eyes. This man is more a fighter than a botanist. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“If my calling is to tend to your plants, to them I will meet first. Followed by me encountering you before you go off on your perilous journey..” The familiar was eloquent in his speech. That, along with him being here, juxtaposed the ferocity exuded from his appearance. But as Atsushi would know, one’s looks don’t define their character. And definitely, he didn’t expect someone like this to be here.

“What is your name?”

“If spoken by a mortal, they’ll cease to exist.” It wasn’t a threat by any means, not in how it rolled like a joke. But Atsushi knew better than to press any further. So he waited and watched as the red swirls across the familar’s skin began to fade as he pulled out gardening gloves from behind him and pulled them on. “For you, you can call me Chuuya.”

who’s the barista and who’s the coffee addict

I like the thought of Chuuya being a barista and how he writes funny jokes and compliments on Atsushi’s cup when he comes by to order.

who’s the professor and who’s the TA

Chuuya is the physics professor and Atsushi is his helpful TA. He reassures students that Professor Nakahara is not as frightening as he sounds.

who’s the knight and who’s the prince(ss)

Atsushi is the knight who’s come to slay the dragon to save a prince from peril. But when he gets to the castle, he sees Chuuya duking it out with the reptilian and hurling curses at its face. How dare it pluck him out from his kingdom and subject him to be a damsel in distress. Does this dragon want an axe up its ass? The dragon, conveniently named Dragonzai, pokes fun at our prince and takes to the skies before Chuuya can throw more weaponry at it.

Atsushi wonders if he’s even needed because Chuuya can get out of his place on his own. Well, while he’s here, he’ll serve as a distraction so that Chuuya can get out!

who’s the teacher and who’s the single parent

Chuuya is the single parent to a bratty eight year old with the intelligence of a college student, and Atsushi is the teacher who calls in to let Chuuya know that he’s worried about something. Osamu hasn’t been interacting with the other students lately, and he wonders if there’s something going on at home. Chuuya doesn’t recall anything, but he’s also noticed that Osamu has been more distant lately. The boy’s antics are more out of frustration than jest. He thought there was something going on at school. Atsushi says he’s been monitoring Osamu, but nothing out of the ordinary has happened in the classes yet.

And…I guess they work together and try to ask and figure out if Osamu is okay or if something is bothering him. They want Osamu to know that he can always ask for help and help will be there. He just needs to talk to them.

who’s the writer and who’s the editor

Chuuya is an editor for romance and Atsushi is a mangaka who’s recently transitioned from high-fantasy works to introspective, subtle romance. 

[calpops]

veiled valor | 4 | c.h.

safe stay

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Calum spent the day captaining the ship with an aching arm and wandering mind. He had spoken with Ashton, gotten the update on the new coordinates set during the attack and charted a new course that would bring them to land in days and not weeks. He needed a new crew, the downfall in numbers leaving the usual orderly conduct to chaotic rushing and taking up multiple positions. The men didn’t mind—were promised double the wages and liquor for their efforts. But half a crew would not last forever. Calum questioned, mind working to untangle messy thoughts, how long Elodie would stay aboard his ship. There was a nagging need to know, his curiosity burning and unwavering in his quest to figure her out. The thought of her departure left a hollow pit in his stomach, menacing images of her back turned storming through his thoughts.

He could still feel the brush of her lips against his cheek as night claimed the sky. He could recall each minute detail of the flicker of uncertainty crossing her face and capturing her golden eyes. There were a lot of uncertainties surrounding Elodie. Her past. Her future. The way she could be a beautiful symphony that echoed through his rib cage and bring an unrelentless haunting chill to his heart all at once. Calum had never felt this way before, not so vividly—not in such great contrasts. He knew what he wanted; her. Her past. Her present. Her future.

It may have been the sway of the boat that carried his footsteps to her cabin door, it may have been his mind craving a good night from petaled lips. He wasn’t sure. Nonetheless, he stood outside her door, fist raised to the wood and heart beating in time with the gentle taps against it. It only took a moment to hear the click of the lock and be greeted by tired eyes and tousled curls. She still wore her nightgown; white fabric fitted so perfectly to her every curve. He hoped she had gotten sleep; hoped he had not interrupted her dreams.

“Captain?”

“Were you sleeping?” He asked first and foremost, ready to see her back into bed if the answer was yes.

Elodie shrugged and opened the door further to step out and close it behind her, Calum abiding and shifting to let her through. She crossed her arms over her chest to ward off the cool night breeze and though Calum was about to suggest grabbing her cloak to cover up he realized it was nothing the crew hadn’t seen before. Her head was tilted up, looking at the moon and taking in the breeze.

“I was trying to,” she began, a soft sigh swirling into the cool air. “But I couldn’t.”

Calum hesitated, curious what kept her awake, before offering her his good arm. “Walk with me?”

She did not hesitate to take hold and send shockwaves of lightning through his bloodstream. It was in that moment Calum realized she was a storm—thunderous and consuming yet cutting through dark nights with bursts of light, ever changing and fading back into darkness. Calum feared the day the storm would end.  They strode away from her cabin and along the path of the main deck, small steps and a light grip that felt like heaven crashing into the depths of the sea. Calum stopped them near the rail that ran with the length of the ship. Elodie held a little tighter as the edge overtook and waves cut against the side. She craned her neck forward, peeking over the rail while clutching to Calum like a lifeline. He remembered every snippet of truth she had told him, the inability to swim drifting through his mind.

The night was unusually quiet, the crew retired early as the waves allowed them to disperse. Calum reveled in the intimacy of privacy and being truly alone with the princess. The last time he was graced with such an opportunity her lips had brushed his cheek and he had let her know it was okay in a way that needed no words.  

“There’s no feeling more freeing than having your back to the waves and eyes to the stars,” Calum murmured, recalling the fleeting freedom of sitting on the rail. It was as if the world was his; the ocean imprinted with his name and the stars telling his stories.

“I wouldn’t trust my back to the waves,” Elodie admitted as she looked up to the stars.

“Do you trust me?” Calum held his breath after asking, unsure of her answer and unsure he wanted to hear it.

Her hold didn’t falter and her eyes didn’t break away from the stars splayed out in the night sky. “More than anyone else.”

It was a split second decision on Calum’s behalf, his hands moving without much thought, mind ignoring the searing pain in his arm as he spun Elodie around and lifted her atop the rail. He held her hips and she clutched at his shirt, gasping in surprise at the sudden situation. Her eyes bore into his, flickering with a building storm on the horizon. The waves were gentle and kind, Calum’s hold tight and unrelenting, her grip white knuckled and certain.

“Look up,” Calum instructed. She reluctantly followed his instruction, eyes rivaling the beauty of bright stars. “Right there, that’s the North Star, the most important star when sailing. If you can find that, you can find anywhere you want to be.”

She went quiet and introspective, eyes alight with wonder and thoughts Calum craved to hear. She was close, just whispers of air between them and yet she was distant. Gaze lost in the stars and thoughts charting a destination unknown to Calum. He yearned to know where she wanted to be, if she was content within his ship, and then balked at the idea of a princess finding purpose within a pirate ship’s galley. There must be much more she was seeking.

“And what if I have nowhere to go?” She asked, face still tilted to the sky, taking in the North Star for all it was worth. “What if I don’t know where I want to be? What if I only know where I don’t want to end up?”

A selfish answer burned at the back of Calum’s throat, sitting heavily on his shoulders as he held her tight. He could tell her to stay where she was—with him—he could tell her sailing the ocean would solve all her troubles and convince her to stay. But he didn’t want to have to convince her. Though he realized a warning was in due order.

“Don’t go back there,” Calum said, pausing to see her reaction at his guess of fleeing and staying away from her past. “Perhaps you’ll find where you want to be when we next dock.”

Terror rippled across her face and all Calum wanted was to soothe her fears.

“When?”

“A few days. I can’t sail with half a crew much longer.”

A sudden wave rocked the ship and Elodie lurched forward, falling from the rail and into Calum’s arms. Her hold on his shirt only strengthened and his hands moved up, cradling her against him. She let out a small “oh” at the surprising predicament. Calum kept her in his hold. She didn’t try to move away, just stood under starlight in his arms.

“I’ve got you,” he said in a low tone, sharing those words with only her and the night. “I’ve always got you.”

It was silent aside from racing heartbeats that thumped with refined emotion. Calum realized her nightgown was thin and though the night was cool her body was warm and flush against his. Her cheeks pinkened and gaze tore away from his to search for the North Star once more. She let out a shaky breath as she turned back to peer at Calum again. There was something unreadable in her hooded eyes; something heavily guarded but Calum could tell it was begging to break free and join the the night. There was something elusive about her, how she had fled from a castle and ended up on his ship a story she would not tell. There was a cutting and horror stricken moment in which Calum pictured her leaving his ship in much the same way.

“I think I could possibly know where I want to be; where I would like to stay. I’m just unsure if it’s a possibility.”

Calum gaped at Elodie for just a moment as her words sank into his mind and travelled a path to his heart. He hoped with every single thump of his heart and every single inhale and exhale that she wanted to stay on his ship; wanted to stay with him.

“As a man who’s been searching for that his entire life I advise that once you find that place you should do everything in your power to stay there.”

Elodie nodded, hands that clung to Calum’s shirt shifting, releasing their hold momentarily to glide up to his shoulders and find a new home there. Calum was still, his hands on her lower back unflinching though she made his body react; saltwater waves colliding past played ribs and low into his stomach. She was so close, body fitted entirely against his, the smell of her sweet skin overriding the permanence of salt in the air and the water below. A curl fell into her face but she swiftly tucked it behind her ear before Calum could relive the morning glory of such a privilege. Her hand went back to his shoulder without a thought but it made Calum’s mind race.

“You see, I am not the one who holds said power. I fear I would need permission.”

Calum tilted his face down, capturing her gaze easily, she was intent to stare back at him with eyes that shone and begged for something more. Calum remembered their first night, gazes colliding in much the same way. She had reached a hand out that night, barely brushed it against his and used her eyes to bargain her way onto the ship. Calum hadn’t recognized her in that moment though something familiar carried her every step along his deck. He hadn’t been able to place her in the moment; commoner clothes clinging to her body and shadowed features hidden behind the depths of a hood. Had Calum not frequented the small island kingdom he wouldn’t have recognized her at all. Had Luke not been born and raised there, he surely wouldn’t have known her either. Calum thanked every force in the world the crew he had assembled were transients merely drifting through and waiting for the next opportunity to be gone. None were of political mind; none cared to know of crowns and thrones—let alone the people who wore them and sat upon them.

“Anyone would be a fool to not give you whatever you want,” Calum responded after a moment of silence. It was an unusual sensation to have her in his arms for so long; he had become used to fleeting hugs that left him cold much too soon. He reveled in the continued contact as her hold drifted from his shoulders to his upper arms.

Calum was not sure what prompted her to look back up at the sky, why she had suddenly been cast adrift from him once more. She came back quickly, biting her lip and letting it catch against her teeth; Calum was now convinced she knew the impact it had on his entire being. She did little things to drive lightning through him; to watch a storm dance off of waves and settle into nights.

“And so, if a princess asked a captain if she may stay aboard his ship indefinitely?” Elodie whispered, words caught between them in a heated tangle of innate and riddled desires.

“The captain would say yes,” Calum concluded, chancing to bring a hand further up Elodie’s back. He could feel her body heat on his fingertips as he lightly trailed along her spine, could feel the shiver escape her at the contact.

“How noble of him,” she said, recalling one of their first conversations in the galley. “I suppose some pirates do have good intentions.”

“I only want what’s best for you,” Calum murmured, dropping the thinly veiled charade they had begun to play.

