#(some vague implications of crushes maybe but like. barely)

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

The Forbidden Book

YA historical fantasy

the daughter of a wealthy businessman in a small shtel under Russian rule is about to be married off, so she runs away and pretends to be a boy - but the name she chose turns out to be the name of a real boy, who’s missing and wanted dead

along with some other teens, they try to unravel the mystery of what happened to him and where he might be, and are drawn into the underbelly of forgery, illegal political pamplets, dybbuks, and angels

genderqueer lesbian MC

arc from netgalley, out oct 1

[verlaines-corner-archive]

𝑴𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝑮𝒖𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒖𝒔 𝑯𝒐𝒎𝒆 (𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒇 𝒘𝒆 𝑫𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝑫𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒕)

 -> Summary: “Yes. Her death, as wretched as she was, pains me.” 

 -> Pairings: Priest!Fyodor x Reader

 -> Warnings/contents: Implications of abuse, though not from Fyodor, along with mentions of death. This is based on traditions relating to Halloween, however it is not meant as an exact one for one.

 -> Notes: This fic is a part of @thecoffeelovingfreak​ halloween collab, Season of the Witch!  It was a pleasure to be able to join in. This is the first time I’ve tried to write something like this, so feedback is much appreciated! This is completely sfw. 1.5k+ words

Church bells ring through the air, the out of tune clang of metal on metal drawing your attention to a cathedral, a stone relic that - despite its size - stands proudly in place. Any other day the sight of it would fill you with comfort and awe, but today your senses are apathetic, childlike wonder replaced with a crushing weight, the cathedral walls not the same as they were yesterday. You don’t care to think of the cause.

You stare until your stomach churns and eyes haze over, and the cathedral is replaced by an amalgamation of browns and greys, vague shapes that form nothing of note and do little to curb your growing angst. Stupid building, some part of you thinks. 

It hears you somehow, and sounds its bells out once more, stealing the morning away with the final echoes. Cruel, though you ought to be thankful, you think, this morning hasn’t been kind to you, has it?

You let out a sigh, eyes walking the line between despondent and aware. You think there’s a faint buzz, a soft hiss playing in your ears. Time is lost, minutes, even hours spent in nothingness. 

Then a figure appears, or you think it’s a figure. To your eyes it’s nothing more than a ghost, a faint mix of black and white, something barely noticeable on an already drab palette, yet it strikes you. Why?

Footsteps. You think you hear footsteps, light as they are. Mute thuds on the ground that follow the figure as it moves ever closer. Then your name rings out.

And again.

Your name. Is it your name? It seems like it belongs to you, it reaches you through static like it does.

It’s only with a soft tap on your shoulder that it clicks, your name (you’ve decided that yes, it is indeed yours) and reality falling into place. The figure before you is recognisable now, it belongs to Father Dostoevsky. Or to you Father Fyodor, or even Fedya when in private. A sickly man, frame feeble and weak and clad in an old cassock. He looks over you, his once apathetic eyes flecked with sympathy.

“I thought you would be here,” his voice is calming, you think, “you do not seem well.”

“No.” It’s shaky, the word seeming like nothing more than an exhale of breath.

A displeased hum from your company, his mouth hinting downwards as he moves to sit beside you.

“Is it-?” “Yes. Her death, as wretched as she was, pains me.” The words crack.

“I see.”

Father Fyodor nods. He’s uncomfortable, shoulders tensing at the mention of your deceased relative. Emotional vulnerability, the rational part says, he doesn’t like conversations like this, he can’t comfort you. But something tells you otherwise. Something tells you he’s hiding a secret, that he knows the cause of death. Maybe he was even involved, wasn't he?

Your eyebrows knit together, a slight shiver playing at your spine. It’s momentary, something miniscule but you know he saw it. You can’t hide anything from Fyodor, even on your best days. But there is no comment about it, no snide remark nor teasing jab, simply a subtle change of his expression and then he talks. 

“There’s no shame in it. I have seen many who have suffered worse at someone's hands and handled it far more horribly than you. As is my duty.”

“And is it mine to suffer such a loss? So soon to All Hallows’ Eve was she lost and now it is here.”

“I know, dear,” he reaches out, seeming more like a man of God than your lover as he places an arm around you, “but as is his plan, as cruel as it may seem. I’m sorry, I wish I could have done something.”

His tone tells you everything, he doesn’t think it was cruel. You wonder if the blood on his hands has seeped into your sleeve. 

“Though I would think the timing to be a mercy,” he continues, “I say this not just as a priest but as your lover; God will guide your mother to her place of eternal belonging soon. The ceremony is tonight, will you be joining us? You don’t have to of course, only if you can find it in your heart.” 

Fyodor rubs your arm slightly, letting you know that there really is no pressure.

“I’ll try.” 

“That’s all I can ask of you, darling.”

The two of you fall into silence once more. Fyodor’s arms remain around you, an attempt at consoling you mixed with occasional words of encouragement and faith, both in you and God. 

It remains like so until the hour has grown late, the sun sinking into shades of gentle pinks and yellows. Fyodor bids you farewell, leaving with a soft kiss to your forehead and the hope of seeing you at the ceremony. You watch as he disappears behind the cathedrals side door, the resounding thud of wood on stone settling in the air. It would hurt him for you to not show, of this much you are certain. 

-

The moon sits high in the sky, casting a soft white glow over the cathedral and its people, the congregation gathered by the stone doors. They are waiting for Father Dostoevsky, unlit candles in their hands. Some of them carry already lit turnip lanterns and others soul cakes, while some carry nothing at all, save for despair and hope intertwined in their hearts. They wait in silence, nothing but the rustling of leaves in the wind to keep them company.

There is no noise from them when Father Dostoevsky exits from the cathedral, candle in hand. His countenance is gentle, and in the pallid moonlight he himself looks heavenly. There are no words spoken as he walks down the cathedral steps, none as he leads the congregation along an old stone path, worn from years of use. 

It goes along the outskirts of the cathedral, winding through the garden and across a stream - the bridge of which creaks under the weight of her newfound guests - until the path arrives at hallowed ground; a graveyard. The metal gates screech as they are opened before going quiet once more.

Silence, until Dostoevsky opens his mouth and sings, an old psalm that only he has any knowledge of, in a dialect that has long since passed away. His voice is smooth, calming as it floats through the air and though the people have no clue of its contents they listen intently, as if any word missed will be their doom. 

The psalm fades, coming to a close with the lighting of Dostoevsky's candle. He turns to face the congregation, eyes raking over its members and upon the realisation that you're not among them Fyodor feels a weight settle in his chest, something that - light as it is - casts doubt upon himself and his actions. 

In the fey glow of candlelight his angst is mistaken for mourning and the people light their own candles, prayers tumbling from their lips as they scatter through the graveyard to the earthly homes of their deceased. Fyodor wanders amongst them, uttering soft prayers and comfort when needed while saving none for himself. His heart isn’t in it, too distracted by your absence. The moon shines overhead.

-

The graveyard is all but empty within an hours time, with most save for Father Fyodor and a few lingerers having retired for rest. The candles are still lit and from where you stand (that is, roughly ten metres from the gates) the graveyard looks like a sea of light in a land of shadow, at once welcoming and ominous. So much so that you hesitate when entering, rocking back and forth on your heels dumbly, before - with a fair amount of reluctance - making your way inside. 

The air is brisk as you walk, the soft crunch of dirt beneath your feet and even the way you move is reluctant, timid as you approach the person you came to see. Father Fyodor, who stands before a lit grave, whose only decoration is a lone candle placed before the tombstone. So pathetic is the candle's stature that you struggle to see it, even its flame seemingly hidden in the blank spaces of the surrounding light. A sense of pity fills you, watching as the candle struggles under the weight of itself. You wonder if it will last the hour, though something tells you that even ten minutes is a generous time frame.

You stand beside Fyodor, eyes fixated on the stone. The grave is your mothers, the tombstone saying little but her name and date of death. You suppose there’s not much else to say, nothing that would be appropriate for grounds such as these. Fyodor is the first to speak, watching you from the corner of his eye.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” 

“Neither,” your voice barely reaches his ears, almost lost within the space between you, “I’m sorry if my absence caused worry, Fedya.”

Your eyes do not leave the stone, even as a hand touches your shoulder. Its fleeting, fingertips dancing atop the cloth of your shirt before moving to your cheek. His knuckles brush along the skin, a soft hum leaving Fyodor as you lean into his touch. 

“There’s no need to apologise,” you turn to face him, his hand resting on your cheek properly now, “I’m glad you’re here.” 

Fyodor’s spare hand finds yours, threading your fingers together as he leans in, a soft kiss placed on your forehead. You decide to ignore the sins crawling on his back, to ignore the blood on his hands until he is ready to confess aloud; you will judge him then.

For now you lean into his embrace, tears staining your cheeks as you find comfort in his arms.

Ao3

[andypantsx3]

statistically significant | 5 | bakugou/reader

length: 23,490 words | 7 chapters

summary: You’re the scientist who developed a neural net to model the value of assists. Now that your work is feeding into the hero rankings, pro hero Ground Zero has a bone to pick with your results.

tags: romance, enemies to lovers, sexual tension, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut, m/f threats of violence, problematic behavior

The next few weeks were a blur of activity.

When he wasn’t off on patrol or a mission, Mina and Kaminari kept Bakugou busy with dozens of team exercises, all of which needed your analysis. They ran him through any and every scenario that entered their brains, and after the first few rounds, Bakugou seemed to resign himself to their ministrations, his explosions no longer rattling the windows of the training room in displeasure. You’d reviewed footage of the first couple of rounds all together, the trio of heroes jammed into the tiny surveillance room with you, grimy with the ashy residue of Bakugou’s explosions, someone or another’s shirt partly melted off, and all of them looking exhausted but pleased.

Eventually, though, it became difficult for you to spare time in between your meetings with the other agency heroes. Bakugou was not helping matters by kicking the door down in the middle of your meetings and attempting to bodily remove anyone you were in conversation with whenever he wanted an update. You were dedicating almost as much time to breaking up fights and rescheduling appointments as you were to having the actual meetings themselves.

In the interest of maintaining the peace--and health and safety the Miruko agency employees--you wrote a quick script that monitored the training room footage and automatically ran your analysis program any time it keyed in on Bakugou, Mina, and Kaminari together on screen. It forwarded the results to their phones so that Bakugou wouldn’t come stalking in and making any more enemies than he already had.

That seemed to pacify him for a couple of days, and you managed almost twenty blissful meetings uninterrupted, until a Friday morning when no sooner had you flipped the lights on in the surveillance room than Bakugou was ripping the door open after you.

“Enough slacking off, nerd,” he growled, stalking over to loom over you in a vaguely menacing manner. It was early but he looked wide awake, maybe a little mussed like he'd already been training, the same combination of annoyingly handsome and intimidating as always. He was also dressed in some variation of his usual training set, dark fabric clinging to his chest, arms bare. The sight was really way too much for this early in the morning.

His sudden entrance startled you out of a yawn, and you just barely managed to catch your laptop before it slipped through your fingers.

“Good morning?” you hedged, looking up at him in apprehension.

He made an angry, dismissive noise. Before you could dredge up enough energy for a proper eye roll, something small and warm was thrust unceremoniously into your chest, briefly winding you.

You looked down at the item he was attempting to fracture your sternum with and found yourself staring at a white takeout cup.

You looked up at him in confusion but he just glared passively until you looked down again.

“....what is this?” you asked. Your hands raised automatically to take the cup from him.

“Battery acid,” Bakugou said.

You stopped, gaping at him, and he rolled his eyes. “The fuck do you think it is, idiot?” he demanded, gesturing at it forcefully.

You looked down at the cup again, a soft swirl of steam issuing from the opening in the cap. You brought it hesitantly to your face. A cursory sniff revealed very little in the way of poison--not that you had much expertise on the subject--but it did smell suspiciously like the house blend from the nice bakery down the street.

You stared at Bakugou with misgiving. “What is this, actually?”

He made a disbelieving noise. “You spend all this time acting like such a smartass and you don’t even know what a fucking coffee is? The fuck do you think you drink every morning?”

You couldn’t help but stare at him. There was absolutely no way Bakugou Katsuki was bringing you coffee. This had to be some kind of trick.

His threats from a few weeks ago floated to the forefront of your mind. I’m going to win the bet, he’d said, and then you’re in for it. Was this part of "in for it"? What was “it”, exactly, and was it likely that “it” entailed poisoning you in broad daylight in the middle of a hero agency?