Elodie deserved to hear those words with no ulterior meaning or motive. No games played; no teasing tone capturing his voice. He meant them pure and simple. He wanted what was best, would let her decide what that was, and be there for her for as long as she would want to stay. Elodie pressed closer to him, he could feel every dip and curve of her body against him, let that consume his every nerve ending and set him alight with desires unspoken. He found himself close enough to lean down and capture her lips once more; all it would take was one subtle motion. But she was frosted glass and he could not quite see through her. He did not know if he was what she wanted, if he would be what’s best for her. He decided in that moment to let her steer them, whether they’d be lost in the dark or finding sunset horizons within each other Calum was unsure. Though he knew he would enjoy the journey and hope the voyage would never end.

Ever so slowly Elodie lifted herself on her toes, chasing height that Calum had on her; she was not short but Calum towered over many. Her fingers clenched at the sleeves of his shirt, jaw wavering and eyes blinking rapidly as if contemplating the meaning of the world. Calum swallowed nervously. His heart fluttering all the way down to his ribs; pulse alight and rapidly increasing as she closed what little distance was between them. He saw the sunrise and the sunset behind closed eyelids, saw her beautiful storm caught in rays of light. Her lips were soft and supple, gentle and unsure at first, hands keeping their home on his sleeves as he let his wander. It was a momentary sensation to have her lead the way and charge into fiery horizons. She pulled away all too soon, letting lightning flicker and break up the sun.

As much as Calum yearned to reel her back in and collide with her once more, he kept still. Let her stay statuesque in his arms and worry at her lip. He knew her hands wanted to glide down and pull at her skirt; the anxious tic coming undone in times of uncertainty. Instead, Calum captured her hands, fingers unfurling from his shirt and slotting into his. They stayed like that for a moment, both trying to figure out what just happened and where to go next.

“I think I should say good night now, Calum,” Elodie said meekly, voice tired and soft.

Calum nodded, mind still racing with the memory of her lips pressed against his. Had her hands not been in his he was sure he would have placed his finger tips to his lips in disbelief. Calum led her back to her cabin door with one hand still held and heart daring to escape his chest. He didn’t want the night to end, didn’t want to wait until morning to see her again. But she had restless gray painted under her eyes, was shivering from the cool night and had given him more than he could have ever imagined on tiptoes.

“I will see you in the morning,” she reminded as they came to a stop at her door.  

Morning felt worlds away when in the moment she was so close. Before she could reach a hand out to the doorknob, before she could think about entering and closing the door behind her, Calum stopped her short. Pulled the hand he had a hold on up and let his lips brush along her knuckles. She blushed and Calum heard the breath catch in her throat; content to believe he could fill her heart with symphonies and stall her breath before hitting a crescendo.

Calum paused to think; gathered his thoughts, tried to form a sentence to leave her with. He chose one they both were in tune with, he had said it every night since she first boarded the ship, because he meant it with every piece of himself, “Sleep well, Elodie.”

***

Morning brought Elodie back to Calum, she was surrounded by only trusted men in the galley, her watchful gaze taking in the crew and their hunger. Calum strode toward her with bounding steps, not stopping himself until he was as close as the night before. It was less tense and unsure, more careless and natural. And though it felt as easy as breathing to be so close to her, every step and motion was thoughtful and walking a thin line of boundaries he was not sure could or should be crossed. He remembered her leading them last night, setting sunsets on fire and melting gold with a brush of her lips against his. He craved that, but would wait for her to come back to him once more.

“Good morning, Calum,” she exclaimed lightly, unflinching from his close proximity.

“The lady gets to call the captain Calum,” Michael remarked with a huff and a playful eye roll. “Figures.”

Calum just smirked at his trusted master gunner turned galley aid and turned back to Elodie. He had contemplated a lot of things during the night; most centered around her and plans for rounding up new crew. He did not want to leave her on the ship without him, had thought of sending Ashton in his place but feared his authority would be questioned by newcomers once more. They were only a few days away from the next harbor, the ocean sending them along quite favorably.

“Were you in need of something, Captain?” Elodie asked, giving a pointed look to Michael who laughed with his head thrown back and raised his hands in surrender.

Calum waited until Michael dramatically backed away and joined the rest of the ravenous crew for breakfast. They were not alone but afforded a moment between the two of them, as much as they could get one in any case. Calum would have swept her away to his own cabin, if only to have no listening ears but he did not want to arouse suspicion.

“I’m in need of an answer,” Calum replied, arching an eyebrow as he contemplated how best to proceed. “Would you like to join me when we dock?”

It was the only plan his mind could fathom that his heart also felt comfortable with. Elodie was visibly surprised, an audible gasp leaving her at the last syllable of the question. Calum waited for her to collect herself; knew she must be running through the pros and cons of the scenario just as much as he had.

“Are you sure that would be wise?”

Calum let a hand fall to the wooden table beside him, palm flat and fingers splayed out. He shrugged. “No wiser than leaving a lady on her own.”

Elodie smirked and turned her face up at him, sloped nose pointing up and eyebrows furrowing. “I’ve taken care of myself before, Captain. I’m quite capable of being on my own.”

While Calum believed her, words contrite and dripping honesty scarcely used, he thought she did not realize what being alone would truly entail. “Alone on a pirate ship? Docked at a royal harbor? You are no fool, I know this as fact, surely you’ll be just fine.”

He expected her reaction of utter shock and being completely taken aback. He knew his words held bite and sarcasm she must not have been expecting but he had no clue how else to ring the message clear as day in her mind. She quickly licked her lips and narrowed her eyes.

“How do you propose docking in a royal harbor?”

Calum grinned, pleasantly surprised at the turn in conversation and her new inquisition of his plans.

“An alias. A bribe,” he began and lifted his branded wrist. “Sleeves.”

Laughter spilled out of Elodie in an easy and natural flow. She was light as air as she grabbed Calum’s wrist and ran a finger over the brand once more. Calum had always despised the marking, let it keep him up on lonely nights. But when her finger traced the letter with touch as light as a solitary feather he felt much better. He could almost be thankful for the wrongful marking. Almost. When she let his wrist drop he let it hang by his side, fingers curling into his palm as she thought her options over. In truth, Calum knew she realized she had few options. He hoped with the whole of himself she would find his offer most appealing.

Her eyes flickered to the floor as she worried at her lip. There was something heavy she was not saying in the belated pause. Calum was going to prompt her, to ensure she said and asked everything on her mind before committing to such risky plans.

“How do I get through?”

Calum had thought that over; agonized over it in the night. The simple question had a simple answer.

“Wear your cloak. Keep the hood up and your face down. Stay by my side. Answer no questions. Say not a word. Men are easily fooled, you might be quite surprised.”

Elodie nodded. They both knew it was a risk. Surely, Calum guessed, it was less risky than leaving her alone on a ship with free flags.

“I’ll go with you.”

***

The morning shore came within sight Calum was restless, tossing the idea of Elodie accompanying him in his mind over and over. She had already agreed, there was little he could do to back out of the situation now. He wanted her safe; felt as though he could protect her best with her by his side but worry ate away at him all through the nights leading up to docking. They had spent much time together In those few days. Calum ducking into the galley frequently; pulling her to the deck for fresh air and leading her to her cabin for private conversation. She still let on very little of herself, nothing truly remarkable or secretive being shared with Calum. There were moments where he wanted to tell her everything, if only in the hopes to coax something out of her. He remembered being robbed of her tale of departure. How she had stolen a story from him and left him cold. It was endearing yet frustrating. He swore to himself he would figure her out; learn the whys and why nots of her life if given enough time.

He was exhausted by the time the waves carried them into the harbor. He knew they were miles and miles from her kingdom, that this land had little to do with the outside political world. Her kingdom was small and private. This kingdom was of scarce land and secretive. Preferring to keep to themselves and not seek outside their people and lands. He knew if she could follow his instruction she would be okay. He also knew she was not one to be told what to do; he hoped for both their sakes she could bite back her pride and listen with the grace of a princess he knew she still possessed.

They met outside their cabins that morning, Elodie already wearing her cloak; heeding Calum’s instructions and making his heart race with anxiety as he drifted his gaze towards the docks. Calum was leaving the boat in Ashton’s hands, knowing he would stay aboard and ensure the safety of her; only Ashton, Luke and Michael—his most trusted men—left behind. Without thinking Calum pulled Elodie’s hood up, let his hands trail down, fingers crossing her soft collar bones. The small contact was still enough to set storms alight inside him; more than enough to feel her kiss against his lips once more.

It had been days without such an intimate moment. Calum craved it; craved her in his arms, creating storms that danced on saltwater waves. She stayed apprehensive in their contact. Only brushes of her fingers on his skin, only momentary hugs accompanied by a good night before closing and locking her door.

“Ready?” Calum asked gently, giving her one last chance to make a proper and solid decision.

Elodie—as always—was unwavering and nodded firmly. Calum expected as much; if there was fear inside her it was hidden within her depths much like her secrets and past. She grabbed his hand before he started to step away, a smile curving and gracing his lips. Their fingers entwined and lifelines on their palms ran together. Calum sank because of her touch, letting waves pull him under without resistance. Docking was no problem, gangway ready for use in no time. Calum guided Elodie down the board and to the royal dock, men in naval coats ready for their appearance.

“Name?” The shorter of the two asked. His eyes were curious but not enough to be inquisitive.

“Thomas Coyne,” Calum lied smoothly, procuring coins more than necessary for docking. His eyebrows arched as he reached a hand out to place them in awaiting palms. They spared just one glance down before waving them on with no further questions.

Elodie kept her head down, eyes taking in the cobblestone streets and her own worn shoes. Calum noted her new attire; still a dress of common use, fabric wrinkled from being shoved in a small satchel. He did not let go of her hand on the streets of the quiet kingdom. The silence of the day was unnerving until street vendors began setting up for morning sales. Warm wind blew through the air and all Calum could picture was Elodie’s curls being influenced by the breeze, but they were confined under her hood. He was leading them towards an inn, somewhere safe Elodie could stay while he rounded up new crew during the day; she could lock the door and open it for him once he was back.

He feared leaving her at the inn but knew it was the lesser of two evils. If she was found within a pirate ship there would be no escape from that for her. No matter her title, no matter her wit and charm, she would live a life with an unjust ruling hanging over her head. He let his gaze drift to her momentarily before his attention was caught by a cart of flowers. An old lady who stood with hunched shoulders and a smile as bright as new morning light beckoned him over.

“Flower for the lady?” The old woman asked with an aged and tired voice. Her wrinkled hand held the stem with care; fragile fingers and what Calum assumed a lifetime of practice guiding her through such easy movements.

Elodie stiffened beside him, keeping her face down though he had a feeling her cheeks were pink and her hand yearned to play with her skirt. Calum knew the curtain of shyness that befell Elodie was due to being directly talked of. Even in such minimal terms as ‘the lady’. He could feel her fear roll off her in choppy tides. Calum graced the older woman with a smile and a coin, swept the flower away from her in a gentle hold and kept them moving and on their way to the inn. Calum wanted no more stops or hesitations on their path, heart racing at every eye that turned toward them.

Elodie’s fingers pressed into his hand; showcasing her doubts and fears without saying a word. Calum dipped down to quietly ask against her ear. “Still have your pistol?”

He didn’t mean to alarm her as they came across the inn, was elated that she kept calm and merely patted her thigh with her free hand as a sign of confirmation. Calum prayed to every new and old God that she would never need to use it; especially not while he was gone but felt comfort in knowing that it was still strapped to her, in case of an emergency. He did not know how much experience she bore behind a trigger, how accurate her shot was, but would not underestimate her. The inn was small and cozy, the keep at the desk taking Calum’s alias and coins without a second thought, handed him a key that bled comfort into his bones for Elodie’s sake.