The offing you in broad daylight seemed very much his style, but poison seemed a roundabout way to do it. No, if he was going to settle a score with you, it was going to be something much more immediate, and probably obnoxiously flashy.

You brought the cup to your mouth, taking a tentative sip. No acid tang of poison met your tongue, only the rich, buttery taste of the coffee. Though arsenic was said to be flavorless... Damn that was good, though.

Bakugou hovered impatiently, like he was waiting for something, wearing a strangely blank expression. You watched him nervously. Was the poison slow acting or something?

His scarlet gaze locked onto yours, and it suddenly hit you what he must be doing. You almost dropped the coffee. Was he...waiting for a thank you? As in, he was aware of and actively acknowledging that he’d just done something for you?

You decided to test the waters. “Thank you, Bakugou.”

He made an impatient clicking noise. “Fucking took you long enough.”

You frantically schooled your features into a mask that betrayed nothing of your shock. Christ, he was serious. He’d actually brought you a coffee, and he knew it was a nice thing to do? There was no way he was doing this just to do this. He had to want something from you.

“...So, what is it that you’re bribing me for?” you asked.

Bakugou’s face went dark, the tips of his ears strangely pink. “Fuck you. I don’t need to fucking bribe you for shit, with your obvious little crush on me.” He took a threatening step closer, and that familiar scent of gunpowder and caramel filled your nose.

You felt your face heat, your heart jumping into your mouth. Not this shit again.

So, it was absolutely true that you had a lot of trouble detaching your eyes from the width of his biceps, and that your brain ran wild loops every time he was close. But just because you had difficulty looking anywhere else when he was in a room, didn't mean you had a crush on him. He was way too much of a brat and it was exhausting trying to keep up with his weirdly intense personality. Just because he was pretty did not mean you had a thing for him...

“Why are you like this?” you complained, edging away from him as he moved nearer.

He smirked knowingly, taking another step closer. A small, traitorous shiver went up your spine at the thrill of a man so close. To your eternal embarrassment, Bakugou’s keen gaze seemed to catch it, a darker smile curling his mouth.

You opened your mouth to make some kind of excuse--though what you would have come up with was completely beyond you--when a head of wild pink curls poked itself through the door.

The intruder let out a quiet gasp, but that was enough to break the moment. Bakugou whirled on her, red eyes glaring.

“Raccoon, do you ever mind your own fucking business?” he demanded, in the tones of someone interrogating a war criminal.

Mina’s dark eyes widened innocently. “What? How was I supposed to know this is where you’d gone?” she asked. There was note of something gloating in her voice, however, and you got the feeling that she’d been hoping to catch you in some kind of act.

Your face went hotter. Why did everyone think there was a thing with you and Bakugou, including, apparently, Bakugou?

“Anyway, I’m not here for you,” Mina informed him briskly, derailing your wandering train of thought. “I was gonna ask stats girl to give us a hand this morning.”

She turned to you, her smile slightly predatory. “Blasty’s better at sticking close now, so we started focusing team exercises on victim evaluation. Any chance you can play civilian? Denki was for a bit but he started getting too into it.” A grimace flitted over her pretty features. “I almost lost an arm trying to stop Katsuki from blasting him clear into the stratosphere.”

You looked at Bakugou, but an irritated twitch of a blonde eyebrow was all you got by way of an explanation.

Your thoughts turned inward, wondering if this was a good idea. You’d been hoping to use the morning to get a little work done on a prototype of a productionized model, seeing as you had fewer meetings than usual today. And you hadn’t really come prepared for a potential roll around in the dirt and dust of the city simulation training spaces.

As if sensing your hesitation, Mina chirped, “I’ll let you a spare set of my training clothes so yours don’t get dirty! And you would probably be saving Denki’s life here--don’t you owe him one from the Hero Awards?”

Your gaze cut back to Bakugou without any direction from your brain. Bakugou appeared to be making no attempt to look apologetic about the incident at the Awards. He raised an eyebrow in challenge when your look lingered too long for his liking, red eyes narrowing in on you with a sudden heat. “The fuck are you looking at, nerd?”

“He means please,” Mina said, her voice going honeyed and wheedling. “Plus, it will be fun! I promise you I won’t melt any of your body parts off. Just Blasty’s, I swear.”

You couldn’t help the way your eyes stayed firmly attached to Bakugou’s face. His mouth twitched in obvious irritation at the implication that he would ever say please, but he made no move to correct Mina, limbs drawn in tight, defensive.

You looked down at the cup in your hand, sighing. He’d brought you a coffee and was doing minimal yelling. He appeared to be making some kind of effort here--though to what end you weren’t sure--and you supposed contributing to his training was ultimately your goal here, anyway. You could reward him for behaving himself as well as he knew how, and work towards your promotion at the same time.

“Fine,” you allowed, watching as Mina startled wiggling in obvious delight. “Let me finish this coffee and then I’ll help out.”

Mina clapped her rosy palms together. “Ahh! This is going to be so fun! You’ll see.”

Mina’s definition of fun was any civilian’s definition of fucking terrifying.

It was one thing to see the three heroes using their powers on screen, or safely tucked away behind a meter of quirk-enforced glass. It was another thing entirely to be in the center of the action, acid sizzling mere inches from your feet.

“You said you wouldn’t melt anything off!” you shouted, stumbling away from Mina.

She’d accused Kaminari of getting too into playing civilian--whatever that meant--but you thought she was way too into playing villain herself. A hard look passed over her pretty features, sending a chill down your spine. With that dark look, those unusual eyes and twisted horns took on a more sinister nuance. She looked almost like an alien, and moved like one too, stalking you through the twisting alleys of the training cityscape.

“Accidents happen,” she cooed, almost happily. She threw up a twisting fistful of acid that hardened into a warped wall in front of you. You skidded wildly on the gravel to avoid it. “Now stay still, you’re supposed to be a hostage.”

A choked little noise escaped you. Honestly, thank god this woman was a hero. You might have trouble sleeping at night if you knew a villain like this was stalking the streets, unchecked and unbound by social mores. You’d probably still have trouble getting to sleep tonight, even after she went back to smiling and bouncing all over the place.

“Actually, maybe Kaminari should take over again,” you managed, stepping back from her. “Not really sure if I’m cut out for this.”

A loud boom drowned out her reply, an office front a few blocks away crumbling under the force of the blast. You gaped at the force that shook the street, even blocks away.

Mina used your distraction to her advantage, grabbing the back of your shirt to haul you towards her. “He’s so obvious, my god--how he got to be number eight is beyond me. Now come over here and do your best to look injured. He needs practice evacuating people instead of coming in blasting.”

She fumbled with something on her belt, pulling out several bright red bands that proclaimed various types of injuries in blocky white font. Then she leaned over you, shoving a band up your arm that announced SEVERE BURNS, and another on your left ankle, proclaiming a DISLOCATION.

She clicked her tongue, looking you over. “Would more be overkill? This is enough that he should at least hesitate before trying to blow me sky high…” She seemed to decide against more, shoving the rest back into her belt. Then she gently pressed you down to the ground at her feet.

“This is the part where I get to monologue,” she said, winking down at you. “Do your best to look helpless and make sure your severe burns thing is showing. I wanna see if he can prioritize rescuing you over my trash talk.”

A soft groan escaped you. Fat chance. Bakugou was the most foul tempered little shit you had ever met, and while it was true that his single-minded focus on winning the bet meant he was tolerant enough to be doing this exercise in the first place, you highly doubted he was going to hesitate if Mina was pushing his buttons as expertly as she usually did.

The chance to find out came soon enough. There was a strangled kind of yelp and a crackle of lightning followed a thunderous boom a few blocks away as Bakugou presumably rendered Kaminari’s perimeter defense useless. Then with another screaming explosion, he was rocketing over the buildings separating you, barrelling straight down on Mina.

Mina threw up another acid shield that hardened into a defensive wall. Bakugou’s first attack cracked it but didn’t manage to penetrate. There was barely a breath between the cracking and another explosion, however, and then the wall exploded inwards in a crackling shower of fizzing pieces. Mina crouched over you, breathing excitedly, “This is the fun part!”

Whatever reply you might have given her was drowned out by an angry series of hissing snaps from Bakugou’s palm as he stalked closer to you. The right half of his shirt had been singed off by lightning, it looked like, and a fine veneer of dust layered in his hair and on patches of his skin. It was just a training simulation, but he looked half-wild, teeth bared and eyes bright over the ash on his face. If he looked nearly this intense in real life situations, it was a wonder that anyone would agree to be evacuated by him at all.

Maybe that’s why he sucked at rescues.

“It’s fucking over, raccoon eyes,” he said. “Hand her over.”

Mina laughed, a delicate sound like bells. “Not another step closer, hero, or I’ll melt a hole straight through her pretty neck.”

You twitched away from her minutely. God she was terrifying.

“Quit it with the fucking villain act, fuckwad, or I’ll blow you all the way to hell,” Bakugou growled.

Mina reached for your arm, pulling you up next to her. “Hmm, then I hope your aim is good. She’s already got one set of severe burns.”

Bakugou’s crimson gaze cut down to your shoulder and the displeased twist to his mouth deepened. “Fucking--of course you got yourself fucking injured. Fucking idiot.”

“Hey,” you protested, shifting against the band. “I’m not actually.”

Mina kicked you. “Moments to live, this one. Unless you can pull a healing quirk out of those glorious buttcheeks of yours.”

You choked on your own spit while Bakugou snarled. “I’m gonna fucking remember this, you strawberry fuck.”

“Maybe. But she won’t,” Mina said, and suddenly there was a rosy palm in front of your face, dripping acid. A drop landed deliberately on the fold of the training pants she’d lent you, searing straight through with a loud hiss. Your heartbeat spiked in violent alarm. You reeled back, but Mina was still crouched over you, and you banged into her collarbone.

In the next second, everything went to shit. Something searing hot blazed just over your shoulder and Mina swore, jerking back from you in the blink of an eye. There was a deafening crack and a rush of burning air over you as Bakugou let loose an explosion at the same time he seized your ankle and pulled you straight underneath where he’d aimed the blast, missing you by inches.

“What the fuck,” you gasped. Bakugou grunted, and yanked harder, pulling you straight to him.

“Quit being such a fucking princess,” he growled, shifting an arm underneath you. You froze, suddenly wishing that his explosion had managed to hit you, searing off every nerve ending.

“What are you doing?” you demanded, sputtering in alarm when he hoisted you against him. You could feel every place your body touched his, and smell the sharp gunpowder and sugar scent of his sweat. He hooked his arm firmly around your waist, glaring down at you with one baleful red eye.

“Fuckstick gave you a dislocated ankle so I would have to fight her off with one fucking arm and carry you with the other,” he bit out, whirling when a stream of acid came hissing your way.

You gripped at his shirt, swearing. “Oh my god. What the hell is she doing, aiming for me? This is a simulation! Also, I can walk.”

He grunted. “You can shut the fuck up is what you can do.”

He executed another agile dodge, pulling you with him. “Now hold on, princess, this is gonna be a rough ride with one arm.”

You didn’t have time to ask him what the hell he was on about. He aimed a shot over your shoulder, the heat simmering and boiling in the air next to your ear, and you heard the impact of Mina hitting the pavement behind you. In the next second, Bakugou tightened his arm around you, and aimed a palm for the ground.

The next thing you were aware of was a strangled screaming sound. It took a second for you to realize the mortifying noise was coming from you. But in your defense, Bakugou had literally blasted the two of you clear above the alleyway. You could see the wreckage from Bakugou’s scuffle with Kaminari, and Mina scrambling to her feet, much smaller and further away that you were comfortable with. Your hands fisted in his shirt and you nearly decapitated him with the force with which you shoved your face into his shoulder.

Even with your eyes closed, you could tell Bakugou hadn’t been kidding about the rough ride. Another blast from his palm jerked you sharply to the right, and he uttered a soft swear.

“Hold tight, nerd,” he said in your ear. There was a series of more explosions and you spun violently in the opposite direction. You went careening over a low roof top to land heavily on the pavement, Bakugou twisting at the last second to take the initial impact to his shoulder, rolling over you to distribute the momentum.

You rolled twice more, eventually stopping with his hard body under yours, your face jammed unpleasantly into his shoulder, his arms bracketing your sides. One of his hands was fisted in the back of your shirt, and a tuft of blonde hair brushed your cheek.

He let out a huff. “If you ever let her put the fucking dislocation band on you again, I’ll melt your damn laptop.”

You pulled back from him, hissing into his face. “If you dare, I'll--”

“The fuck you gonna do, nerd?” he demanded, sitting up. Straight into you.

You gripped his shirt so as not to fall right off of him, widening your knees for balance. Then you froze when you realized he was pressed against you everywhere, hard muscle and the heat of his skin bleeding through your training clothes. He was hot like a furnace, ashy and dust-streaked like one too, and his eyes glowed like banked coals. He gazed back at you, his mouth setting with some kind of a challenge.

Then those red eyes trailed slowly and deliberately down your face, stopping right on your mouth. His fingers tightened in the back of your shirt.

You couldn’t help your sharp inhale. Holy shit, was he...going to kiss you?

You sat frozen, locked in place, neither willing or able to move away, like you were being pulled towards him like some kind of magnet. Was he really going to do it? Was he really going to kiss you? Or, no...were you going to kiss him?

You could, you thought hysterically. That’s what it felt like, watching him breathe shallowly, eyes fixed on your mouth. You could kiss him and he would let you.

Had that been what all the your little crush on me shit had been about? Had he been torturing you not because he’d noted the way your eyes lingered over him, but because it was something he’d wanted to happen? Had that been what all the threats were for, what the crowding you against walls and the frigging coffee had been about? When Mina had said he’d been fixated on you, did she actually mean it less like revenge and more like actual attraction?

You let out a shaky breath. Only one way to find out, you thought wildly, leaning forward with your pulse singing in your veins.

And then an explosion rocked the foundations of the building, throwing you forward against Bakugou’s chest. You gasped, the breath knocked out of you, and whipped around to glare at his free hand in accusation. Bakugou pulled you back, however, a hard looking passing over his face.

It was only seconds before Mina and Kaminari came scrambling out of the maze of training buildings, looking worried. Kaminari was already crackling with static, agitated whips of lighting zipping across his skin. Bakugou's palm started to grow hotter against your back.

His next words threw the situation into sharp clarity.

“That wasn’t from a training room.”

[cdroloisms]

the amount of angst in the post-prison writing you did just gave me massive post-prison dream brainrot and i'm just. sitting here thinking about how sam dealt with the curious looks and glances and having to face what's he's done as a warden. and everyone else's reaction to everything because hey, maybe the prison WAS a torture chamber that nobody deserves to be locked in to be treated like utter trash.

(btw i love your writing and analysis! they give me so much life :DD)

thank you anon!! this universe is ,, Fun ,, im ngl -> have this continuation of it, w/ sapnap and sam!! it’s a bit messy but oh well

(edit: i added these two asks as well bc they fit and i thought it’d be a bit redundant to rewrite this scene lmao -> the implication that dream’s admissions abt exile mightve been the result of ,, torture is. uh. yikes.) 

(This one is DARK, please heed the warnings)

TW: PHYSICAL/EMOTIONAL ABUSE (heavy warning for this one), starvation, toxic relationship, manipulation, references to the prison and exile, c!sam/warden!sam critical, violence, blood, dark themes, emotional distress, child abuse, torture

“Be honest,” Sapnap starts, quiet. “What did you do?”

Sam opens his mouth - hesitates, looks away. He should’ve known that his vague words and half-explanations that had been enough to push away most of the crowd - or at least, postpone the conversation for later - wouldn’t have been nearly enough to convince the man standing in front of him, but a part of him must’ve hoped, anyway. He’s not ready to speak, not ready to admit anything to himself, never mind someone else entirely - but ‘ready’ doesn’t matter, not when Sapnap is right here, waiting.

(He ignores how ‘ready’ didn’t matter for Dream when Sam had gone in, that first time, pick in hand and nothing but questions and rage spinning in an endless cycle in his mind, whirling together into something incomprehensible, insatiable, vicious - he’s not thinking about it.

He can’t think about it.)

“Well?” Sapnap’s voice raises, impatience coloring his tone, and it’s almost enough to draw a chuckle to Sam’s lips - he’d always been a little overeager, not doing well with silence, waiting, even as a kid. It’s part of the reason why he got along with Dream so well, Dream jumping at the chance to spend time with someone that didn’t shut him down for rambling and Sapnap simply excited at the chance to have someone that would join him on his hare-brained schemes instead of dismissing him as a dumb kid- and oh. Right.

The scrunch of his face is the same, Sam realizes, absently, as the expression Sapnap had when he was little; it’s the same crease between his eyebrows, the same slight jut to his bottom lip. Even with a new scar decorating his left jaw and the shadows under his eyes and collection of faint wrinkles belying his stress, he doesn’t look all that different - still looks young, a kid playing dress up in armor too big and too war-torn to belong to him. It’s easy to forget, but even after all the wars they’ve fought, even with all of the combat experience he’s had, Sapnap’s still barely twenty - only a few weeks out of being a teenager.

(He crushes the thought of what that makes Dream - he’s not. Thinking. About. It.)

“Hello? Earth to Sam?” Sapnap snaps his fingers in front of his face, and Sam blinks away the memories, the guilt, boxing it up and filing it neatly away to deal with - later. Never, ideally.

“Are you going to answer my question?”

Only later is now, there’s no escaping this conversation, and Sam. Really doesn’t want to be talking about this, right now. Sapnap fidgets, leaning on his right foot and then his left and then rocking back again - the feeling is mutual, then, but he knows the look in the younger’s eye well enough to know that neither of them are leaving without an explanation leaving Sam’s lips.

(Netherite and iron and smoke, bloodstained pickaxe tipping up a gaunt face, hand reaching around a too-prominent jawline with bruising force - are you going to answer my question, prisoner? Or are we going to have to do this again?

He’s not-

He can’t-)

“I-,” guilt, thick and heavy, circles his throat, chokes the words rising in his mouth. What can he even say? Can words really capture the sweat-slick desperation, the bubbling lava and heat and smoke stealing away all breath and thought, leaving nothing but a humming buzz of rage burning, hissing, begging for release? Can he really describe the endless darkness and weight settling on his shoulders, the hard edges and jagged fear taking anything soft, anything kind? Words swim in the back of his throat, try to reach his teeth, fall short; bloodstained memories haunt the back of his eyelids every time he blinks; there is so much, too much, to say, and yet nothing at all.

How does he even start?

There is no sympathy on Sapnap’s face when Sam looks, but there isn’t any cruelty either, just dark, watching eyes, lips thin and pressed together, jaw clamped shut, tense. Indifference, or a pale imitation of it, meant to hide the mess of his hair, the tremble in his hands, the helpless, desperate thing growing in his pupils. Sam understands and wishes he doesn’t; regrets, and wonders if he has the right, anymore.

“It- started, as an interrogation,” Sam stumbles over his words, stares at his hands because looking at Sapnap’s face will be too much, is too much. “I was angry. The prisoner- Dream- was desperate. That cell-” he shakes his head, remembers obsidian in his hands, remembers tearing away carpet, paintings, plants, remembers leaving the box bareboned, desolate, a cage and nothing more, “It messes with you. Screws with your head. I knew it, he knew it, but I guess we didn’t realize- I guess I didn’t realize-”

(Blood and crunching bone and shrill screams - tell me what you did to him-)

“I needed information. He wasn’t talking. I got- heated, and he laughed, and something- snapped, I guess.”

(I’ll tell you I’m sorry please please sam stop please)

“All I had on me was a pickaxe. He wasn’t talking, I was desperate - angry - I needed to know. I didn’t-”

(I just knew I needed to drag him away, he was ruining everything, he was destroying everything, I just needed him to leave before he brought down the whole damn server with him - the tnt was supposed to be a one time thing)

“It was supposed to be- one time. Was never supposed to happen, at all. But I guess I got mad - for me? For Tommy? I don’t- I don’t know, and it was- easy, you know? Take away the clock, one day. Give him less potatoes the next.”

(It was easy to do it again, I guess, mess with his invitations a little, take some of his stuff. There was nobody around but me and him and he’d ruined so much, he’d messed everything up - I thought that maybe if I took away his armor enough, he wouldn’t be able to go back. He wouldn’t ruin everything.)

“He’d done- so much. He was so awful to Tommy, to everyone- I thought I could prevent that. I thought maybe if I broke him enough, he wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone again. I renamed the pickaxe Will Breaker, to remind me, to remind him, I don’t know. I-”

Sam laughs, tired, poisonous, ignoring the way Sapnap whispers, stricken, looking at his hands and seeing nothing but red. Dream’s face, bruised, bloody, but glimmering with something almost like satisfaction comes to mind - and oh. Oh.

(Bloodstained teeth twisted in a bitter smile - Sam, I thought I had to.)

He gets it now. He wishes he didn't.

“I thought- ha-” His hand comes up to his face - he’s crying. When did he start crying? ”I thought I had to.”

[0littlestwolf0]

We Could Be

Yandere! Isaac Lahey

Ship: Yan!Isaac Lahey x Reader

Warnings: Slight obsessive behavior, mentioned domestic abuse.

Requested by: @flower-slut00

Notes: You can expect a Yan!Tom Riddle and Yan!Newt post soon!

It was already eight and you were sure you’d freeze to death before he arrived. For all you knew he wasn’t coming, the mere idea made you bite your inner cheek.

He’d said 5:30 but he was nowhere to be seen and at this rate you would finish the English project all by yourself. But you knew Isaac was a good guy, he should be somewhere near, right?

Well, in all truth you didn’t really had an idea of how this Isaac boy was, you could barely remember a mass of blonde curls that would only stay in a corner, never calling much attention to himself, but you knew he got good grades, at least good enough, even if he’d get mad when they weren’t excelling.

You felt in heaven with as much as a B- but if he ever got a similar grade he’d beg the corresponding teacher to grade it again, you never understood him, but you never paid much mind to his actions either, at least not until the teacher had looked you dead in the eye and paired you with him.

You had at least thought that he’d have the decency to appear on time. You started mentally preparing yourself to start the project on your own, maybe you’d make a pretty diagram and draw the images Isaac was meant to bring.

A sigh of relief left you as soon as you heard a knock on the door, at least the pizza had arrived on time. You jumped to your feet and started walking to the desk near the door where you kept the money.

Opening the door mixed feelings filled you, at first glance you saw the blonde curls and thought about reprimanding him for being so late when he’d been tha one to choose the best hour for both of your schedules.

And then you saw his black eye and bloody cheekbone.

“Get in” you made space through the door for him to come in. You thought he’d gotten in a fight. You were wrong.

Without asking questions you signaled for him to sit on the couch you were previously occupying as you went to the kitchen, hoping that there would be some frozen stuff for him to put on his eye.

But there wasn’t much to use, only some ice cream and ice cubes. You could hear him getting his stuff ready to work, and you make the decision to get a small towel, fill it with ice and close it with a blue hair tie you had in your arm.

“What’s that for?” The voice behind you made you jump, he was creepily quiet for being so tall. He chuckled softly at your big eyes and covered it with a cough, going back to his quiet facade “Sorry”

“It’s for your eye” you wasted no time on handing it to him, he seemed to consider it though “It will help” at least it did when you had accidentally bumped your head with the floor “Do you want an aspirin?”

He tilted his head to the right, his good eye scrunching a bit, almost as if he tried to see you better, it reminded you of something that you couldn’t quite pinpoint “Why do you care?” He asked abruptly.

For a second you thought that you’d crossed some sort of line and he’d be mad about it, but his voice wasn’t harsh, nor was it sweet, it was actually confused.

You opened your mouth to answer, but you didn’t know why you cared, for all you knew he was a stranger that came all bloody to your house to make a project with you. He was about to give it back and you knew it so you said the first thing that came to your mind “Friends help each other” so much for binging that corny high school drama.

He almost laughed “We aren’t friends” was his only response, he knew you weren’t friends, he barely even knew you for that sake, the implication alone was ridiculous. You decided to stubbornly stick to that argument “But we could be” you shrugged and realized he still didn’t look too convinced “Okay, let’s at least be friends tonight, if you don’t want to be friends after that you’re free to never talk to me again” you added the last part with a smile and winked. He blushed and looked the other way muttering a quick “Whatever”

But he didn’t let go of the ice-towel.

Soon after starting the project the pizza arrived, and before you noticed it you were setting it on the table as Isaac brought the soda, you bit your lip slightly, you’d been working for almost an hour and still you hadn’t talked about anything other than the project.

“Okay, let’s put it all aside and watch some TV while we eat” you two had just finished setting everything up before you spoke he did a double take when he noticed you staring straight into him “But we still haven’t finished it” he seemed actually concerned about it “We still have two more days, we can continue it here or at the library or your house-“ he stopped you there “Not my house” it was almost too quick and closing off himself again.

Oh. It clicked in your mind seconds before you actually understood it. But you wouldn’t let him close off again.