It was a quiet stroll into the room and though they were many things Calum wished to say before leaving to scope out new crew members he kept quiet. Instead of speaking he watched as Elodie pushed the hood back; finally enveloped in privacy and free to be herself. He offered her the flower, watching her entire face light up at the simple gesture. She spun the stem between her fingers, colored petals twirling in the dim light of the room. Calum did not want to leave; wished to stay and keep his eyes trained on her joyous gaze at the flower. He realized in one quick moment it’d been weeks since she had seen such beauty, there were no flowers at sea and none that crossed his decks. He made a note of that; memorized the way happiness captured her being.

“I’ll be back soon, Elodie. Don’t open the door for anyone,” he instructed though he knew she knew such things. After all, she was no fool. “Have a safe stay.”

Elodie nodded and once more wrapped herself around him in a hug that would end too soon before he departed the room. He took just one moment to breathe her in and let her sweet scent calm his nerves. Calum left before he got overwhelmingly wrapped up in her. He would come back for her. He always would.

***

Copyright 2020 calpops. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format (translations included). 

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[webcricket]

Paradise

Characters: CastielXReader ft. Jack Kline and the Winchesters Word Count: 1764 Summary: Before he was born, Jack Kline showed Castiel a vision of the future; in it, the seraph saw paradise. Returning to you and Jack after a hunt with the Winchesters, Cas apprehends that the future is now. Please note, this is written with early season 14 powerless Jack in mind. Introspective angel. Fatherly fluff. Family.

“I saw the future. I saw a world without pain or hunger or want. I saw the world that this child… that your child… will create. And it is a world without fear and without suffering and without hate… I saw paradise.”

[Castiel, 12X23 All Along the Watchtower]

***

Interconnected by a network of river-like asphalt crevasses threatening to part and swallow a mis-stepping wanderer seeking sanctuary from the stormy night whole, inky rainwater ripples a sea of potholes spanning the parking lot. Swirling about a motel – the building a comparatively sunny island oasis in the murk – whose pallid green peeling façade has been moldering since it’s late 50s interstate-side family-fun road tripping hey-day, an ethereal fog faintly reeking of highway exhaust and weighted with the musk of damp earth rises from paved ground where the heat of day absorbed by blacktop thwarts the cooling effect of the downpour. Oily darkness seeps unhindered into the perimeter of pock-marked pavement; the crimson glare of a vacancy sign and choked yellow light blurring the nicotine-tinted windows of the motel’s main office fail, for the most part, in their combined effort to keep at bay the incursion of night; the artificial gleam coalesces – eerie influence heightened now and then by lingering lightening lashing the horizon – to illumine Castiel’s aspect with a celestially subversive hellish hue.

Hands pushed into his pockets out of habit more than to protect against the dank atmosphere, the rain-spattered host of Heaven treads carefully, pausing to let pass a plump earthworm making its way across the roughened concrete walkway; the simple creature toils – a ringed tube of muscle pulsing as its body stretches opaquely pink then contracts again to the color of mud – to Chuck only knows what terminus; and Cas, knowing we all have somewhere special we long to be on tempestuous nights such as these waits so as not to impede its slimy progress.

Standing thus, sodden chestnut curls crushed into the permanent tracts of worry etching his brow, the angel glances upward to determine the source of a steady streamer of droplets smattering his trench coat lapel. Focus following the roof edge, he tarries for a few of his vessel’s heartbeats to appreciate the rhythmic drip-drop-drip sputter of an overworked gutter; the mournful bellow of a fly-by-night tractor trailer interrupts the melodically and moistly saturating song.

That, and the argumentative tones carried in the muggy air of two brothers as they plod, battle-weary and bloodied, bickering over who called dibs on a shower first. The younger concedes to the elder with a sweepingly derisive gesture indicating defeat on account of sheer exhaustion. The elder, ever happy to accept a win – any win – grunts in smug satisfaction and flashes his teeth.

At the sight of them safe – unperturbed, presently anyway, by anything supernatural – the angel permits the subtle softness of a smile to smite some of the usual seriousness squaring his jawline; he keeps an affectionately tempered watch on the men until they reach their destination.

The humidity-swollen door of suite 11 gives way to the ungentle nudging of Dean’s shoulder; the pitch within engulfs his bow-legged form.

Trailing behind his brother, Sam braces a palm to the threshold. Swiping the other across his forehead, he smears at the wet of rain and caked sweat collected there that trickles to sting his vision. Sensing the concentration of a gaze at his back, he turns to peer at the sentry-like seraph situated along the opposite row of rooms; he offers him a tired smile and a courteous nod, the micro expressions a summary of thankfulness they made it through another day – together, and mostly unscathed – and a sincere wish for a goodnight.

Cas lifts a hand from its pocketed confines to acknowledge Sam’s unspoken sentiment before the hazel-eyed hunter, too, disappears from view. Gaze falling to his water-specked boots, seeing no sign of earthworms laboring near the soles, he shifts his attention to the closed door at his right marked 23.

The door appears utterly unremarkable, like any of a thousand other doors; and yet, the two beings lodged behind the wooden barrier – a soul resplendent with a love he strives in all he does to deserve whose fitful breathing pattern he recognizes for one of tenuous slumber over the din of a television left on for distraction in his absence, and a son, not of his conception, but nonetheless his progeny by providential circumstance, choice, and a reciprocal devotion too deep to be anything less than a bond between father and son – are to him of paramount importance.

Superficially speaking, he notes the paint eroded around the knob with repeated use – a once bold hue faded to grey; studying the lock scarred by countless misaimed keys, he sifts through his trousers to locate the puzzle piece of notched metal required to garner entry. Key eluding him, likely long lost in the late kerfuffle with several lately departed demons, he concentrates his intent on the bolt and flicks two fingers to free the mechanism; the latch relents to its divine undoing with a muffled click and the door swings inward.

Warmly caressing the two precious sleeping figures within, a rush of sultry air surges along with the seraph’s irrepressibly welling grace – an angelic greeting of sorts he cannot suppress that swathes your bodies, reassuring him directly of your well-being. Irises sparkling blue, their shining surface reflecting the black and white Western ambling across the television screen, fix on Jack in the nearest bed, and you beyond, curled into yourself and clutching a pillow in lieu of your preferred bed partner, as he endeavors to quickly re-secure the door without disturbing the prevailing peace.

Feeling the familiarity of his grace smooth every inch of your skin, a small sigh of delight escapes your lips as your respiration settles to a restful regularity; even in unconsciousness, you sense the seraph’s energetically charged arrival and respond with relief.

Carpet discoloring where it drenches beneath his feet as though he is a vagabond washed ashore by the tide from a long and aimless voyage at sea, Cas divests himself of his signature – and by convenient chance, weather appropriate – coat, casting it aside to dry on a chairback, before drifting further into the room. Fingers slackening the knot of his tie and unfastening the topmost buttons of his shirt, each initial step inward liberates boots and socks and lightens his heart with the emotion of a homecoming where you discover what you remember with especial fondness endures outside the bounds of time itself. It matters not to him that only a few meager hours have passed apart which may seem to some no time at all; the iterant angel cherishes every minute fortune blesses him with a family; and not just any family – his family – the one he forged and fights for on an unshakeable foundation of faith and fidelity.

Rounding Jack’s bedside, Cas’ regard lands on a comic book loosely hanging from the boy’s grasp; the colorfully graphic pages poise in a precipitous gravitational battle between insensate fingertips and the floor. He collects the comic, reads the title of Constantine plastered across the cover, and stares for a moment at the sight of the trench coat clad centric-character. The soft smile Sam caught a glimpse of earlier eases roundness into the angel’s cheeks and fractures the flesh cornering his blues in a charming chaos of creases.

Setting the comic on the side table for safekeeping, Cas reaches down to lightly comb the hair from Jack’s cloistered eyes; stooping, he tenders a kiss to the bared forehead. “Sweet dreams, my boy,” his lips brush the gravelly murmured hope into the Nephilim’s mind, crowding out the doubt Cas knows dogs him therein; knowing well that very same pain, it hurts the angel’s heart witnessing Jack struggle to find his way in the world – between worlds – just as he did. Cas is grateful he’s here to help him navigate, to pick him up with unfailing belief and forgiveness when he falls down because he understands from experience that is what it takes to go on when it’s so much easier to give in.

A static tingle of awareness runs his vessel’s spine, climbing all the way to pill the hair peppering his nape, a sure indicator of clandestine observation. Steeped in sentimental thought, he missed the signs of you rousing. Straightening, moving with deliberate slowness of action to relish in the escalating uptick of your heartbeat as you eagerly wait for him to turn, he tugs the blanket over the boy’s shoulders and tucks him in.

As soon as the angel’s chin slants in your direction, your eyelids squeeze in a mockery of sleep; you cannot, however, repress the waking of the smile curving your mouth. Swiftly, he’s on you. Arms caging, lips seal over yours to quiet a giggle; unable to subdue the gladness of greeting where mouths meet, the shared smiles meld into something even sweeter.

It’s you – always you, human frailty an affront to the unending potential of angelic passion – that begs mercy for a breath first; pardoning yourself from the kiss to pant into the collar of his shirt, you embrace him round the neck, demanding with gentle insistence he join you in the bed.

He surrenders to the promise of loving comfort without struggle; clambering over you to collapse on the vacant side of the mattress, he notches himself in the welcoming fold of your arms.

Fingers tangling his still damp hair, you draw his head to rest on the cushion of your bosom.

Serenity, safety, and love sheltered within these walls, evenness of your breath calming, he gives himself permission to fully relax. The spectral silhouette of wings unfurling dances upon the wall in the TV's undulant light; blanketing you, the feathery tips stretch across the gap between beds to shroud, too, his son. Contentment hums in his throat.

“You guys take care of those demons?” The hushed query echoes through the laddered rungs of your ribs and into his ears.

“Mm-hmm.” He vibrates in answer.

“Sam and Dean, they’re okay?”

“They’re Sam and Dean,” he teases, volume equally low so as not to wake Jack, “they manage to be fine in spite of themselves and just about everything else that tries to prove otherwise.”

Your chest bounces in a silently contained laugh. “And what about you, angel?”

The question needs no consideration. He’s never been better. This is the future – the paradise – Jack showed him once upon a time: a present without the pain of doubt, the hunger to belong, or the want of purpose. Castiel sees now that paradise isn’t a place you go to, it’s the people you’re with – the people you love and who love you in return. Outside a storm rages and darkness forever encroaches; in here, he nestles nearer, tells you he’s, “Good,” and means it.

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[ghostofviperwrites]

Poolside

Pairing:  Evil/FC

Category:   Smut

Word Count: 1788

Warnings: Public sexual acts, language

Bit of a continuation of Moving On

Evil’s dark eyes traced over the crowd looking for some entertainment at this otherwise dull affair.  Why anyone thought inviting Evil to a pool party of all places was a good idea still escaped him.  Furthermore, why his so-called brothers felt it necessary to drag him to one vexed him.  Catching the eye of Sanada, stretched out on a lounge chair with three bikini clad women fawning over him, Evil sneered; grunting in frustration when Sanada simply grinned and tipped his beer bottle in Evil’s direction.  Moving on Evil continued his perusal of the available offerings.  If he had his vehicle he would have been long gone.  Of course Naito had foreseen that he would try to escape and had driven him personally to the party.

“Should’ve just punched the fucker in the face,” Evil grumbled taking a swig of his beer.

“Now now Evil, you don’t want to punch Naito. We’re just trying to get you to have some fun.”  Bushi appeared at his side with a wide grin, sitting down on the empty chair next to Evil in the shadows.