“Okay, not your house, but the offer remains, we have time to finish it and it’s not really that long” you were already turning the TV on, muted for him to actually make up his mind but on for him to know that you did want to watch something “Listen, I said I wanted us to be friends, and I mean it, how are we going to be friends if we don’t talk?”

He appeared to be taken back and only nodded, you were quick to select Netflix and gave him the remote “You’re the guest, you choose” he gave you a half smile and started looking through the titles as you started eating.

The rest of the days you had set up for the project went in a blink of pizza, laughter and meaningless talk. He seemed to start opening up by the end of it, still not completely but he was opening up.

Suddenly it wasn’t about you being stubborn, you actually wanted to know more about him. But the time you two had designated was almost over, and you realize you didn’t really want it to end.

“You better not ditch me tomorrow Lahey” you said suddenly with a smile “I’m actually invested on us being friends” he started to smile too, his whole face getting more of a pink color.

As soon as the words left your mouth he wanted to scream, to grab you by the shoulders and shake you so hard that you’d tell him the truth, he was never one to have much friends, if any at all, and he’d actually grown to like you on the little time you had actually talked to each other.

It would hurt him badly if you were lying. Thankfully for him you weren’t.

As for you, that may as well have been your only exit, he wasn’t obsessed nor in love yet, you could have left easily, but you lost your chance.

The next morning as you arrived five minutes early for the first class you noticed an empty seat by his side, you gave him your nicest smile as you walked to him, you asked if the seat by his side was taken and he was quick to shake his head and offer it to you, he felt hysterical butterflies on his stomach at the fact that you hadn’t been lying only to finish the project.

And you spent the rest of the week with him, he was nice and real, more real than any of your other friends had been never leaving you by your own during school which your anxiety really appreciated.

As for him his heart was melting but his stomach ached, what if you got bored of him? That feared almost ate him, you had been the nicest person he’d known, and also his only friend.

Soon he started feeling angry when anyone else talked to you, he was afraid that they’d whisk you away and he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

After some days of him arriving with new bruises you tried to talk with him about it, but he’d always stop you, wanting his time with you to be more pleasing. So you did what you could and started bringing numbing creams and aspirins.

The first time you treated him he saw that they were new “Did you got hurt on P.E?” Was his only question as you applied some cream on his upper arm, “No, why?” You gave him a short answer as you bit your cheek, you didn’t like him getting hurt.

“Then why did you bring these?” He asked, you were quick with an already rehearsed answer “The aspirins are for my migraines and I had the cream laying around, I thought to bring it in case anything happened” but something inside him clicked in place, you cared about him, you’d brought the cream just for him, and then he made a promise to himself, to never let you go.

After that he started blushing more frequently around you, quickly noticing little things, the way the left corner of your mouth turned upwards when he made a joke during class and you tried not to laugh and keep a staright face, how you’d grab his sleeve and tug on it when you wanted to go somewhere else but were too lost on your own thoughts to say anything, and finally, how easy it was to make you blush or laugh, both things he really liked causing.

He realized he had a crush on you when during class the Stilinski boy had given the teacher one of his usually weird and vague responses and you laughed, unable to stifle it for long enough, at first Isaac himself had thought the response was funny, but when Stiles turned to awkwardly smile at you he wanted to punch him repeatedly in the face.

It only got worse after the bite, you were everything that anchored him to himself, everything he’d ever want, and he felt this urge to torn every guy who dared smile or even look at you. Soon you couldn’t remember the last person you’d talked to that wasn’t him or Derek or Erika, the only people he trusted with you. It had taken long for him to get rid of everyone else, but he’d enjoyed making a show of it, using some of his newly gained strength to frighten possible competition, until they couldn’t even look at you anymore.

One night he’d brought you some fast food, his heart hammering, he had made two choices for that evening, if you decided to stay with him he would be the happiest person alive, but in case you said no he’d made a deal with Derek to take you away.

Not too far, he’d take you to a place Derek owned, that was the deal for him to stay as his beta, a deal he wouldn’t have been happier to take.

You opened the door and he noticed that you were quick to smile, a point on his favor. “What’s today?” You asked staring at the food with a smile “Nothing yet” he answere muttering the last part with a nervous smile “Then what’s the food for?”

He had rehearsed an answer for every possible question but here, looking at you, he forgot everything and then a memory took over him “It’s what couples do” his smile was growing wider and you looked confused “We aren’t a couple” you were trying to make sense of his words.

“We could be”

[sunjaesol]

6 for juke?

KISS PROMPTS (closed) 6. Wild, breathless kisses brought on by a heartfelt gift

(canon)  Julie and Luke’s relationship was very easy. They did it their way - their own, quintessential ‘Luke and Julie’ way - and more didn’t need to be explained. It was so unconventional, that trying to twist it into something regular was obsolete. 

Loving each other was easy. It was easy to love the way dimples adorned his cheeks and the way her nose scrunched up when she sang, when he matched that as they shared a mic. It was easy to fawn over her voice or every impassioned speech that spouted from his lips. Easy, like breathing. How could she not love him when each time they kissed, he interrupted to grin like an idiot? How could he not be head over heels for her when she always gravitated towards him, whether it was onstage, in the studio, in her room?  

All the other stuff was just a fun exercise in ghost-human shenanigans. 

Barely stepping foot in the studio, Luke poofed in front of her and scooped her into a hug. Julie giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck to keep her up, giddy smiles meeting in the middle for a chaste kiss. 

“So eager,” she teased.

“Always.”

Alex gagged from his place on the couch. “Yeah, we’re still here, guys.”

Reg shushed him. “They’re in love! Let them!”

With a roll of the eye, Luke set her down and allowed himself to be tugged by the hand out the studio. He didn’t know if they were going to her room to continue, to write, to talk - but it didn’t matter. Wherever Julie was, he’d follow. 

The Luke and Julie way. 

It was a bit of everything, he quickly realised. When the door shut behind them, the couple flowed between kisses, whispers about lyrics they’ve thought of, anecdotes of school. If he concentrated hard enough, he was able to imagine himself as a real boy. As an actual teenage dude being so fucking gone for a girl. Which he was, he just couldn’t remind himself he was, essentially, air.

As long as Julie didn’t care, neither would he. 

They laid side by side on her bed, peering into the other’s eyes as he recounted a story from back in the 90s. He didn’t do that a lot. It was weird to talk about the past, a time that didn’t include Julie, when it felt like she’s always somehow been there. 

She was so all-encompassing, it was as if he drifted in some Julie-bubble and couldn’t get out. Didn’t want to either. Alex called it the honeymoon phase, though Luke suspected it was a little more than that.

While he joked about Reggie’s misplaced obsession with motorcycles (“That dude and electricity? Not a match.”), he relished in the way her nails traced shapes and lines up his arms and hands. It almost felt like a massage, sparking warmth in his veins and relaxing his muscles at once.

They wrapped around his fingers, rubbing against the callouses and gliding past the silver rings, as if to memorise each and every atom of his body.    

He didn’t know what spurred it on. One second he was talking, the next he coaxed her hip closer ‘til they were chest to chest. She stopped her ministrations, surprised, and waited for him to explain. 

When he didn’t, she smiled. “Head empty, just needing me closer?”

He laughed, vaguely remembering the day Flynns showed the boys the meme, and nodded. “Yeah, and-”

And that was when he knew. The way her fingertips tapped against the metal, stilled, then laced their hands together. How the silver had glinted in her pretty, brown eyes, intent on his to get every detail of the story.

“-and I want you to, uh,” his eyes averted, bashful, “have one of my rings. If you want that.”

“Your rings?” she whispered. 

“We know you can wear my stuff,” he mumbled, noting the red jacket slung on her desk chair, “so… yeah.”

Julie was speechless, something he didn’t often see. There was always a quick retort, a quip, some witty little thing that drove him wild and challenged his own skills. Seeing her like this… he could get used to it. 

Taking out his hand from beneath hers, he chose the one he liked the most. It was chunky and probably a little too big for her, but she’d make it work. Not one to hesitate, he slipped it on her middle finger and was pleased when it fit snug. 

“Looks a little funny,” he drawled, winking, “but-”

Julie silenced him with a searing kiss. His eyes widened for a beat, surprised by the ardent passion enveloped in one single touch, and melted into it the second after. God, if he could drown in everything that made up Julie, he would. 

His lips hardly kept up, hers chasing and kissing and leading as her hands cradled his cheeks. Somehow, she crawled on top and he found himself in heaven. 

Damn, he should’ve given her his rings sooner. 

Driven wild, he pushed himself up and grabbed onto her to gain some control. She giggled against his lips, the sound coming out in breathless puffs. If he were to look in a mirror, he’d see his mussed up hair and swollen lips and flushed skin. 

(He kept his eyes on her though, adoring the way her curls danced around her face and her mouth was puckered into a tender smile.)  

Luke let out a ragged exhale. “Some piece of metal gets you going?”

Julie shook her head and kissed him again, softer this time. It burned just the same.

“I love you,” she uttered, every letter laced with devotion.

A ridiculously giddy expression bloomed on his face. Swiping his thumbs against her cheek and waist, he realised he’d never get tired of hearing that. 

“And I love the ring,” she added. The unsaid implication hung between them, neither interested in voicing it. There wasn’t a need for it - not right now (maybe not ever). 

But both knew. That was what mattered. 

“I love you too - and damn, Jules!” He mockingly swiped his palm against his mouth. “If you have a crush on me, you should’ve just said so!”

The girl rolled her eyes and pushed his chin in retaliation, him swivelling right back with a dopey grin.        

“The joke’s getting old,” she quipped. 

His tongue clicked. “Is it though?”

When she didn’t respond and instead rolled her eyes again, he abruptly snatched her hips and rolled them over. Julie squealed in surprise, yelling ‘Luke’ and ‘idiot’ in the same breath and him enjoying every second of it. Her hand curled around his shirt, the ring on full display, and pulled him closer. He felt it again. That unending pool of fondness for her, becoming more infinite with each second spend together. He loved her, he loved her, loved her, loved her more than she knew. 

Yeah, the Luke and Julie way of loving one another was surprisingly easy.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Hi!! I really loved your NMJ/WWX/LWJ ficlets!!! I'm very into this ship now lol I literally can't get the idea out of mind!! I keep think about LXC finding out NMJ is also into LWJ and going " Da-ge WTF" :D

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4 - aka Pastime (with good company)

Lan Xichen had heard no word from Yiling since Lan Wangji had gone.

It was – distressing. If only he’d known…

He had, though, hadn’t he? Back when they’d all been at the Cloud Recesses together, long ago before it’d been burnt, his brother had always been so fond of Wei Wuxian, even if he’d always denied it. His expression had brightened whenever he’d seen the other boy, his eyes always on him, his attention always drawn to him…

Lan Xichen had thought it was a crush. 

A silly little thing, fleeting: he vaguely remembered one time, when Lan Wangji had been only six years old, he’d asked, in that adorable serious fashion of his, if he could marry Nie Mingjue when he was older. He’d already known not to bring up issues of marriage to their father or uncle, and their mother had recently died; who else could he ask?

Lan Xichen, then nine years old, had laughed himself sick.

Still, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t known in the years since then that his brother’s disinterest in women had less to do with virtue and more to do with his personal inclinations. He’d teased him over it a few times, encouraged him in the rare instances when someone seemed to catch his interest, the way Wei Wuxian had; he’d even had a private word with their uncle to prepare him for the fact that any children would have to come from his lineage, not his brother’s.

He just hadn’t realized it was serious this time.

He should have realized. Lan Wangji was six no longer, his attention more serious, his affection sincere –

He’d known Lan Wangji was a cutsleeve, that he liked men the way other men liked women. He just hadn’t understood that his brother had fallen in love – and now he might very well spend the rest of his life mourning his lost chance to win Wei Wuxian, and all because Lan Xichen didn’t realize..!

Some elder brother he was.

By the time he’d figured it out, it was too late to cancel the engagement between Nie Mingjue and Wei Wuxian without great political cost, and Lan Wangji insisted on going alone as chaperone as he had promised; he’d refused any and all attempts by Lan Xichen to discuss the issue, and the most he had said was that it would be better for him to see with his own eyes that it had happened – the implication heart-breaking.

Lan Wangji had had hope, however foolish, and Lan Xichen had helped kill it. By facilitating the marriage of Lan Wangji’s love to another man, no less – not even a woman, which anyone would have understood…! For political reasons…!

Lan Xichen spent a great deal of time pacing and meditating, trying to calm his unhappy heart and thinking of what actions he could take to take to rectify his mistake.

That’s what he was doing when Nie Huaisang unexpectedly swanned in through the door to the hanshi one afternoon.

“So this is going to be a mess,” he announced, throwing himself down on one of the seats. “A mess, I tell you! All that work, and I’ll have to redo the whole thing, er-ge; it’s really not fair…at least I’ll have your help with it, this time!”

Lan Xichen blinked, a little blindsided by the sudden tsunami of words. “You know I’m always happy to help you, Huaisang,” he said, since that was both true and relatively safe.

“I know that, but now you have to be involved! Where do you want your table for the wedding banquet, do you think?”

At least he was only asking for advice on the wedding. The one Lan Xichen was currently kicking himself for supporting.

“I’m not sure,” he said, trying to smile and not quite succeeding. “Near the front?”

“Of course near the front. You’re part of the wedding party, aren’t you?”

Lan Xichen supposed from a certain perspective he was. “You think I should be seated at the main table, given my role as da-ge’s sworn brother?”

“Well, that too, I guess,” Nie Huaisang said. “Maybe it’ll just be easier to have one big table? We could have your family on one side of the table to represent the bride –”

Lan Xichen held up his hands. “Huaisang. Why would we represent the bride? The Jiang sect is representing Wei-gongzi.”

Nie Huaisang, who’d been all but horizontal, splayed out face down on the table, lifted his head and blinked at him. “Er-ge, don’t be silly. I’m not talking about Wei-xiong. I’m talking about Lan-er-gongzi – oh, I suppose I should call him sister-in-law now, I guess? So, Lan-saozi? No, that sounds weird. I’ll just stick with Lan-xiong.”

Lan Xichen rubbed his ears, wondering if he’d started hearing things. “Huaisang, what are you talking about? Wei-gongzi is the one marrying your brother.”

“Yes,” Nie Huaisang said slowly. “Of course he is. Lan-xiong is also marrying him.”

“…that’s impossible.”

“Not impossible at all; the plan is that they’ll share the position of first wife,” Nie Huaisang said, slowly sitting up. “There’s been more than one Madame Nie before…I’m sorry, did you not know? Didn’t Lan-xiong tell you?”

Lan Xichen stared. “Tell me – what? That he’s – that he’s planning on marrying your brother?”

“And Wei-xiong,” Nie Huaisang said. “Normally, both brides would make their vows to the husband alone, but everyone agreed that it would be more appropriate if Wei-xiong and Lan-xiong shared vows as well, reflecting the prestige of the Sects and their own dignity as men – did Lan-xiong really not say anything?”

“Forgive me, Huaisang. It appears I need to speak with my brother. Urgently.”

He strode out the door, his steps more hurried than the calm pace he was accustomed to using –

Lan Wangji was walking towards the hanshi.

He was coming from the direction of their uncle’s house; he must have arrived around the same time as Nie Huaisang – perhaps they’d even come together – but Lan Wangji had always followed family etiquette before sect etiquette, as Lan Xichen had taught him: he would have formally greeted his uncle first and foremost, shared a cup of tea with him, and only then gone to find Lan Xichen.

To break the news first to the sect leader, presumably.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen called, and Lan Wangji turned to look at him –

He was smiling.

Not a full smile, of course; only the most joyous occasions brought out that rare ray of sunlight. But there was the slightest curve to his eyes that suggested he was pleased, and in the light of the setting sun, Lan Xichen could see the small hint of red in his ears that showed bashfulness.

“Brother,” he said formally, inclining his head.

“Walk with me,” Lan Xichen requested, and led them towards the jingshi – it would at least be private, if nothing else, unlike the currently occupied hanshi. It was only once they were inside that he spoke. “Do you have something to tell me?”

Lan Wangji nodded.

Lan Xichen forced himself to sit, as if that would calm his racing heart. “Please do.”

“Before the evening meal, Nie-gongzi will formally deliver to you a letter,” Lan Wangji said, very nearly managing to appear unperturbed to those who did not know him well enough to see his excitement. “Requesting permission to arrange a marriage.”

“With you.”

“En.”

“You and – Nie Mingjue.”

Lan Wangji blinked at Lan Xichen’s unaccountable rudeness. “The vows would be taken between myself, Mingjue-xiong, and Wei Ying.”

Lan Xichen rolled the words ‘Mingjue-xiong’ around his mouth as if seeking to taste every aspect of it. His brother was a stickler for proper etiquette; he would never refer to Nie Mingjue by so familiar a name unless he was truly serious about this.

“And this makes you happy?” Lan Xichen asked.

Lan Wangji smiled. He actually smiled, the expression blooming on his face as inexorably as the sun rising; he ducked his head to try to hide it, but it was far too late for that. “En.”

Lan Xichen wished he could just take that as the full answer it was clearly intended to be.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen said very carefully, his hands folded in his lap. “When you left – I know you are very fond of Wei-gongzi. I have been thinking of this matter since you left. I have concluded that while the price may be high, if you wish for me to advocate to Mingjue-xiong that you be permitted to marry Wei-gongzi, I will do so.”

Lan Wangji’s smile faded into a look of some bewilderment. He didn’t understand: the expression on his face so very clearly said but I’m marrying him already…?

“If you wish to marry him without Mingjue-xiong,” Lan Xichen clarified. “I do not want you to feel as though the only route to your happiness is through another –”

But Lan Wangji was shaking his head, very quickly. Lan Xichen stopped talking and waited for Lan Wangji to gather his thoughts.

“I would not marry Mingjue-xiong to win Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji finally said. “I would not.”

Lan Xichen softened. “I know you are always sincere, Wangji, and would never act to deceive. But at the same time, this is – very unexpected, you understand? The matter concerns the happiness of the rest of your life. It must be done right. I mean…when did you even become interested in Mingjue-xiong?”

Lan Wangji flushed red and dropped his eyes to the ground. “…six.”

Six? What –

“That crush?” Lan Xichen blurted out, eyes wide. “When you were six and he was thirteen?”

Lan Wangji’s head dipped lower and his shoulders went up defensively.

“You’ve liked him ever since then? Really? You’re not – not just saying –”

With an expression of great suffering on his face, Lan Wangji leaned over and whispered some words into Lan Xichen’s ear – even at that distance, they were barely audible, rushed together into a scarcely coherent mumble, but upon hearing the words ‘spring dreams’ and ‘tried to stop’ and something even more disturbing about Wei Wuxian and the time spent supervising him in the Library Pavilion, Lan Xichen learned in a single blow both that his concerns were misplaced and also far, far more than he’d ever wanted to know about his brother.

“I see,” he said, his voice a little strangled. “And you only got over it by – replacing him with Wei-gongzi?”

Lan Wangji, looking horribly shamed, nodded.

“And now you think about both of them doing –”

Lan Wangji looked up in dumbstruck horror, only to have his eyes narrow as he realized that Lan Xichen had absolutely no intention of finishing his sentence and was only teasing him.

Lan Xichen couldn’t stop the smile that spread over his face, and he didn’t even try. 

“I’m very happy for you,” he said, and meant it. His brother’s happiness was all he had ever wanted, from the beginning, no matter how unorthodox – and besides, having two lovers technically fulfilled their uncle’s constant exhortations that they never allow a single person to become their entire lives, the way their father had.

If either of them were to do something unforgivable (probably Wei Wuxian) or die young (probably Nie Mingjue), Lan Wangji would still have the other by his side to support him through the hardship. He would never be alone.

Yes, this was fine.

Of course, Lan Xichen was still going to have to have a talk with Nie Mingjue about marrying his little brother away from him…

He paused.

“Wangji,” he said, starting to feel a terrible premonition. “Have you raised this with Uncle yet?”

Lan Wangji paused for a moment, and Lan Xichen could see his back straightening as if he could somehow adopt even more of a proper posture than he already had habitually. “…no.”

Lan Xichen knows his brother to be able to infer the rest of that: After all, you’re the head of the family, I had to get your approval first, and also it would be very nice to have someone to act as a shield for me – please?

“…Uncle is going to kill me,” he sighed.

Lan Wangji’s eyes curved up a little, and Lan Xichen felt that it might almost – almost – be worth the truly disastrous scolding he’s about to get.

[charincharge]

Cruel Summer, Part 13

cruel summer masterlist

AN: I’m obsessed with all your theories. Hearing from all of you made this week a little bit better. Enjoy this chapter of booze, bowling and jealousy.

Rowan doesn’t know what God he pissed off, but he feels like he’s being actively punished. All he attempted was one single day without Aelin, and instead, he ends up in a group hang with Aelin and the new guy she’s hanging out with, apparently?

His teeth grit as he thinks of Sam. Sam, who looked around the bowling alley and turned up his nose at the cheap beer and smelly shoes. Sam who wiped his chair down with a napkin before taking a seat. Rowan barely knows him, but he’s a hundred percent sure that he hates him.

At least he’s vaguely comforted by the fact that Manon is in an even worse position than him. Before bowling, she warned him of her entirely complicated situation involving Rowan’s two coworkers – he’s never seen Manon so vulnerable as when she explained that she thought Elide was into her. When she explained it, Rowan was inclined to see how she could misunderstand.

When Elide had confided in Manon that she’d had a crush on “someone” for years, and thought they liked her too, Manon assumed that “someone” was her. She knows firsthand how hard it can be to come out, and she thought Elide was just being delicate about it – saying without actually saying that she had a crush on Manon, asking her to make the first move. She didn’t realize “someone” is actually Lorcan, and now Manon’s trapped, helping Elide with the plan she thought was a ruse.

Rowan uses his frustration to propel the ball down the lane, knocking most of the pins down. He turns proudly and grins at the twin pairs of golden eyes that smile back at him. He can’t get over how much Manon’s cousin looks just like her, except he assumes with her natural hair color – a dark, dishwatery blonde, instead of Manon’s bleached platinum.

He’s only met her a few times before, but Asterin is fun. She’s the warm relaxed mirror to Manon’s shrewd ice queen. And he loves seeing how much she cares for Manon. As soon as Asterin heard about the Elide catastrophe confession dinner, she insisted on accompanying Manon and Elide on their next night out. And she’s been Manon’s hype person all night.  

He discards the ball and lets Manon step up to the plate. As she brushes by him she whispers, “Who’s the guy?” And Rowan shakes his head, shrugging her off. He doesn’t want to talk about it. At least not now. Not with Aelin in front of him. When all he wants to do is haul her into his lap and wrap his arms around her and let Sam know exactly what’s going on.

Rowan glances at Aelin, with her freshly dried waves cascading over her bare shoulders, which are exposed in her off the shoulder loose top that ends just above the waistline of her jeans, teasing him with a delicious strip of skin. Rowan frowns, wondering if the outfit is for Sam or for him.

Rowan takes his seat back at the table and tries to replace his emotionally turbulent insides with a mask of calm.

“Didn’t expect to see you tonight,” he begins.

“Clearly,” Aelin mutters under her breath, but Rowan hears her perfectly. He knocks her foot with his under the table, but she retracts it, moving her feet away from him and under her chair. It stings. He watches as her eyes glance around the table, landing slowly on Asterin.

“Asterin, I love your jacket,” Aelin says with a too-sweet smile.

Asterin removes her fringed suede jacket, revealing a threadbare t-shirt underneath. “Thanks!” she replies enthusiastically. “I found it at a thrift store last week and am obsessed.” Aelin smiles, waiting for Asterin to say something else. Asterin finally replies with, “I love your earrings.”

Aelin twists her long hair over one of her shoulders to fiddle with the large hoop on her ear and thanks Asterin. Rowan’s eyes bounce between the two women on either side of him, not exactly sure what the hell is going on.

“I’m going to grab a beer,” Sam interjects. “Can I get you anything?”

Aelin nods, asking for a Stella, and the knot in Rowan’s chest unfurls slightly as Sam departs from the table. Aelin’s foot finally returns a small nudge to Rowan’s ankle as she says, “I missed you at dinner last night.”

Rowan’s chest burns as he remembers the way Sam held Aelin’s hand over the dinner table last night, but he grins, regardless. He doesn’t want her to know how badly he’s bleeding. He’ll cover up all his wounds with smiles.

“Sorry. I was so tired from work,” Rowan says. “Plus, I had a new recipe for a bundt cake I wanted to try out.”

Asterin leans forward and puts her hand on his arm. He turns to her, her gold flecked eyes wide with wonder. “Wait, that cake Manon shoved into my mouth earlier was baked by you?” Rowan nods, and Asterin smiles widely. “Wow. That was like, professional.” She turns to Aelin and Elide. “Did you guys know Rowan is the best baker?” Asterin says.