“You’re not off the hook either asshole.”  Evil gave Bushi the side-eye with a hitch in his lips.  “Want me to have fun?  Take me to a club.  Bring a toy to play with in my dungeon.  Get me drunk.  Don’t bring me to a goddamn pool party.” 

“Whatever,” Bushi said pushing to his feet.  “Sulk here in the corner like a baby.”  Ignoring the middle finger Evil directed his way, Bushi headed over to the bar where some of the Suzuki Guns were hanging out, greeting Desperado with a handshake hug combo and nodding at the rest. 

“I’m not sulking.” Evil sulked shifting in his chair.  “Not my fault there’s no one interesting here.”  Once again he settled into watching those around him looking for someone to play with.  A chorus of greetings caught his attention and Evil shifted a smile full of bad intentions coming to his lips as he saw Rei standing by the patio door.  Now she would be fun to play with.  He knew if she had any inkling he was here, she never would have shown her face.  That opinion was reinforced when her eyes landed on Naito and her gaze darted frantically around the pool area.  It was only when she was certain that Evil wasn’t present that the tense set of her shoulders relaxed. 

Leaning back in his chair Evil remembered all the fun he had with her.  She was so easy to manipulate it had lost its allure rather quickly, but the things he had made her do before he lost interest made him hard.  After he had left her behind she had fallen in with Jay White.  As far as he knew she was still seeing him.  She thought she was free of his control; little did she know that Evil was just biding his time before luring her back in.   No better time than the present he thought finishing off his beer.  A last little hurrah to utterly destroy her for thinking she could move on from him.   Right in front of all her friends and co-workers.

So he watched and waited for her to pull her head out of the clouds and figure out that he was here.  The exact moment she saw him brought a sick grin to his face as he watched her freeze on the other side of the pool.  With nothing more than a crook of his finger he beckoned her, leaning back into his chair as he watched her obey with barely any hesitation. 

“I didn’t know you were here.”  Rei said shifting from foot to foot under Evil’s penetrating gaze.  “Didn’t really think this was your type of thing.” 

“You’re hurting my feelings Rei,” Evil said placing a hand over his heart dramatically. “Are you saying if you knew I would be here you wouldn’t have come?  That’s rather rude.” 

Rei sputtered, looking around nervously as she tried to come up with a response that would satiate him. 

“Where’s Jay?” Evil asked tiring of waiting for an answer.  “I’m surprised he let you out of his sight. He keeps a rather close watch on you doesn’t he?” 

“Keep his name out of your mouth.”  Rei snapped glaring at Evil.  “He treats me like I’m his world.  More than you ever did. The only reason he watches over me is because of you.” 

“Yet here you are standing in front of me, just waiting for my command.”  Evil said.  “Does Jay not give you what you need?  Does he not treat you like the slut you are?” 

“I’m not a slut.”  She said fiercely.  “I didn’t want you to treat me like you did.  All I wanted was for you to love me.” 

Evil chuckled darkly making Rei flush as he stared at her like he could see into her soul. 

“Oh?” Evil asked sarcastically. “Was it love you were looking for while you sucked off Sanada and Hiromu in our locker room?  Strange way of showing it.” 

“You’re impossible.”  Rei said fiercely.  “I don’t know why I bothered to come over here.”  Yet she didn’t turn away, anxiously twisting her hands in front of her while Evil watched her knowingly.

“Both you and I know why you came over here.”  Evil said after letting her fidget for several moments.  “I give you what you crave.   What Jay never will.  He cares too much to do the things you need.  You don’t hate me because of the things I did.  You hate me because I stopped doing them.” 

Rei flinched against the truth in his words, pushing them to the back of her so as to not dwell on them.  He was intoxicating and she hated that he was drawing her in just as easily as he always had.  She tried to think about her boyfriend Jay, how much he had helped her the past several months.  How kindly he treated her and how much he cared.   How much would it hurt him to know at the first opportunity she had jumped at Evil’s command with nary a second thought?

“Come sit on my lap,” Evil suddenly commanded breaking her from her introspection.  Again she obeyed without really thinking, stepping into the shadows and lowering herself on his lap.  Rei gasped loudly as Evil grabbed her hips and settled her so she was straddling his thigh balancing precariously on the edge of the chair, the wicker digging into her knees making her wince.  Her cut off jean shorts rode up her legs exposing the bottom of Rei’s butt cheeks.  “Take off your top.”  Evil said.

“What?” Rei exclaimed.  “No Evil, I can’t do that here.  People could see.” 

Her protestations fell on deaf ears as Evil simply smiled.

“That’s exactly the point Rei.  Now take off your bikini top or I’m not going to play with you.”  Evil said his tone brooking no further arguments. 

Rei cast a nervous glance over her shoulders feeling a wave of relief as it seemed nobody was paying attention to them in their little enclave.  Reaching behind her back she untied the strings of her top letting it fall in-between their bodies exposing her breasts to Evil’s eyes. 

His hands left her hips, sliding up the curve of her waist to cup her breasts keeping his eyes locked on hers as he squeezed the globes tight bringing a sheen of tears to her eyes and a moan from her lips.  Evil brushed his thumbs over her nipples until they were stiff little peaks then pinched them with two fingers, steadily increasing the pressure until he pulled a squeal of pain from Rei.  Evil’s tongue darted out, licking over his lips as he squeezed and pulled at Rei’s tits watching as lust bloomed in her eyes.  Pulling on her nipples Evil dragged her to kneel bringing her tits level with his mouth as Rei put her hands on his shoulders for balance.  Lowering his head Evil flicked his tongue over one nipple, swirling in slow torturous circles before biting the peak hard and making Rei moan loudly arching her back towards his mouth as she sought more from him.  Evil lips pressed against her heated flesh, kissing and nibbling his way across her chest to the other breast, flicking his tongue over the hardened nub and sucking it into his mouth.   Rei’s hands moved to Evil’s hair, pulling it free from the confining rubber band and tangling the silky length in her fingers urging on Evil’s movements.   When Evil’s mouth broke from her nipple she mewled in disappointment, uselessly tugging at his hair in protest. 

“Fuck my thigh.”  He growled against her chest, biting deep into skin in the valley between her breasts smiling as she whimpered and lowered herself to perch on his leg.   Releasing his hair, Rei again put her hands on his thick shoulders, nails digging in as she rocked her hips along his thigh, the coarse material of her cut offs rubbing hard against her folds as she moved.  

Evil leaned back watching Rei grinding on his leg, eyelids fluttering with pleasure with every movement against him.   He smirked as he caught glances being cast towards their corner, watching Rei get herself off.   A sharp slap from Evil’s hand on her breast had Rei’s eyes flying open in surprise, her teeth biting her full bottom lip as she tried to silence her cries.  

“Faster.”  He told her, issuing another sharp smack to the opposite breast.  Moaning Rei picked up the speed of her movements, hips rocking as she ground herself on Evil’s thick thigh, breath starting to come in spurts every time her clit found purchase on his muscular leg.   Evil continued to litter slaps to her breasts as she chased her completion, her nails digging into his shoulders as she clawed at him as she neared. 

“Cum for me.”  Evil said, his deep commanding voice just what Rei needed to let go, crying out loudly as Evil twisted her nipples, her clit grinding onto his thigh as she rode out her climax.   As she was coming down and realization of what she had done crashed over her Rei scrambled off his lap hurrying to put her top back on.  Humiliation burned through her as she turned away from Evil and found herself the center of attention of just about everyone at the party.  Tears starting to fill her eyes Rei ran from the pool area avoiding accusing looks from Jay’s friends as she burst into the house.

“Party still sucks.”  Evil pronounced directing a glare at Naito.  “Are we almost done here?” 

[tendriltherapy]

Clown Hell Finale - Clowning Around

The time has come - you’re finally standing in front of this big-top cathedral of a circus tent which has been your guiding beacon while wandering this strange land, this Dark Carnival. All timelines in your Sight seem to lead into this towering structure, then become too hazy to track as they proceed for some time. A bit troubling perhaps, but goodness if it isn't so curiosity inducing. From within you hear the honks and cavorting of clowns, a thunderous congregation of them, being spoken to by a powerful, charismatic voice that booms over the others.

Still a bit hazy and giddy from your carousel ride, you giggle anxiously to yourself as you stand just outside the tent entrance, building up your courage to head inside. It's not until the congregation leader's voice declares that "Now, I've all up and heard there's a new motherfuckin face around our lovely Carnival, brothers and sisters! One who's been having one hell of a righteous time out there! And unless I'm pure wrong, I think it's likely our new sister is standin... RIGHT THE MOTHERFUCK OUTSIDE THIS GLORIOUS TENT. Why don't we give her a warm fuckin welcome?!" and a beam of light from a spotlight settles through the entryway that you step forward into the tent and into a round of applause.

Past the brilliant beam of the spotlight, you make out the biggest carnival tent you've ever seen, tiered layers of surprisingly lavish seating surrounding the main rings, with connected hallway tents leading away to other smaller rooms off the main concourse. Dozens and dozens of clowny individuals fill the seats, both consort species and trolls alike, all cheering for you and stomping and honking. There in the center stage stands a toweringly tall highblood woman, dressed up like a ringmaster with a top hat and corset and tailed jacket. She looks... curvaceous yet powerful, heavy breasts and wide hips accentuating a plump frame with muscle underneath. A confident grin beams out past a meticulously painted face, and well-polished horns shaped like an elk's emerge from beneath a shaggy but tamed mane of hair. Under the beckoning gestures of the woman and the applause all around you, you walk up the center aisle and into the center ring with her, having to lean back on your heels just to look up at her fully.

"Well hello there, little sis! Let me get a good look at you! I been hearin all kinds of good motherfuckin news about the cute lil alien girl who's been wandering her way through our fine congregation. You've been playin up and nice with every brother and sister you met, I heard." she says in that booming, somehow amplified voice of hers, and you flush slightly as you nod. She lightly tousles your hair with a broad gloved hand and then tilts your head back so she can inspect you more thoroughly. "Little sis looks like she's up and embracing our look already - you got the clothes, your paint could use some work but you're all up in the right place, you even got a sylladex full a' wicked elixir, ain't that right?"

You nod almost sheepishly, a little flustered from your place in the spotlight, the hair tousling, and the direction the discussion is going. You're not sure how she knows your inventory is mostly full of their soda, it just makes sense she can somehow see it. The woman's grin broadens further, her eyes narrowing as she chuckles under her breath. "Well then, since you're already up and on the good and righteous motherfuckin track, I think it’s good and time for a proper initiation, don’t all of you, my brothers and sisters?” she calls out to the congregation, met with uproarious applause. Wait, initiation? You're not sure if your heart just dropped into your stomach in concern or jumped up into your throat in anticipation... after a moment's introspection you think it's both.

A few attendants gather around you as the Ringmatron leers down at you, a look of Mirthful mischief in her eyes. You sink slowly to a kneeling posture under their guidance, gulping anxiously with your heart racing. It'll be fine, you assure yourself, probably just more pranks, cheap soda, and boning, the biggest gangbang of them all, while the Ringmatron talks. Nothing more untoward than that, clearly; nothing from your lewd imaginings that's making you start to tent your thong already as some trolls gather round you and others run off further into the cathedral tent for 'supplies'. Hands begin palming at you from all directions, groping your curves, pulling your clothes away, even somehow wiping clean your streaked and smudged facepaint from your apple-bobbing venture, and any lingering remnants of your painted-on clothes. For a moment before the true festivities begin, you’re fully bare before the congregation. Then the cartloads of supplies arrive - one laden with dozens of bottles of colorful soda, another with tin after tin of lime-green pie. A cheer goes up and the Ringmatron begins to speak over you, her eyes beginning to flicker a telltale glow. You feel that flicker start to resonate inside your head, and everything becomes a little foggier, a bit funnier, just overall tingly and happy around the edges. You lean into the clowns surrounding you, eager to partake in their festivities while the Ringmatron talks about a “Righteous motherfuckin threefold baptism” and the “Glorious Rites” afforded to new converts. Certain words stick in your head, even as the rest is lost to the din of the revelry. 