“Yep,” Aelin says sharply. “I’ve had it.”

Her comment is interrupted by Manon’s loud strike, all the pins toppling over in a raucous heap. Elide leaps up from the table and squeals.

“My turn!” Elide pouts and asks Manon for help teaching her how to throw the ball. Rowan watches Manon as she helps Elide position her body squarely to the pins. With her hands on Elide’s hips, he notices that a distracted Lorcan, two lanes down, only downs one pin, much to his teammates’ chagrin.

While he’s looking away, Aelin grabs Rowan’s beer and takes a small sip. Her eyes peer over the rim, piercing holes into his carefully erected armor. “Busy day at work?” she asks casually, but her gaze is anything but nonchalant.

“No more than usual,” Rowan replies, grabbing his beer back and taking another long sip of his beer, and Asterin’s eyes flick between the two of them, curious.

“So, Aelin,” Asterin interrupts, attempting to diffuse the thick layer of tension settling over the table. “How do you know Rowan?”

“We’re friends,” Aelin says coolly, and Rowan tries not to let the word affect him. They are friends. Kind of. Maybe. “He works at my family’s amusement park.”

“Your boyfriend’s cute,” Asterin says, and he tries not to flinch when Aelin glances over her shoulder to where Sam waits at the bar.

“Oh, Sam’s not my boyfriend,” Aelin says. “Just another friend.”

Rowan tries not to flinch at the implication of her words, but he finds it impossible. He will be devastated if Sam is the same kind of friend to Aelin that he is. She pats his shoulder as she stands from the table, and Rowan can feel himself tense under her touch. Her fingers linger ever so slightly as she makes her way to the lane, and he can’t help but watch as her hips sway.

Asterin’s smile is feral as she looks between him and Aelin. “That’s the girl you’re supposed to be staying away from tonight, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Rowan grumbles, annoyed that he’s so incredibly transparent when he’s working so hard to hide his feelings.

“Need me to run interference?” she asks, and Rowan smiles at the kind offer but declines. He turns his attention back to Aelin, who grabs a hot pink ball. She rolls a perfect strike, barely even looking.

“I think Manon needs you more than I do,” he says, glancing at Manon’s arm wrapped around Elide’s shoulders, and the way Elide can’t stop glancing across the room at where Lorcan sits with his teammates.

“I can be both your cheerleaders tonight, babe,” she says with an overzealous wink. “If you need a helping hand, just let me know.”

Aelin freezes a foot away from the table and mouths, “Babe?” while quirking an eyebrow at him. He rolls his eyes and finishes the rest of his beer.

Just as Sam returns to the table, it’s his turn, and they watch him throw a truly horrific gutter ball. The whole table chuckles softly as Sam admits bowling is not his sport.

“What is your sport?” Elide asks, tossing her hair over her shoulder and glancing Lorcan’s way again.  

“Sailing,” he says. Rowan smothers a sardonic laugh. Of course Sam’s sport is sailing. A sport where the equipment costs more than his yearly salary. Four times his yearly salary, actually.

“That’s not a sport,” Manon interjects. “That’s a trust fund hobby.”

“Tell that to my wall of regatta trophies,” Sam boasts, and even Aelin can’t control rolling her eyes at that, Rowan notices with satisfaction.

“Which reminds me,” Sam begins. “My family is throwing a big Fourth of July party on our yacht next week. It’ll be docked. No sailing experience required. You should come,” he says to Aelin. Then turns to the rest of the table. “All of you.”

“A yacht party?” Aelin says, and Sam flashes her a self-assured grin as he nods. “Oh, Dorian will die. He’s always wanted to do that, but his dad would never let him bring anyone on their boat.”

“Sounds fun,” Rowan says, forcing a smile.

As Sam continues to talk about the preparations for what is sure to be an extremely swanky party, Rowan begins to feel warm and in need of fresh air. He wishes he were a smoker, so he’d have an excuse to step out. Every time Sam name drops or makes an allusion to how much money he has, Rowan feels himself grow smaller. A few more minutes of listening to Sam talk and he can’t stand it anymore. He stands from the table, suddenly.

“Where are you going?” Aelin asks.

“Just gonna get some air.”

He bolts out the door before anyone can ask him anything else. The front of the bowling alley is far too well-lit with bright fluorescent lights, so he slinks around to the side of the building where the parking lot is mostly empty and he can remain covered in dark inky shadows. He leans against the concrete of the building and tilts his head back, trying to alleviate the tension that feels like it’s strangling him. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly.

His heart is finally starting to slow its pounding when he hears her voice cut through the darkness. “Rowan?” Aelin whispers. He opens his eyes and turns his head toward the sound, and he hears her soft gasp and jump. “There you are,” she says, approaching him slowly. Tentatively. “Are you okay?”

“Yup,” Rowan finally answers, his deep voice filled with gravel.

“Are you?” she asks, finally coming to stand in front of him. In the dark he can barely make out the shape of her face, but still somehow her eyes glow blue and gold, reflecting the moon lit sky above. “Your date was worried.”

“My date?” Rowan asks, perplexed.

Aelin laughs humorlessly and clasps her hands in front of her stomach. That small sliver of bare skin still distracting him. “Yes, your date. You know. Blonde, very pretty?”

Rowan chuckles. “Are you talking about yourself in the third person?”

Aelin shoves at his chest. “Are you being obtuse on purpose right now?”

“Aelin, I didn’t even know you were coming tonight,” he says. She tosses her hands up in frustration to gesticulate wildly as she talks.

“I’m talking about Asterin, you moron,” she snips at him, and his chest warms as he grabs her hands, which are flailing mid-air between them. “Give me my hands back,” she warns him, but Rowan just smiles.

“You’re jealous,” Rowan finally realizes, and Aelin scowls, trying to pull her hands free from Rowan’s grasp, but he refuses. Instead, he pulls them into his chest and flips them around, so Aelin is the one with her back to the building.

“Am not,” Aelin insists, and he finally releases her hands, only so he can finally touch the skin of her waist that’s been tempting him since she sent that picture of herself hours ago. She shivers as his thumbs rub against her soft skin.

“You are,” he says, leaning down to whisper against the shell of her ear. His lips brush against it, and she clutches onto his shirt, pulling him down toward her. “I didn’t know you could get jealous,” he says, letting his mouth land on the bare expanse of her shoulder. “It’s kind of adorable.” He snickers against her neck, and she tilts her head to the side to give him more room, and her hands wrap around his waist to pull him closer.

“Are you finished ignoring me?” she whispers, and Rowan pauses.

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” he replies, and he feels her fingers tense against his back and then loosen.

“Okay,” she says, resigned. His lips brush against her neck, then her chin, then her cheek.

He shifts back to look at her, her chest heaving with labored breaths, her body curled around his, wanton and beautiful. And he just has to ask. Has to know. Even if it kills him. He still needs to know.

“You called us both your friends,” he begins, and Aelin’s eyes search his, looking for some hidden meaning to his words. “Is Sam your friend like I’m your friend?” he asks. Understanding flicks over her face as she shakes her head.

“No. Oh my god, no, Rowan.” Her voice is a thin whisper, but it’s firm. Resolute. “No one else is a friend like you. I promise, I would never.”

“Are you sure? Because… it’d be okay if… I mean, I’d understand if…” He tries to reply eloquently, but he can’t find the words. He has the worst habit of tripping up his sentences in front of her.

“Would it?” she asks, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Because I don’t think I’d be as understanding.” She sighs. “I wanted to rip Asterin’s hand off you.”

Rowan smiles. “Yeah?”

“And like… maybe mount you in the middle of the room.”

“Mmm,” Rowan ponders. “That could be arranged.” He sighs, exhaling slowly as her arms wrap around his waist tighter. Rowan looks up into the night sky and then back down at her, trying to figure out what he wants to say. How he can say it without scaring her away. “I just didn’t know if being exclusive adhered to the rules of being casual.”

“Who says there have to be rules?” Aelin replies softly. “This is between us. We get to decide what that means. Fuck the rules. We make our own.”

Rowan wastes no time before crashing his lips to hers in a mess of lips and teeth and tongue. It feels like coming up for air again. The tension disappears from his shoulders as her fingers twine themselves in the back of his hair, which is almost long enough for her to pull. He feels like an addict, who’s getting his next fix. He breathes her in, letting her keep him as close to her as she wants. His hands go up her loose shirt, and he groans loudly when his hands come into contact with the underside of her breasts. She hasn’t been wearing a bra this whole time. He cups her as his thumbs run over her puckered skin, and she whimpers into his mouth as she grinds onto his thigh.

Rowan is about to slide his hands down the front of her jeans when a throat clears loudly in the distance. They both freeze, pausing and panting, waiting to hear who the voice belongs to.

“I’m not coming any closer because I enjoy my vision and don’t want to gouge my own eyeballs out,” Manon calls out to them. “But, there are three people at that table who realize you’ve both been gone for a suspiciously long amount of time, and I’m getting really tired of distracting Moneybags McGee. So come quickly.” Manon seems to realize her turn of phrase and groans at Rowan’s lewd snickering. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just… you know. Get back inside, please.”

“You could have come closer,” Rowan calls back. “We’re both fully clothed.”

“I couldn’t take that risk,” Manon says, and disappears back into the alley.

Aelin giggles into Rowan’s shoulder and leans her forehead against his chest. She kisses him through the thin fabric of his t-shirt and hugs him tighter. She looks up at him and tilts herself up onto her tip-toes and kisses him softly.

“I missed you today,” she says, and he hates how much his heart blooms with hope at her words.

“It was one day,” he replies, smoothing her hair and shirt, so she doesn’t look like she’s just been ravaged in some back alley – even though, technically, that’s exactly what happened.

“Ask me how many times I got off thinking about you in that one day,” she asks saucily, and Rowan nearly chokes at the image of her touching herself.

“How many?” he asks, and she smirks, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she begins to walk away.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Um, yes. I really would,” he laughs.

She saunters away, and he watches her ass move side to side in her tight jeans. He runs to catch up with her, but he keeps his distance as they enter.

Back at their table, Lorcan has joined, much to Rowan’s surprise and Manon’s clear displeasure.

Rowan sits beside her and pats her shoulder. She throws him an aggressive scowl, and he retracts his hand. “So, Asterin clearly failed at her job tonight,” Manon whispers, and Rowan shrugs. He looks at Aelin, who smiles at him, before resuming her conversation with Elide and Sam and now Lorcan.

“I think I’m a lost cause,” Rowan admits.

Manon sighs sadly. “Me too.”

“Maybe we’ll both get what we want,” Rowan says, as they both stare across the table at Aelin and Elide respectively. Elide’s smile is lit up at something Lorcan’s said, and Rowan watches how Sam’s eyes follow Aelin’s every little movement.

“Maybe,” Manon says, but he knows she doesn’t mean it. Despite that, Rowan holds onto the small kernel of hope for the rest of the night.

~*~*~*~*~

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[stufftippywrote]

consequences

@notenoughgatorade prompted me with #33 from this list! I’m still taking prompts!

Set in CQL/TV The Untamed universe.

The urge is just too unbearable. And today is a ridiculously good day, the sky bright and the breeze crisp, and Wei Wuxian's in a sunny mood. He's about to run off with the juniors to Caiyi Town for lunch, leaving Lan Zhan to tend to his own matters for a while. Nothing he hasn't done before, nothing he won't do again. And the urge is nothing new, either. Lan Zhan stands at the screen door to see him off, and every time, Wei Wuxian feels the persistent and annoying need to peck him on the lips before he goes.

It's just an odd urge that occurs to him once in a while. Who knows why.

And today his heart is humming and he feels like nothing can go wrong. So just as he's saying his goodbyes, promising to be back before sundown and all, he suddenly darts in and presses a quick kiss to Lan Zhan's mouth. "Behave," he says. "I'm going now."

And he walks casually out of the doorway and through the courtyard and away. Like nothing happened.

But now that he’s done it, his pulse is jumping and he’s terrified of the consequences. The moment he is out of Lan Zhan's immediate line of sight, he ducks behind a tree and peeks back toward the jingshi.

Lan Zhan's hand is on his mouth. His eyes are blown open wide. He's standing stock still.

Oh, no. He’s made a huge mistake, hasn’t he?

Well, nothing for it now. He'll just have to apologize when he gets back. He doubts Lan Zhan will kick him out or anything for the imposition -- they've been living comfortably in the same building for a month since Wei Wuxian returned from his travels.

He goes to collect the juniors and set out for lunch and inevitable shenanigans. They'll keep his mind off it.

--

It's midafternoon when they return. Wei Wuxian has successfully distracted himself via spicy food and animated conversations among the juniors. He's rather proud of Sizhui and Jingyi, who spent the majority of their walk back arguing over whether a talisman should include a certain stroke or not (Sizhui thought it was reckless; Jingyi said that's the only way it's effective). Others talked about the girls they saw in town; one shyly confessed to having a crush on one of the female disciples, and was roundly teased for it. All in all, Wei Wuxian was able to keep his mind off his reckless action this morning. Mostly.

That all fades the moment they passed through the gate to Cloud Recesses. Wei Wuxian is suddenly terribly nervous.

What will Lan Zhan say? he wonders. What will he do? Will I get a scolding? Or maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe he's already forgotten all about it. That's meant to be a comfort, but it isn't -- partly because Wei Wuxian doubts it's true, and partly because a piece of him doesn't want Lan Zhan to forget about it.

Which is odd, it was a mistake, Lan Zhan usually lets his mistakes go, why should Wei Wuxian want him to remember it?

He sneaks back behind the same tree where he hid before, peers through the brush at the jingshi.

Lan Zhan is still standing at the door. His hand is still on his mouth. It looks like he hasn't moved a muscle the whole time Wei Wuxian was gone.

Looks like he hasn't forgotten about it at all.

Wei Wuxian pauses in trepidation outside the gate to the courtyard and summons up all his cheerfulness, pasting a big smile on his face. Maybe he can talk his way out of this.

"Lan Zhan!" he calls with a big wave as he enters. "You missed a fun trip! I hope what you were doing wasn't too boring, but who am I kidding, it was probably boring." He saunters up the steps to the Jingshi. "It's hard to believe how much A-Yuan has grown in the months I've been away. I've mentioned it before, but today--"

An arm blocks his way. Lan Zhan is blocking his access to the Jingshi. His jaw is clenched.

Shit.

Wei Wuxian summons up his boldness and puts a hand on that outstretched arm. "Lan Zhan. Don't tell me you are still hung up on that little joke I played on you this morning. It was just for fun! I didn't mean anything by it."

Lan Zhan lowers his arm slowly. His eyes narrow. "It was a joke?" he asks, as though he hadn't even pondered the possibility.

"Well, what else could it be? No, you know what, don't answer that question, it's too embarrassing. Anyway, tell me about your afternoon--"

"Don't do it," Lan Zhan says, a trace of coldness in his voice, "if you don't mean anything by it."

There's some implication there that Wei Wuxian is scared to examine. He saunters into the room and stretches, extending his arms as wide as he can. "That reminds me of something you told me a long time ago. In the cave. You were so upset about my flirting, do you remember? I said at the time you probably liked Mianmian. You got so angry." Why is he still talking about this? He has the vague feeling he's making things worse.

"I didn't," Lan Zhan says. "Like her."

"It's all ancient history anyway," Wei Wuxian says, sitting down. "Who cares who you liked? We were kids. Do we have fresh tea? The spicy peppers are still sticking with me. I'm afraid I may have some bad breath. You probably don't want to come near me."

And Lan Zhan certainly doesn't seem eager to come near. He's still standing at the doorway, watching Wei Wuxian with some interest. "I'll get tea," he says, and descends down the steps and away.

With him goes an ominous atmosphere; the air feels visibly lighter when he's out of the courtyard. Wei Wuxian sighs. What was that reaction about? Lan Zhan wasn't angry; neither has he forgotten it. More than that, what about Wei Wuxian's own reaction? Why does he care so much, anyway?

He leans back and folds his arms behind his head, looking up at the ceiling.

It was just this odd urge he felt once in a while. Now that he's done it, that should be the end, right? But there's something unresolved in all this. Something unsettling. Like this isn't, or shouldn't be, the last time.

That's the issue, isn't it? Wei Wuxian wants to do it again.

I want to kiss Lan Zhan.

He thinks the words methodically, one at a time, then tries them out loud. They sound less absurd than he'd expected. But he doesn't have those tendencies, does he? Granted, if he did, Lan Zhan would definitely be the guy he'd go for. He's handsome and genteel and, more than that, sweet and affectionate in the moments Wei Wuxian steals for himself, the ones no one else gets to see. There are times when he looks at Wei Wuxian and it makes him melt inside. Nobody else has ever looked at him like that.

Lan Zhan looks at him like that. Like he’s the only person in the world.

And Wei Wuxian wants to kiss him.

Oh.

The realization knocks the wind out of him. He has to remind himself to start breathing again.

It's an eternity until Lan Zhan returns with the tea. He's expressionless as he pours one cup for Wei Wuxian, one for himself, then sits neatly at the table across from him.

Wei Wuxian stares at him without saying a word. Now that he knows, he wants. The line of Lan Zhan's jaw, the broadness of his shoulders, the feel of him in the room. The curve of his hands around the teacup. Everything about him is staggeringly beautiful. Wei Wuxian has to wonder why it took himself so long to come to this epiphany. Who wouldn't fall in love with this man? He's everything anyone could ever want.

He's everything Wei Wuxian wants. He always has been.

"Will you drink?" Lan Zhan asks, breaking the silence.

"Ah-- of-- of course." Wei Wuxian forces a short laugh. "I got distracted."

Even so, Lan Zhan doesn't let him take more than a sip. "Wei Ying."

"Y-yes."

"Please ... think of the consequences of your actions." Lan Zhan's brow is furrowed, and his gaze is downward, as though he's unsure of what he's saying.

Wei Wuxian sighs. "You say that, Lan Zhan, but how am I to know what those consequences are? A talking-to and then we get tea? I'm thinking if I did it tomorrow, that wouldn't be your only response." Lan Zhan's eyes widen in sudden panic.

Wei Wuxian waves him down. "I won't do it tomorrow, don't worry." He tries to keep the smile off his face, but it's hard.

"Oh." Lan Zhan's gaze wavers. "Then there's no need to discuss it."

"I think there is a need," Wei Wuxian says, and he scoots himself around the table to take a seat next to Lan Zhan. "I think you really need to make clear what the consequences are of doing it again. In fact, I think it's so important, I'm willing to do it again just to find out."

The panic returns to Lan Zhan's eyes. "Wei Ying..."

Wei Wuxian leans forward. "Go on, then," he says, "show me what my punishment is." And he closes the gap between them and kisses Lan Zhan's soft lips. A little longer this time. Just a second or two, then over, and Wei Wuxian smiles. "What are you going to do to me?"

Lan Zhan grabs the back of his head and pulls him back in.

--

It's two hours later, and the sun is fast disappearing beyond the horizon. The rays shine slanted on the bed, and a golden sheen appears on Lan Zhan's bare side. Wei Wuxian touches his skin with two fingers, strokes. Lan Zhan murmurs approval.

"Why didn't we do this a long time ago?" Wei Wuxian wonders aloud.

"Many reasons." Lan Zhan says, touching Wei Wuxian's face with a gentle hand. "Mostly, I didn't know how you felt."

"That makes two of us," Wei Wuxian says ruefully. "I'm sorry it took me so long to realize it."

"It's fine." Lan Zhan's traces the shape of Wei Wuxian's lips with a finger. Simple, light contact, but Wei Wuxian can't resist trying to purse his lips and press kisses to that earnest fingertip. "Don't say sorry."

"Well, I have to say something." Wei Wuxian thinks for a moment. "How about this?" And he whispers something soft and low that makes Lan Zhan look at him with those wonderful, shining eyes.

"And," he adds, "I'm absolutely doing this again tomorrow. Now that I know the consequences."

Lan Zhan kisses him. "Please do."

[winryofresembool]

Things We Lost in the Fire, ch 25

aka Caleo uni au

Fic summary: Calypso starts studying at a new university, but to her annoyance her new flatmate is a loud mouthed mechanic who also likes to sneak his dog in whenever. But as she learns to know him better, she realizes they might have more in common than what she first thought. Eventually, even the darkest secrets come out…

Chapter summary: Halloween aftermath

A/N: Sorry for the wait again! This chapter wanted to become long (for my chapter) so I just couldn't finish it in time. About the future schedule, there won't be another chapter this week but given it's only Tuesday now, I think I may be able to update again Friday next week. Fingers crossed!

Thanks for all the comments again, you guys make me so motivated to continue! ♥ But I won't rant more, now I'll let you know what happens after the cliffhanger of ch 24.

Words: 3,8k+

Genre: romance & hurt/comfort

Warnings: none

previous chapter / AO3

...

Calypso woke up with her head banging in pain and a sour taste in her mouth. She also felt like throwing up. What was even worse than that, though, was that she had no idea where she was. She was still wearing a flowy, white dress instead of her pajamas and she didn’t recognize the bed she had slept in. Perhaps the strangest part was that she could hear light snoring from the floor behind the foot of the bed. She sat up on the bed so she could see who caused the sound, panic starting to surge in her veins when she recognized the dark mop of hair under a blanket.

It was Leo, sleeping on a mattress that had been taken from the other side of the double bed she had been sleeping in. What on earth had possessed him to sleep there, Calypso wondered worriedly.

Pulling a cover over her (which, she knew, was silly because obviously Leo had already seen her in her dress earlier) she continued scanning her surroundings and slowly started making some conclusions. This had to be Jason and Piper’s house, where they had stayed the night after the Halloween party. A party. Right. Her last clear thoughts were from the moment when she had seen the two Hunter girls arrive at the party. After that, she remembered vaguely fleeing the room and finding something to drink, and that’s when her memory got really blurry. And that was the truly scary part. She hadn’t been truly drunk even once within the past five years but she did know way too well what had happened the previous time she had done that. The biggest mistake of her life.

Before she allowed her mind to draw any more conclusions, she decided to rise from her bed and check up on Leo. He was still sound asleep and since the blanket had partially fallen off of him, she could see that he was wearing a tank top and boxers, which she took as a good sign. Since they both were at least somewhat clothed, she thought it was quite unlikely that they had crossed the line that she was not ready to cross. But that didn’t mean that nothing had happened.

“Ahem,” she cleared her throat while wrapping the bed cover around her a bit better, trying to make Leo wake up. She needed to do that at least twice more before he finally stirred.

“Wha… Woah!” He yelped with surprise when he realized where he was and with whom, quickly pulling his blanket over his mostly bare legs. “Morning, Sunshine. How are you feeling today?”

The panic had momentarily made Calypso forget about her headache and dizziness but now that Leo reminded her of it, she realized they hadn’t disappeared anywhere. Sitting back on her bed, she sighed.

“I’ve been better, that’s for sure.” She rubbed her forehead for a moment. “The worst part is that I have no idea what happened last night.”

“You… don’t remember any of it?” Leo asked while sitting up, and Calypso thought she could hear a hint of disappointment in his voice.

“I do remember what happened before my first drink,” Calypso clarified. “But not much after that.”

“In that case, I think I can help you fill some gaps,” Leo replied. “If you want to.”

“That would be good.” Calypso tried to undo some knots in her hair with her fingers, sighing with frustration. “Maybe you can start with explaining why we are both here. I mean, in this room. I think Piper and Jason have several extra rooms in their house.”

Leo’s face turned bright red at the implications of Calypso’s question. He had to clear his throat before he managed to answer. “Um… You were really not feeling well last night… And to be honest, some moments you seemed pretty desperate to… I don’t know, it seemed like you were trying to escape from Thalia and Reyna every time they tried to talk to you. So, um, we, as in, me, Piper, Jason, Annabeth and Percy thought that someone should probably keep an eye on you. Just in case. So. I volunteered.”

Calypso wanted to keep Leo distracted so he wouldn’t ask more about Thalia and Reyna so she asked: “But why you, and not for example Piper? She lives here so it would have been easier for her. You could have just driven home and come to pick me up today or something.”

“That’s… that’s true but I felt it was my duty… as your flatmate, of course… to make sure you’re OK,” Leo stuttered. Calypso had a feeling it wasn’t the whole truth but she didn’t push it. “Alright,” Calypso said. “But why were you sleeping in this room? Like I said earlier, there are other places…”

“Ahem,” Leo made a coughing sound again. “That’s because you asked me to stay here. And I’m not lying about that. You can think anything you want about me but I would not do anything without your consent… um, not that any of that has even crossed my mind, gods.”

Even though Calypso was relieved to hear that because it proved that nothing had happened between them, she had to admit to herself that perhaps a tiny part of her was a bit disappointed. Leo’s reply made it sound like he did not have any romantic feelings towards her. Or then he was a liar. Either way, Calypso wasn’t sure what she should think.

“I… asked you to stay with me?” she repeated instead.