At the Ringmatron’s guidance, the gathering takes up bottles of their ‘wicked elixir’ and begins to shake them with vigor.With a cheer, they all flick the caps off to free a multicolored fountain of frothy bubbles and sticky soda arching into the air. It sprays all over the place as one might expect, the bottles shaken up as they erupt to send it flying across the whole congregation, but much of it is focused right on your kneeling form. It tingles as it soaks you, and you open your mouth almost reflexively to allow the soda to anoint your tastebuds. Goosebumps rise up across your frame as you taste the cloying yet intoxicating flavors mingling, and your hands wander across your nude body, groping yourself and rubbing the cola in. You find yourself shakily laughing, your heart pounding as the Ringmatron’s words pound in your ears. With her blessing you take some initiative and reach out towards the nearest clown above you, pulling them closer by the waistband and fishing out their bulge with one hand while the other reaches for their half-emptied bottle. You take a deep swig of the deep purple grape Faygo, then pop the tip of the troll’s bulge into your mouth to begin suckling eagerly. Perhaps it was something in the leader’s words but it just feels like the right thing to be doing here. It’s not long before many of the others join in, offering their drinks and their bulges in equal measure wherever they can fit them. 

The Ringmatron seems quite pleased so far - “Our righteous little sis here is all up and taking right kindly to the first of her baptisms, the sweetest taste of that wicked elixir rainin’ down around her.” you’re dimly aware of her calling out, “Now it’s time for that pure fuckin miraculous second wave - bring on the slime, my brothers and sisters!” Your nerves jump and a breath stutters in your bulge-occupied mouth in anticipation. Tins of pungent green ooze are passed around next for all to enjoy, some trolls opting for just a fingerful while others scoop out a whole handful. The Ringmatron herself steps in, lightly brushing away the clown you’d been fellating to take their place, those glowing eyes still filling your head with pure, giddy bliss. A pie in one hand, she gathers up a fingertip of the thick green paste and proffers it out to your lips. Obediently you lean forward and close your mouth around her digit, tasting that sharp, numbing szechuan-peppercorn rush in full for the first time. Your eyes flutter and roll back for a moment as a quiet moan escapes you, and she chuckles in satisfaction. There’s a zip from in front of you; the Ringmatron unclasps her pinstriped pants, fishing out... Oh god, it’s the biggest and most... enthralling bulge you’ve ever seen, the size of your arm almost and a deep, rich purple hue. Eyes locked to flickering eyes, she collects another dollop of sopor and swirls it slowly around the glans of her shaft, then glides all the way down to the fat grey balls that match her shaft’s enormity. She leers at you, expectant. 

With a reverence, you lean forward to take that heavy bulge between your lips, tongue running a lazy circle around and around her glans to sop up every bit of the addling, blissful green ooze. Every morsel of it that falls on your tongue seems to take you higher, and you giggle and laugh along with the others around you with your mouth full of cock. As you work your way down her miraculously delightfully massive bulge, the bulge-owners around you join in in a similar vein - little streaks of the green paste are smeared across your nipples, your perineum, even the rim of your pucker just to get fucked in deeper by the bulge re-invading you. A dollop even finds its way into the rim of your foreskin, worked up and down by a dutiful, soda-slicked hand. Everywhere it touches burns with bliss, and your cock and pucker both pulse with ecstasy... but you don’t quite get off. Something inside you feels like it has to wait and just ride out this wicked righteous high until the right time.  You just ride the tides of horny, giggly, increasingly-stoned trolls all around you and coast on the waves of the Ringmatron’s words, letting them fill you up. All this talk of miracles and mirth, elixirs and messiahs and dark carnivals, it’s... starting to grow on you. 

You’re teetering on the brink of orgasm but held back by the powerful woman above you’s presence for what feels like an eternity as she proselytizes to your kneeling, suckling form, your eyes reflecting the flickering Chucklevoodoo glow in her own as your gazes remain locked. Then finally she declares it’s time - “Time for the third of your Baptism Threefold, my sister! You drank the wicked elixir, felt the sweet rush of sopor, now - O brothers and sisters - join me in bringing our newest sister into the fold with the sweetest of anointments - a good healthy dose of our congregation’s geneslurry, fillin’ her up inside and out!” she cries above the din of celebration, and the cheers begin anew. You were already getting lazily fucked before, but now they pick back up with renewed vigor, bulges of every shape and size pistoning everywhere they can fit - two in your ass, one between your breasts, one in each hand and another under each arm, and of course that blessed massive bulge occupying your throat, all rutting away with renewed vigor. Your heart races - a surge of... worry and excitement and pride and dismay and a thousand other clashing feelings all mingling, yet slowly distilling down with more and more positive ones overwhelming the negative. You cry out - voice muffled - as bulges all around and within you begin to erupt in thick, cold spurts of viscous purple geneslime, flooding your rear from within and spattering all over your skin. You dare not break eye contact with the Ringmatron, but you can tell that all around you, clowns who can’t quite make it into the gathering are still stroking away with abandon, adding their geneslime to the mess. Last but not least, the Ringmatron seems to crest into orgasm with nary a change in her body language, just a constant, sweet-and-salty-and-musky flood covering your tongue and running down your throat, never seeming to pause for a volley or run out. She trails her fingertips through your hair as you nurse so reverently at her bulge, drinking deep of the blessed motherfuckin’ source. The more geneslime you drink - the more cascades across your bare body or floods into your bowels from the next troll in line, the more overwhelming bliss you feel - both in body and mind. It’s so easy to fall in with their line of thinking, to rejoice and be mirthful and capricious, to want to laugh and honk and fuck and honk some more. 

As you drink, your skin tingles with the mixed coating of various fluids, while a strange but pleasant chill seems to radiate into your core. Around the Ringmatron’s bulge, a rather rough noise escapes you - a muffled HNKK!, and your heart flutters again, this time with unadulterated excitement. You only just notice it, but at the very edges of your vision not occupied with your shepherd’s glowing eyes, the pale blonde locks of hair - matted with musk and soda - seem to be darkening one strand at a time. The bulges around and within you start to feel warmer and warmer as your final anointment continues - or perhaps it’s that you’re getting a little cooler with each fresh load. Your cock continues to throb fruitlessly, but the throbbing feels more and more powerful with each denied orgasm - you’d swear you can feel it bouncing up against your belly, then your chest with each twitch. The Ringmatron’s hands in your hair continue to stroke and grasp you to steady you, but the motions begin to feel just a little nicer when they pass and circle around certain spots. She cups your cheeks and deposits one more extra-thick dollop of seed right onto your tongue while she addresses you in a voice that is simultaneously barely above a whisper, and the only thing in the room you hear in that moment - “Go on, Sister. Go ahead and pail, join our little family.” 

With this new permission - this command - the grandest motherfuckin’ orgasm you ever did feel begins to flood through you. She releases you, letting you fall back as the bliss wracks your frame, and your eyes finally leave hers to look down at yourself while your release hits. You watch with rapturous interest as your cock twitches and erupts, the first pearly-white gush jetting forth right up into the air. Your amazement only grows more justified as each successive throbbing spurt jets out a bigger, thicker load; a bigger load from a bigger dick, each twitch of your racing pulse seeing your shaft growing bigger, longer, more outlandishly textured while a deep purple hue floods down from the tip. You wrap your hands around your own cock - bulge feels increasingly appropriate in your mind - and frantically jerk yourself off to milk out every drop you can. As you do, you’re dimly aware of your tanned skin draining of its hue and taking on a grey cast; of those sensitive points on your head erupting forth into what can only be a pair of high-arching horns; of your body growing a little thicker, a little plumper in all the right places. You let out a loud, triumphant sound that’s lost somewhere between a moan and a vast, guttural HONK that earns an uproarious round of applause and honks from all the clowns around you. You slump back in the ring beneath the Ringmatron, who looks down in earnest pride at you - her newest convert. She kneels down with a palette of grease paint, gingerly daubing a fresh clowny grin onto your features, and you beam with pride.

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you’ve just wholeheartedly joined the ranks of the highblooded clown cult. What will you do now?

[greybat]

Fire & Leeches - Ch. 7

Ch. 7: We Need To Talk  Alt Title: I swear I wrote this before the last update...

Ao3 Link

General Summary: Modern!AU (with magic.) Xixa is… well, not really enjoying but not hating a night out with Asra at one of Vesuvia’s famed clubs. However, her curiosity and interest become piqued when a particular band takes the stage.

Chapter Summary: Julian drops another surprise on Xixa during the show. When he approaches her afterward, she tells him they "need to talk" and drags him out to an alley.

The witch blinked, startled at the sudden interruption to her introspection. Her gaze flickered to the source just as Nadia placed a hand on her shoulder. The purple-haired woman always gave Xixa comforting and warm touches. Xixa smiled up at the imposing figure as she helped herself to a seat, settling her pink cocktail drink onto the table.

Xixa’s brain finally pieced the voice to her face. “Nadia! Good to see you.”

“So, what are you doing at this…” Nadia paused, looking around the pub. True to its name, the Rowdy Raven was full of loud raucousness and some rude gestures. The woman simply settled on, “Establishment?”

“A friend’s band is playing.”

“Really now?” Nadia raised her eyebrows, but there was a slight glint in her red eyes. “I thought only the Fire & Leeches were playing tonight.”

A mildly forbidding miasma descended on Xixa’s intuition. Was that a mistake to talk about? Regardless, the witch knew she was in too deep. “That’s the band.”

“You do realize that Asra’s ex is part of that band?” Nadia’s eyes widened, but – despite her apparent shock – the woman took a sip of her drink.

The miasma darkened a little further. The witch’s heart pounded and her palms itched with nerves. Xixa’s mind raced for an answer to the situation. As she fell silent, Nadia stared at her with prying red eyes. She agonized over running into Nadia, over letting slip why she was there. Xixa could have very well said she was taking in the nightlife, as unlikely as that was.

“What are you doing at the Rowdy Raven, Nadia?” Xixa suddenly asked, raising her eyebrows at the elegant woman. Dressed in a dark purple cocktail dress, Nadia reminded Xixa of a rather casual imperial empress and not a barfly. “It doesn’t seem like your scene.”

“Nor yours,” Nadia replied, a contemplative look crossing her features. Turning her eyes to the stage, where Fire & Leeches were set up and, apparently, discussing a last minute detail. Her lips twitched into a slight frown, “I, too, have an acquaintance in the band. He plays bass.”

“Valerius?” Xixa squawked. She couldn’t imagine Valerius and Nadia knowing each other. It seemed to surreal. Then again, Asra and Julian had been an item, so their friendships were bound to have some overlap.

The woman didn’t answer Xixa. Instead, she sipped her cocktail while staring intently at the stage. The lights were dimming and Julian seemed to be doing his introductory spiel. It seemed the conversation had ended. Turning her attention to the stage, Xixa wondered if Julian would recognize Nadia.

Xixa recognized most of the songs. Drag That Blade, a slow and oddly erotic melody with somewhat bittersweet lyrics. Bottom’s Up, a light-hearted and somewhat jokey tune. A Raven’s Warning, fast-paced and desperate and always made Xixa’s heart race with excitement. She couldn’t fully enjoy the music, though. Her eyes kept drifting back to Nadia, her expression a neutral mask.

After about nine songs, the show seemed to be winding toward its end. Xixa thanked the stars, eager to leave Nadia’s presence. As much as she enjoyed the woman’s company, this setting and situation was grinding on Xixa’s worries. She just wanted to enjoy the night with the band, particularly Julian.

“This is our last song of the night. I know, I know, you’re going to miss us.” Julian grinned as the crowd jeered and whooped. His eye drifted across the audience, lingering on Xixa. His lips twisted into a smirk, despite the dusting of pink across his cheeks. Then again, it was probably hot under those lights. “This song was inspired by a particular person I’ve met recently.”

Oh no, was he meaning her? Xixa could feel her face heating with embarrassment. From Xixa’s peripheral, she noted Nadia’s head tilt toward her, eyebrows raised. Oh gosh, she was giving Xixa her subtly judging look. The witch’s face tingled from heat and she fought the urge to sink in her chair.

Without prompting – or perhaps that’s what the discussion before the set was about – a spotlight shifted toward Xixa’s table. It landed on Nadia. Xixa held her breath, watching Nadia warily. The purple-haired woman was clutching onto her drink so tightly, Xixa thought she heard the crack of glass.

Julian’s eye widened – Portia, meanwhile, was stifling giggles – and waved a hand. “Oh, god, no, not her. She wants me dead. The other one.”

The spotlight shuddered and swung to Xixa. For a second, she forgot how to breathe. The light was blinding compared to the darkened atmosphere before. Her body heat started to rise, making her cheeks and ears tingle with a livid blush.

Xixa faintly heard Julian clear his throat, before the lilt of music began. The words blurred together, melted, became a lump in her stomach. Vaguely, she caught lyrics about dancing and pain. The witch was aware of Nadia closely watching her.

What was she supposed to do? Her mind was racing with clashing thoughts and confusing feelings.

It wasn’t until a rousing round of applause, and jeers, sounded when Xixa surfaced from her inner turmoil. The band gave parting remarks, bowed, whatever it was bands did. Xixa still hadn’t fully recovered from her shock. Thankfully, during the song the spotlight had lifted from her.

“Do you want to slip out?” Nadia’s murmur dragged Xixa the rest of the way to awareness.

The witch turned her eyes to the woman. Nadia’s lips were turned downward, but concern was clear in her red eyes. Xixa chewed the inside of her cheek, glancing toward the exit. The idea was tempting, but something kept her glued to her chair.

Nadia leaned closer, her hand on Xixa’s shoulder. “We won’t have much time, Xixa.”

“I-I’m fine,” Xixa stuttered, heat licked painfully up her throat.

“Are you sure?” Worry creased at Nadia’s brow as she comfortingly squeezed Xixa’s shoulder.

Unable to find any more words, Xixa simply nodded. Nadia didn’t have a chance to further press the issue as a newcomer approached the table. Clear distaste sounded in Nadia’s voice as she greeted him. “Devorak.”

“Nadia.” Julian nodded, before turning his attention to Xixa. Leaning down, pressing a hand to her free shoulder, he whispered, “What did you think of the song?”

Something snapped in Xixa. She couldn’t do this. Abruptly, Xixa stood, grabbing Julian by the front of his shirt. The witch bodily dragged the man from the pub, without answering his yelped inquiries.

Nadia watched with quiet pensiveness as the witch and the redhead left the pub. Once the two were out of the door, the woman remained seated, staring at the exit. Something of great import weighed down on her thoughts. Finally, she rummaged around in her purse until she found her phone.

x x x

Outside the Rowdy Raven, the cool of the night washed over Xixa. She didn’t stop at the threshold, though. She nearly charged around the corner of the building, seeking quiet refuge.

“Xixa! What’s going on?” Julian squawked. His hands gently wrapped around her shirt-grasping fist. Concern bubbled up in his thoughts. Xixa had been sitting with Nadia. Who knows what they discussed?

Finally, Xixa found a quiet place near the back of the bar. She released his shirt and took a few steps away. Turning toward him, her face still burning with mortification, she crossed her arms. “We need to talk.”

Julian’s heart sank. Oh god, what had been said? Or had he done something wrong? He forced an easy-going smile to his lips, leaning back against a wall. Despite the nonchalant expression, his insides coiled with chaotic worry. “What’s on your mind?”

The witch closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She sorted through the swirl of words in her brain, trying to carefully pick her way around her feelings. “That was… That was too much.”

“What?” Julian blanched, a chill shooting through his chest.

“Putting the spotlight on me? A song?” Confusion tensed Xixa’s muscles as her fingers tightened against her arms. Her eyes drew away from him, staring toward the darkness at the other end of the alleyway. “And what was said in the dressing room?”

Julian’s mind ricocheted with Xixa’s words. She inspired the song, giving her recognition seemed appropriate. And the dressing room? His mind rewound until he could replay the brief time spent in the back with her. Portia had arrived, he was annoyed, Xixa was there. Valerius had been disgusted, Portia had teased about jealousy, and… he said ‘Of our love, of course. Isn’t that right, my dear?’

Oh, he fucked up, hadn’t he?

His stomach clenched and a cold shudder ran through his heart. One of Asra’s favorite complaints rang in his head: ‘clingy.’ Julian ran a hand through his hair, a desperate edge outlining his tone. Pushing himself off the wall – distancing himself away from the accusations ringing in his brain – Julian winced, “I had been joking in the dressing room!”

“But the song?” Xixa turned beseeching eyes toward him. Something in her trembled at the thought of Julian giving himself over to her. Entirely. It tasted like fear.

“It was true, you had inspired it.” Julian mentally floundered, running a hand through his hair. He had written the song in a flash of inspiration one slow night at work. The band had spent the last week toying with it, changing words and rhythms. With Xixa’s attendance, it seemed like a good time to debut it. Swallowing a lump in his throat, Julian shifted his weight and averted his gaze to the wall, remembering how nervous he had been to show the band those damned lyrics. “What was wrong with the spotlight?”

“You put me on the spot!” Xixa’s voice came out with a slightly hysterical laugh. Down the alley, a cat yowled in response, knocking over garbage cans. The clattering shot Xixa’s nerves with every tinny bang and clang. She took a deep breath and tried to calm her nerves. When she trusted herself to speak more levelly, she added, “I wasn’t prepared for it. I mean, couldn’t you have asked first?”

Well, that was reasonable. Julian’s bristled attitude smoothed a little. His shoulders sagged a bit as he looked away from the woman. Like a scolded child, he mumbled, “It was a last minute idea. I’m sorry.”

A bubble of quiet blossomed around them. Julian waded through his own guilt, unable to meet Xixa’s eye. The witch, on the other hand, couldn’t take her eyes from him now. Defeated and deflated, the man lost the glow he’d had from his show. She felt awful.

“It’s a lot to take all at once,” Xixa sighed, rubbing at her arms. Her gaze fell to her feet, worrying the inside of her cheek. “Asra is very hands off and, I guess, that’s what I’m used to.”

A sudden uncertainty sliced through Julian’s thoughts. Turning his gaze toward her, slowly, he narrowed his eye. There was a wary electricity buzzing in the air. Xixa noticed the changed and looked up in time to be faced with an almost accusatory question, “Are you two lovers?”

[mustachedheroine-blog]

FANTASIA WARS RAID (aka Mu plays pinball with her clone) WORDS 1,547 CONTENT WARNINGS: mild violence?(no bloodshed or anything getting broken, but this sure is two kids trying to beat each other up! possible warning for child death if you count mu’s mist reaper disappearing as death!) ACCOMPANYING MUSIC

“Hey!! Two against one counts as cheating, you dumb copycat!!”

Felt kind of weird, calling someone who looked exactly like you “dumb”, but this was no time for reflective introspection and dissociation! The red-hooded girl had gotten herself into quite a pinch, what with her clone cornering her away from where all the major fighting was happening and into a quieter piece of the forest of Airaisal. Not only that, but that clone managed to catch the attention of a few of Essair’s pestlike monsters to help it out. Great.

“What kind of lousy clone are you anyway?! I’m a one-hero army and here you are, acting like a bad guy and getting a bunch of henchmen to do your dirty work for you!”

She never noticed the mist reapers expressing any kind of emotion before, but the moment she finished her sentence she could’ve sworn she saw its mouth twist into a frown. She didn’t get to have a good look at it, as the clone quickly brought its hands up and illuminated the area with an overbearing, bright purple, signalling the hissing pests to attack with a laser beam that looked just like Mu’s.

Teeth gritted, Mu swiftly made her way out of harm’s way via leaping in the direction of a tree, planting her feet against the bark and using the push to give her a boost in momentum. Streaks of black were left in her wake, coating her form in darkness like that bad guy’s pets, and before making contact with the ground, she shifted out of view with a sharp kshp!

The ghosts chasing her would stop momentarily, eyeing their surroundings and each other before one bearing golden swirls and speckles lashed out at the others, tearing their bodies and knocking them back with solid slaps to the face. Mu turned on her heel after one dissipated into smoke, eyes widening at the sight of the other pests lunging at her in retaliation - let this work, let this work - but then they bumped into the glow that appeared between them and her, glowing with a protective, comforting blue. Yes!!! Even with one Time Piece, that worked! She smirked at the confused chittering coming from the pests, running a hand across her cape and flicking it behind her in a single, confident motion. Heh!

“Wha- whoah!!” her clone suddenly charged at her with its own shield activated, bouncing her back like an inflated ball and knocking her into the base of a tree. Not the smoothest of landings, but the important things were that she managed to heave herself back on her feet and that her shield was still up.

She glared at her clone, fired up and- what was it doing? The clone merely winked at her and ran its hand across its cape, flicking it behind itself in a single, confident motion-

“Excuse me?!”

A single scoff was drawn out of her mouth before she countered the copy, lifting herself into the air and smashing into the ground as well as her clone with a powerful ferocity. It sent it flying the other way and released a shockwave that stunned any pests before they could attack Mu. They continued bouncing against each other like that, trying to break the others shield and get away with having their own unshattered, like two balls in a pinball game.

“Who do you think you are that makes you think you can just mock me like that?! You’re just gonna pretend that you can flaunt like I do so easily and- and just get away with it, huh?!”

She cursed the ground beneath her clone with Time Pieces(only one of which wasn’t a fake made of energy), and the air filled with dozens of haunting hums, accompanying Mu’s words as the clone desperately dodged the lines of fire exploding from within the ground.

“I’m not just going to let you do that! I don’t know if you’re your own person or if you’re, whatever- the bad guy disguised as me or something, and you know what?!”

The red-hooded girl’s shield shattered when she chose not to dodge out of the way of her clone’s counterattack - pft, of course it’d go for the time cracks right after she did it - and instead opted to charge her laser.

“-- I don’t care! You’re just a stupid, smelly old shadow, you’re nothing like me and you don’t even deserve to mock me--”

The scalding, barely bearable flames of the laser always made her palms tingle, and she powered through it each time. The mustached girl closed one eye and stood her ground, grinning when she spotted her clone getting caught in the blast.

“-- because you haven’t got the slightest clue what I’ve been through that shaped me into who I am!!”

The connection between the beam and her hands severed as she brought her hands apart, fingers curling and beginning to unintentionally shift into sharp, webbed claws; it’d be a miracle for a viewer to notice it with a blind eye however, as the red-hooded girl simultaneously shifted out of sight. She reappeared in front of her clone, who, despite feeling just a tad toasty because of the plasma, anticipated her arrival and recovered just in time to block her one, two, one, two punches, each drawing a more determined heh! from Mu, “I’m gonna end this with a cool punch to your face, just you wait- !”

And then she yelped, for she was yanked away from the one pest that came out unscathed from their earlier cacophony of chaos. Thankfully(for its own sake, really) it wasn’t large enough to be able to pick her up by her cape, though it did catch her off guard and give an opening for her clone. Mu’s vision filled with that same familiar blue colour from before, and if weren’t for the fact that she knew it wasn’t hers, she’d be pleasantly comforted. Her clone bounced into her, knocking her into the ground with an unbearable pressure and sending out waves of electricity across the clearing.

Mu was pinned right now.

“Dude, get off me!!” try as she might, those words fell upon deaf ears. She nearly bit her tongue as she quickly lunged with one hand, catching her clone’s fist in her palm. As the very least she could prevent it from getting a good punch in on her-

“Gwuh!!” The other fist now. Ugh, they had the same powers!! Evenly matched! How long was this gonna go on for?! Mu wasn’t exactly looking to hang out with this loser for a minute more, but what could she do?! A quick glance around her revealed burnt grass, disturbed dirt - no pests left luckily, the shockwaves her clone just made must’ve beaten the last one up - but nothing that she could use, or grab with her feet, really. Her knuckles were starting to go pale. Hurt from holding her own twisted power back.

She shouldn’t just lose the fight here. If she lost, not only would that have an effect on her, it’d have an effect on the fight between the tree lady and the bad guy with the big ugly face!

Heroes don’t lose. They don’t lose. They don’t lose. They don’t lose …

The red-hooded girl breathed in. Webbed claws took away her fingers and dark slimy scales took away her speckled skin, giving way to an appearance that was halfway between what she was comfortable with and what she considered bothersome but cool. She put off the conscious decision to remain humanlike and instead directed that energy to wanting to have the Time Piece in her hand.

It materialised just like that, wedging itself between her claws and the clones fingers. And, with a grip that threatened to shatter the hourglass, she grabbed a hold of it and hurled it at her clone’s face, smashing through the barrier and into its cheek. At last she managed to hurl that mist reaper away from her and into the air; and she caught sight of it dissipating into dark smoke before it had the chance to hit the ground next to her.

She didn’t lose.

Mu let out a half-cough, half-laugh and then a relieved yet exhausted groan, her fingers and skin returning to how she liked it. She allowed herself to relax and breathe for a moment, finally rest after the fight. In fact, she wiggled her body into the earth a little more, getting comfortable and curling her legs and wrapping the corner of her cape around herself like a blanket. Her Time Piece was held tightly against the medallion on her chest - a reminder that she was strong. She had a comfortable little bed made of dirt.

At least she didn’t end up in a tree like that one other time, right? She snorted.

…

She should probably get up. There was still a fight to be won - this one was just the start.

Ten more minutes.

But the longer she lay curled up in the dirt bed, the more dirty her get up would get! And she still had to fix her mustache ...

… Five more minutes.

Yeah, alright, that sounded like a fairer deal.

[jestbee]

June 4: Take the world by storm

[kuraiamore]

MadaKaka ficlet, vigil for the night bloom, part 2

@madakaka

Err, yeah, so I wrote a part 2 of Madara+Kakashi’s forearms as well, partially out of procrastination, partially because Madara is surprisingly very fun to write, and partially because everyone was so welcoming and nice and just amazingly enthusiastic about this tiny flyaway thing I wrote, like wow. So yeah, in lieu of sending you all hugs, I am sending you more MadaKaka >.<

Hopefully it’s as good as the first part?

The moonlight makes the roofs of Konoha shimmer with a blue-grey tinge, long shadows stretching out a haphazard path for Madara as he leaps over the eclectic sprawl of buildings and infrastructure that make up the village’s thriving hive. Every vaulted step sends him cutting through the still night air, swift and sure as a kunai thrown by well-trained hands (and pale forearms taut with sinewy muscle. If Madara lands a few centimetres off his mark with only his shinobi skill to catch himself gracefully before an awkward trip, no one is there to tell.) At his speed, he stirs the wind and it whips about him in greeting, whistling in his ears and pressing cold palms and scratching nails into his cheeks. Yet despite its chilly touch, the roiling heat that had flared up when he had had Kakashi pinned against the fence continues to thrum through his blood, a maelstrom of agitation churning relentlessly beneath his skin.

A crow of laughter, raucous and warm-bellied, jars him, and he realises with a huff of annoyance that he’s approaching the village centre,  cool tones beginning to give way to dappled spots of muted gold and orange radiating from lampposts and restaurant lights and lanterns. Mid-leap, he flares out his senses, mapping out the tens of thousands dots of chakra flickering within the village radius around him, searching for a gap between the clusters…  and realises that he feels nothing of the usual electric tingle that comes from picking up Kakashi’s unique signature.

There is an odd, weightless second where he floats, hanging in the air; where bewilderment creeps up like a rising tide and extinguishes the heated itch running mad beneath his skin; where the feeling of lack aches as keen and devastating as he has only ever felt once before, the night Konohagakure was founded and he stole away into the deepest corner of the Uchiha compound, held a mirror to his eyes and whispered apologies to an unseeing ghost.

It hits him—really hits him—almost like a blow to the head: the sound of Kakashi’s weighted voice rasping out his name; the sensation of Kakashi’s tense body readying itself for combat; the sight of Kakashi looking at him with guarded apprehension and apathetic deliberation, and he lets himself feel the rush of the fall before skidding across concrete slabs to a stop, toeing the very edge of the rooftop he lands on.

Crude oil seeps thick and black where the heat once blazed and smouldered, and it’s not until his thoughts hiss viciously of absence, of no more, of stay away, that he recognises the feeling for what it is: a swirling cesspit of guilt and shame and regret bubbling away into angry misery.

Stupid, stupid, stupidstupidstupidstupid

Another burst of laughter rings out, riding the air to echo in his ears. Madara clenches his fists, closes his eyes, takes several deep breaths and tells himself that there is no way the plebeians below him could know of his presence unless he allowed it (for even with 99.98% of his chakra sealed away under rune and ink and blood—20 years, and though he had agreed of his own accord, the sentence for his crimes still chimes bitterly in his ears—Uchiha Madara is a force beyond nature, an artist wielding chakra for his paints and subduing the world to his woes and whims). Therefore, sure as the sky was blue and his name was Uchiha Madara, it was in no way possible for the laughter to be directed at him.

He tells himself this very firmly, repeatedly, and yet the urge to destroy whoever dared laugh in during his rare moment of introspection neither subsides nor changes. An involuntary growl emits from his throat. Almost comforted by the familiar flutter of irritation, Madara moves into a crouch, bending his knees in preparation to spring back into the skies when he feels it: the spark of Kakashi’s chakra signature, flickering approximately two kilometres from him and rapidly moving closer.

The intensity of the relief that wells up inside him at the knowledge that Kakashi is nearby stuns him; his breath comes out in a stutter and he finds himself simply staying in his awkward crouch, blinking like an idiot. It’s a long moment, in which he stands half bent, alternately perplexed and angry at himself, and then even more angry at the whole ordeal, before he hears the soft tap of a body landing behind him, Kakashi’s chakra flaring pure and bright before dwindling back to its usual low, almost imperceptible hum.

It’s nice of Kakashi, Madara thinks, slightly dazed, to give him such clear warning of his oncoming presence, and even the chance to escape if he so desired. Slowly, he straightens up and, against the screaming alarm bells that suddenly sound in his head, turns around.

Kakashi had taken the time to take off his Hokage robe, standing in his preferred armoured vest, jounin slacks, shirt and mask. The moonlight is still shining, bathing the village leader in an ethereal white glow and making the silver of his hair glint like polished blades. Madara’s eyes are drawn down the length of Kakashi’s long, willowy body, tracing the slightly shadowy outline of his shoulders, down his arms to where his hands are tucked casually into his pants pockets, hip cocked slightly to the side.

Those damnable forearms peek out, two tiny patches of skin between swathes of loose-fitting fabric.

There’s a reflexive swallow; Madara finds that his throat is dry, and something is tangled and writhing in his chest. He must be making some kind of terrific expression because Kakashi quirks an eyebrow and he suddenly has the inexplicable urge to rip off the stupid mask and smash Kakashi’s face with his own and—oh.

Ohhh.

That explains the heat, and the burn, and the warmth. That explains the way his mouth itches; the way his gut roils; the way his eyes insist on following after whenever he catches sight of silver-grey hair, of a long, indelible scar cutting through one of a pair of perceptive dark eyes, of a smooth, lean body whose every contour he has studied and committed to memory over the last four years, seven months since he returned to the place he now begrudgingly calls home.

(A home built between the towering piles of paper in the Hokage office; between the trees of the village training grounds where a certain shinobi steals away to take naps and play fetch with oddly indulgent ninken; between the cramped apartment walls that the very same shinobi refuses to give up despite getting the keys to the most prestigious building in the village.)

To think he had risked that in a moment of utter madness.

A whirl of dizziness washes over him.

Only half aware of what he’s doing, Madara takes slow steps towards the man standing before him, keeping his hands well apart and in clear view, until they’re back to almost where they started: standing too close, hardly a foot apart, his breath too hot and loud in his ears.

Loud enough to drown out the restless, clashing mix of anxiety and offence to his stubborn Uchiha pride, the clamour of alarms screaming in his head quietening in the face of Kakashi’s impassive stare.

He sinks to his knees.

“Woah-woah, hey!”

Kakashi hits the ground almost as soon as he does, arms extended as if to catch him, and suddenly those forearms that had started the whole mess are back in his reach, as mesmerising and infuriating as they had been before he had fled in a burst of possibly misplaced self-preservation.

He can’t name what compels him to stretch out his own hands and take hold of those lines of skin. There’s an intake of breath above him, but Kakashi holds still, just like before, and Madara takes it as permission to explore. He trails his fingertips lightly across the pale expanses, and Kakashi shivers, almost unnoticeable but for their proximity to each other.

Maddening, Madara thinks, and does it again, this time pressing harder so he can feel the raised wrinkle of old scars against the pads of his fingers.  

He keeps going, gliding up and down and back again, marvelling at the difference in texture between scar and skin, only half aware that his strokes could be considered caresses. He dips as far as he can under the cuff of Kakashi’s sleeves, until the tip of his middle finger hits the bend of Kakashi’s inner elbow, then slides back out with a gentle scratch. He thumbs over veins where he can see them, until he finds himself simply holding Kakashi’s wrists in his hands, the edges of his gloves digging slightly into his palms.

He doesn’t know how long they kneel there, his entire world narrowed down to two strips of luminous white.

Kakashi tugs softly with his right hand, and it is with some strangely forlorn helplessness that Madara loosens his fingers just enough to let Kakashi slip it out of his grip.

“Maa, I don’t really know what’s going on,” Kakashi says, and there’s a nervous chuckle in his voice, the hand that had escaped Madara’s grasp reaching up to ruffle the back of silver hair, “but have you calmed down now?”

It’s a second before his brain processes the words, and then Madara wants to scoff, to flick his hair in Kakashi’s face and tell him no, he is not calm, he is currently the furthest thing from calm and really, this is all Kakashi’s fault, because how dare he reduce Madara to this… this pathetically heated, wanting, mawkish thing of a man—except he realises that Kakashi hasn’t taken away his other arm, that it’s still resting in Madara’s grip.

He doesn’t want to let go.

So instead he nods and hopes that Kakashi will let him hold on, for just a little longer.

But Kakashi just lets out what sounds like a breath of relief, eyes curving in his trademark smile, and stands up, his hand sliding away with the motion. Madara’s fingers twitch.

“Well then!” Kakashi chirps, back to his usual blasé attitude as if Madara hadn’t been holding him by the throat not thirty minutes ago. “How about some sushi? I heard that they’ve added some new items to the menu at Hotaru’s, and I’ve been wanting to check it out.”

Madara is at a loss to Kakashi’s intentions; surely it couldn’t be that simple, whatever Kakashi’s personal carefree inclinations were. After all, Madara was still officially a criminal under patrol, who had outright attacked the most important man in the village regardless of his reasons and intentions. He had broken the one of the strictest conditions of his contract with the village, which was enough grounds of have a whole squad of ANBU  chasing after him and—Madara realises with a start that absolutely no one had approached them while he had Kaksahi pinned to the fence, and where the fuck had the ANBU guard been, the Hokage could have been hurt—

“Madara.”

Madara looks up to see Kakashi holding out an open palm, and Madara cannot tell if the softness he sees in grey eyes is real or some desperate imaginary hallucination.

That awful squirming in his gut is back, but he is Uchiha Madara, and he will lose to no one, not even himself.

Kakashi’s hand is warm.

A Rather, Very Long, Very Indulgent Author’s Note:

So I originally considered ending this with MadaKaka smut (because I love smut and I especially love smut with Kakashi, particularly a submissive/bottom!Kakashi (incidentally how I found myself interested in MadaKaka in the first place actually, cause I feel that there really aren’t that many characters who he would realistically let hold him down, also your MadaKaka headcanons were just A+)), but I just could not figure out a good segueway that didn’t seem entirely unnatural to either of the Madara and Kakashi I had pictured in my mind, so I relented to Madara’s emotional rollercoaster and started looking for other avenues to go down.

(That said, if you haven’t seen it already, I wrote the smut!)

My first thought was this: “If Madara’s already freaking out so much about Kakashi’s forearms, what if I let him be fixated on a slightly more intimate body part? Cause variety.” (because apparently I enjoy turning Kakashi into a Romantic-style Victoria maiden whose every patch of exposed skin is grounds to fall into a spiral of brain mush that can articulate nothing more than omg fuck hot hot omg this man *ahem, not projecting at all, I swear, it’s all Madara, ahem*).

Anyway, so with that thought in mind, I started on the idea of Madara getting even more worked up about Kakashi’s neck until I remembered that Kakashi’s mask covers his neck as well.

Me at this point: all good, we just need to think a little outside the box. How about somewhere a little lower that isn’t quite right below the belt?

So now we move on to Madara freaking out over Kakashi’s lower calves, the area between sandals and pants legs. But because I like to research for anything I write and ensure as much canon compliancy as possible, I decided to double check that Kakashi’s outfit/s really did expose a part of his legs.

…if you haven’t guessed it already, they do not. In his jounin outfit, there is a gap between shoes and pants, but the legs there are wrapped up in bandages, and in his Hokage day wear, he’s got these new knee-high sandals.

So now I’m getting just a little miffed, but thinking, “it’s okay, we can still work with this. Naruto-style ninja sandals are pretty exposed; there’s usually a cut at the back, so let’s have Madara be all stupid about Kakashi’s heels. I mean, I have no idea what position they’ll be in for Madara to be staring at Kakashi’s heels, but at least it’ll be something different.”

Kakashi’s new knee-high, Hokage boot-sandals do not have an exposed cut at the back of them.

(I was in half a mind to make Madara mildly obsessed with Kakashi’s toes, cause at least his toes are exposed, but then I was like, “yeah, nah, not really into that”).

So basically we were back to forearms, and maybe fingers, except fingers without a hand/palm is kinda weird (why don’t you just take his gloves you, you ask? (Or anything else for that matter? ;) ) Oh god I was tempted, but the flow just didn’t seem right, so I didn’t), and that’s how I ended up with what you read up there ^^^

This is all to say that Kakashi is actually a Romantic-style Victorian maiden—the type who would start a reading club in a secret parlour, delight in defying societal stereotypes and expectations, and use the system to absolutely destroy the fuck out of any idiot who would dare question his competence and ability for sure, but gosh, can you just imagine him demurely and breezily delivering underhanded insults to anyone who so much as looks at him the wrong way with a coquettish smirk and a tease of skin?

(I imagine maiden!Kakashi in a dark blue evening gown, either three-quarter sleeves and wrist gloves or off-the-shoulder and satin gloves running all the way up to the upper arm, and strings of pearls gleaming across their neck and collar, perhaps small fang-shaped earrings forged of some precious silver metal hanging just above the curve of their jawline. Their face is hidden behind either a delicate silk scarf or a lace fan, silver-white hair the colour of morning mist** flowing down their back in choppy waves (think long-hair Sakumo with hair unbound). The scar across their eye the souvenir of a fencing competition because the Hatake Household is on that shit and every Hatake lord and lady learns to fight to protect what they hold dear. I dunno how genderbent(?), Victorian maiden!Kakashi became a thing in my head but there you go xD )

(And Madara’s just fuming in the corner while anxiously trying to figure out a way to successfully court this exquisite creature, meanwhile promising to kill anyone with even the slightest of dishonourable intentions to his chosen desire.)

Honestly, what are you guys doing to me that I’m beginning to find this crack pairing actually adorable? xD

Aaaaand I think that is all I have to say.

Thanks for reading this stupidly long note til the end, and I hope you have an amazing day/night wherever you are<3

**I waste hours trying to decide what shade of grey I want to make Kakashi’s hair at any one particular time. Seriously, do a basic google image search of the man, and is it light grey? dark grey? silver tones? blue tones? lavender tones? should I go get my eyes checked? *throws hands up in frustration*

[houstonlocalus-blog]

Rebel, Jester, Mythic, Poet: Contemporary Persians

A current exhibition of Iranian artists proves that art speaks volumes about things you cannot say.

Although Rebel, Jester, Mythic, Poet: Contemporary Persians – The Mohammed Afkhami Collection fills only three small galleries with twenty-seven items, the exhibit intrigues the viewer, possibly to the point they’re likely to spend as much time looking at it as a much larger display.

Items run the gamut of mixed media, paintings, photography and sculpture. Subjects include gender, politics and religion. Several of the artists represented live outside Iran in Europe or North America.

The entrance to the show, across from the museum’s café, has flying carpets lying on the ground. Farhad Moshiri’s “Flying Carpet” (2007) is made from thirty-two stacked carpets with the imprint of a jet aircraft carved in the middle of each.

All of the works date from 1998 to the present and represent three generations of Iranian artists. It’s not surprising to see Iranian filmmaker Abbas Kiarostami’s “Untitled” from his 2010 series Snow White. The minimalistic triptych, a photographic print on canvas, shows the countryside buried under snow. Kiarostami, who died in 2016, remains the most important film director from Iran.

Your attention immediately focuses on Ali Banisadr’s oil on linen “We Haven’t Landed on Earth Yet” from 2012 in the first gallery. Using Bosch type imagery we gaze upon a huge canvas (82 x 120 inches) of blue figures colliding into one another against a swirling blue background. There’s an element of chaos to the piece that demands introspection.

Two works that present subliminal themes dominate the second and third galleries. This is a culture where a satellite dish is a typical banned item.

Afruz Amighi designed “Angels in Combat I” out of woven polyethylene, which is also used to make tents found in UN refugee camps. At first “Angels” looks like a series of textures and whirling figures. Closer examination reveals angels wielding machine guns and images of snakes twirled around medical staffs. A tree of life dominates the center of the all white composition.

Parastou Forouhar mounts a huge chromogenic photo in four panels on aluminum. Each of the panels measures approximately 60 x 33 inches.

“Friday” depicts swaths of dark heavy fabric across the four frames. Friday is the Iranian day of rest and prayer. The smallest amount of flesh can be seen in one panel. While certainly a hand, or more precisely the fold between a thumb and forefinger, the image also suggests a sense of the forbidden.

The more you gaze at the art on display the more the meanings change.

“Rebel, Jester, Mythic, Poet: Contemporary Persians – The Mohammed Afkhami Collection” will be on exhibit at the Millennium Galleries in the Audrey Jones Beck Building at the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston until September 24, 2017.

Rebel, Jester, Mythic, Poet: Contemporary Persians this is a repost

[ricardosousalemos]

Feist: Pleasure

In a bizarro universe, Leslie Feist is a fool’s idea of a one-hit wonder—a distinctly aughts success story about the power of digital music providers, ad syncs, and viral videos in breaking quirky Top 10 hits like “1234.” Feist had her chance to take the iPod money and run, but instead of succumbing to her poppier sensibilities—which always felt more like a mask she put on when she wasn’t soothing her melancholy—she dug in deeper on her salt-of-the-earth soulfulness and relaxed-fit rock-guitar chops with 2011’s Metals. Her break out masterpiece The Reminder made Feist a platinum-selling star in her native Canada, but Metals showed she was not terribly interested in the part. Instead, the one-time Broken Social Scene member was focused on the thoughtful long game, one she continues to play with no particular rush or agenda here on her fifth LP.

Pleasure features a number of songs that stretch towards the five-minute mark, making more sense as part of the whole rather than individually. The title track and “Century” position the album as Feist’s most overtly rock’n’roll record—the former resembling PJ Harvey in her prime, the latter upping the unf before Jarvis Cocker swaggers in, both with one of those triumphantly noisy choirs Feist grew fond of on Metals. The playful French pop, electronic flourishes, and jazzier inclinations that set apart her early work from the indie-pop pack are downplayed across the record, but a number of her signatures remain.

More than half the songs employ nature-related wordplay as a means of gauging relationships and changing mindsets, though the put-a-bird-on-it-ness is not as pronounced as on other Feist albums (she’s trying to cut down). The most striking example arrives with “The Wind,” which begins a little like an Arthur Russell tune, all lo-fi beats and ragged chords. Occasionally her poetry about gaining perspective over time lands on straightforward realizations, as Russell’s often did; “I’m shaped by my storming like they’re shaped by their storming,” she sings, the sound swelling with a lovely horn undercurrent from Colin Stetson. Like many songs on Pleasure, the melody takes time to unfurl before loosely fading out.

These quieter moments are the ones that work best. “Baby Be Simple” is as tender as Feist gets—just an acoustic guitar and a humble plea to take it easy on her, the woman who once declared her ability to feel it all. Pleasure reminds you that Feist’s simmering introspection is the ideal vehicle for the more delicate facets of her voice. She can still surprise with a quick shift from cocked-hip talk-singing to yelps of fury, but her high range breaking through a dark sky like the sun remains the most stunning view.

Continuing to work with fellow Canadian ex-pat Mocky, Feist’s musical arrangements have grown slipperier and more subtle. “Any Party,” with its acoustic riff straight out of a Kinks song, slows way down and drops out almost entirely, eventually building up to a whimsical, barroom singalong. These songs don’t move how you expect them to, and that’s part of their appeal—or the frustration if you’re looking for the pared-down immediacy of The Reminder. Occasionally her “just trust me” approach makes way for a big risk that doesn’t always pay off. She sets up “A Man Is Not His Song,” a folksy ode to the fallacy of songs as diary entries, with field audio of crickets and a passing car radio playing “Pleasure,” then ends it with a snippet of Mastodon’s “High Road” as a comment on the femininity/masculinity at work. It’s a playful idea (and perhaps an inside joke with former collaborators), but it’s jarring and doesn’t fit the album’s easy flow.

On Pleasure, Feist faces middle age with a slow-burning ruckus. She accepts that getting older is growing comfortable with knowing you'll never have all the answers. And she savors the ride nonetheless—like she says, pleasure is what we’re here for—because this is it, this is life. When she finally wonders, on the swirling torch song that closes the record, “When they cart me away, will I say that I died already years ago?” we already know the answer. Feist may have hidden away for a while and thought about giving up music before making this album, but a decade since she broke through, she’s settling in like a long-distance runner staring down the horizon she knows will outlast her. She will quietly make her mark in the meantime.