“Um, yeah,” Leo replied, his fingers tapping on his blanket absentmindedly. “You said something about nightmares… and I dunno, you just didn’t wanna be alone. Piper asked if you’d like her to stay but… you picked me? I don’t know why.”

There was a long pause before Calypso answered. Maybe it was her dizzy head making her make decisions she usually wouldn’t, but she thought there was no reason to deny it anymore. Feeling the warmth on her cheeks, she finally replied: “That’s because – I hate myself for this, but - you… you mean more to me than her.”

“I… what?” Leo frowned, looking like he was wondering if he had heard right.

Calypso sighed deeply and hid her face into her hands. She hated how fast her heart was racing in that moment. “I’ve been trying to deny that for several weeks now, but… I guess the drunk me was more honest than what I usually am.”

Leo crossed his arms, inching closer to Calypso on his mattress so he could look at her directly. “But… but… what does it mean? I mean, I do have an idea because I’m not an idiot even if I seem like one – but I need to hear it from you.”

“Leo Valdez, it means I like you! In a very non flatmate like way! There, are you happy now?” Calypso’s voice started cracking and she felt like she was on the verge of tears.

“Of course I am!” He exclaimed, almost jumping up from his mattress. “I think I’ve had a crush on you ever since you got mad at me for smashing your table!”

Calypso’s mouth opened in surprise. “You… have? But… how?”

“When you got mad at me that time, I saw some fire in your eyes. Like, OK, I’m gonna admit that you looked hot from moment one but I didn’t care about that. I didn’t,” he repeated when Calypso looked at him skeptically. “I know a lot of girls who kinda remind me of you with their shiny long hair, perfect eyelashes, et cetera, but many of them are the type of people who used to laugh at me at high school. And I mean, not in a good way. But when I saw that fire, somehow I was convinced that you were different. You have just the kind of spunk that I like and you’re not afraid to call me out when I deserve it – but you’re still fair and don’t judge the book by its cover. Fine, of course I was worried I was wrong and you wouldn’t forgive me for that mistake. But, somehow, this one time, I was right. And I only got more convinced as I learned to know you better.”

“Leo…” Calypso was starting to lose the fight against the tears.

Leo looked extremely worried when he realized she was crying. “What? I thought you’d be happy to hear that? I like you – you apparently like me for whatever crazy reason – what’s the problem?”

Calypso tried to brush off the tears from her face before answering, her eyes sparkling with frustration. “The problem is that you just made this – what I should do – a hundred times harder! If… if you hadn’t answered to my feelings, I could have just tried to accept that and eventually moved on. But… how are we going to live with this knowledge, live under the same roof… when nothing can happen?!”

Leo started to freak out. “What do you mean ‘nothing can happen’? Calypso, could you please finally be clear with me? Why did you just confess your feelings and then say… that?”

Calypso didn’t miss that Leo used her full first name, a thing he did quite rarely. Her voice was still a bit hoarse when she answered:

“Alright. I have plenty of reasons but here’s the first one: In the past… I’ve had nothing but unsuccessful relationships. I may have been really young back then, but it made me doubt myself, Leo. Several guys I really liked - and I imagined they liked me back - told me some big words… only to run to their ‘real’ girlfriends at the first possible opportunity. You’d probably say ‘but that was many years ago, screw those guys’!”

“Damn right, I would!” Leo exclaimed, slamming his fist on the floor next to him to emphasize his point.

“… And I wish it was that simple but it isn’t.” Calypso shook her head. “There’s more to that story than I care to explain right now. And then I met Percy a couple of years later and thought that maybe I’d be ready to try again. Well, you know what happened. It did not work out and I decided that when I’d finally have my freedom… I mean, when I’d move out and start my studies, I would make sure that I really am ready for a relationship before starting one. And I’m sorry, but… I don’t think I’m quite there yet. I want to learn to love myself before… you know.”

Leo finally stood up from his mattress and sat down next to her on the bed, not even caring about the fact that he was still wearing only a thin tank top and boxers anymore.

“I guess I can understand that,” he said, spontaneously taking her hand into his as a comforting gesture. “I’m no stranger to self doubt.”

“Then I guess we have that in common…” Calypso sighed, allowing Leo’s hands to remain on hers. “However… that’s not the only reason why I think it would not be a good idea.”

“What else is there?” Leo asked.

Calypso looked down at their intertwined hands sadly. “Well… I think I’ve told you my father is not the nicest of guys… But the truth is, I left home without his consent or knowledge. So, he’s probably looking for me right now. And if he does find me, I don’t know what will happen. I may have to go back. And I definitely don’t want him to find out about you. He has money and a lot of power and he’s capable of ruining anyone’s life if he wants to. He’d probably blame you for hiding me and have you arrested or something… It would break me if something happened to any of you, because of me.”

“Why… Why haven’t you told this to me before?” Leo’s grip on her hand tightened slightly and even though Calypso didn’t dare to look into his eyes, she imagined that they were burning in anger like she had seen a couple of times before.

Calypso rubbed her forehead tiredly with her free hand. “Because… what would you do in that situation?! I’d arrive at your home and introduce myself: ‘hey, I’m Calypso, your new flatmate, and by the way, I’m running away from my father who may or may not have kept me as a hostage for several years, but yeah, nice to meet you!’”

“A hostage?” Leo was practically growling now.

“Well… “ Calypso was suddenly hesitant, realizing she had revealed more than intended. “I was allowed to go to places… sometimes… but never alone… And I was homeschooled so… I did spend a lot of time at home… but we had a huge mansion… So it wasn’t like I was trapped in a basement or something…”

“But that doesn’t make it any more right!” Leo was almost yelling now. “I want to do something, I want to let people know what kind of person he is so he can’t keep doing that to you or anyone else anymore!”

“Leo, you can’t!” Calypso squeezed his hand, finally looking up at him. “Do you know how dangerous that would be?! And I swear, with his money he would only make the police go quiet about the whole situation… The main thing is that I’m here, right now, and relatively safe. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he doesn’t care where I am. I don’t know what he’s thinking, to be honest.”

Leo was quiet for a while, breathing heavily and fiddling with the bed covers. “Well… Fine, I’ll let that be, for now. But I swear to gods, or the River Styx, or whatever the hell those ancient Greeks used to swear on, that if he does something to you, I will not let it be anymore. I… and I think I can speak for all of our friends, that we all… will make sure that he will go down with a bang.”

Leo’s comment about the ancient Greeks managed to cheer Calypso up a bit. “You sound like you would physically fight him. And how exactly would you do that?” she asked. “With your tools?”

“That’s not a bad idea!” Leo exclaimed, getting into his fantasies. “I would definitely bring my trusty hammer. Or, I could build a…”

“Hey, now, I was not being serious! But you sound like you are,” Calypso stopped him by putting a finger on his lips. “I absolutely don’t want you to do anything where you could get hurt.”

“Me? Getting hurt? That’s unheard of,” Leo attempted to joke once Calypso removed her finger from his lips.

“Alright, now you’re not being serious. Didn’t you once tell me that you joke especially when you’re nervous?” Calypso remembered one of their earlier conversations.

Leo’s smirk disappeared. “Want me to be honest? I’m not great at the feelings stuff. But I just heard you tell me that you like me. For a moment I was like: ‘hey, for once the chick you like likes you back, maybe this could work out’. And then you told me that apparently your father is some kind of psycho who is still controlling you, his adult daughter. I am glad that you told me about all this but you can’t expect me to stay calm when someone I care about is in danger. You wouldn’t stay calm either, would you?”

Calypso shook her head. “No. You’re right. I would also want to help you. And I really am sorry, I wish things were different and we could… Maybe one day. That’s all I can say.”

Leo sighed and ran his free hand through his hair. “OK. I get it.”,

A silence fell into the room as they both tried to take in what had just happened. Some automatic reaction made Calypso lean her head against Leo’s shoulder as if she was trying to tell him with the touch that she really was sorry. She was thankful he did not shift away. Eventually, she asked:

“So… tell me more about last night. Did I embarrass myself badly?”

“Naah…” Leo lied at first, a smile returning to his face as he remembered some of the things that had happened.

“You just flinched,” Calypso noted. “I felt it. You’re totally lying.”

“Fine. It was pretty funny when you had a karaoke duet with Piper and were too drunk to be able to read the lyrics from the screen so you came up with the words yourself. And at one point you just suddenly switched to Greek and none of us could understand what you were saying. But it wasn’t that bad. And even drunk your voice was kinda impressive. And your dance moves were definitely better than mine.”

“Wait, what? I danced too? Gods, please tell me no one filmed that,” Calypso asked, horrified.

“I can promise no such thing!” Leo grinned, and Calypso stopped leaning her head against him, instead elbowing him on the ribs. “Ow! I’m just joking! I don’t know if Piper got any photo material of that but I was busy dancing with you so I didn’t have time to film anything. Promise.”

“Alright. Sorry.” She lowered her head on his shoulder again.

“Guess we’ll have to hunt down Piper after this,” Leo said with amusement before recalling something. “Anyway, something kinda weird happened too. Like I said, it really seemed like you were trying to avoid Reyna and Thalia and I have no idea why. Every time they got close, you were like ‘gotta get a drink’ or ‘let’s go dance’ or ‘bathroom break’. I’m not even sure if you greeted them. Can you explain that?”

“I… uh,” Calypso tried to come up with something that she wouldn’t have to tell the whole story. “My half sister Zoë… She used to be a Hunter. But she died some years ago. An accident. I think those two probably knew her and… the wound is still too deep so I didn’t want to have to talk about her. It would have ruined everyone’s night.”

“I’m sorry,” Leo said, causing chills in Calypso’s back by running his thumb on the palm of her hand. “I had no idea... Feels like I’m learning a lot more about you now than I have the past few months…” “I probably should have told you about that earlier… So I’m sorry too.”

Leo bit his lip as if he was struggling to decide something. “If it makes you feel any better… I know how it feels to lose someone important. My mum. She died in a fire. Yeah, the fire that started my fear,” Leo confirmed Calypso’s suspicions. “She was the only family I had and after that I went from home to home and no one wanted to keep me… Sometimes I ran away too… That kept going until Emmie and Jo finally found me. It… doesn’t really get easier, but somehow… you still learn to live with it. Because you have to.”

“Yeah. I know the feeling. But if you have to find something positive out of this situation… at least we’re safe now. And we’re not alone, right? That’s what they’d want for us, right?” Calypso sounded a bit unsure, though.

“Yeah. You’re right.” They stayed quiet for a while, but this time the silence was comforting. Finally, Leo decided to break it, in his typical way.

“No offense, Cal, but you could use a shower. For all of our sake.”

Calypso quickly sat farther from him. “Oh my gods, Leo, that is so not appropriate, especially in a situation like this! What’s wrong with you?”

Leo put his hands up defensively. “Was just trying to be honest! The alcohol and the throwing up did not do good to you.” “Geez, I hate you,” Calypso mumbled.

“That’s fine because I hate you too,” Leo claimed.

“Not what you said a moment ago,” Calypso retorted.

“I could say the same back at you.”

Suddenly both Leo and Calypso burst out laughing, needing to release the tension the whole conversation had created. Calypso didn’t remember when she had last laughed that long or hard but she didn’t care, it simply felt right in that moment. When she and Leo finally calmed down, she said quietly:

“Maybe we are idiots, both of us.”

“Maybe. But normalcy is not for me. I learned that a while ago.”

“Same, to be honest.”

Calypso and Leo’s eyes met. Some barriers had been broken that day and even though there was still a lot of work to do, Calypso realized that it had felt good to talk to Leo. He hadn’t judged or questioned, at least not in the way she had expected. He had seemed to accept that she’d come out of her shell with her own terms. Something about it all just felt so right, and when she remembered that he had also admitted he liked her back… she decided it was time to get a bit crazy. Screw the consequences, if they couldn’t enjoy this moment, then what could they enjoy? That’s why she let her hand brush his cheek before resting it in his hair, gently lifting his chin with her other hand so he’d know her intentions…

“Do you think… we could forget about the stupid rules just for a moment?” She asked, resting her forehead on his.

“I think I’m down with that,” Leo smiled at her softly (Calypso didn’t like admitting it but that soft smile never failed to get to her).

They closed their eyes and started leaning even closer, but just when their lips were about to meet, the door opened. The couple quickly separated when Piper peeked in.

“I heard some laughter from here so I thought I’d come to check…” Then she noticed their expressions. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt!”

“Didn’t interrupt anything,” Leo mumbled, although it was quite clear from his voice he was disappointed.

“Yeah, no worries,” Calypso tried to reassure her as well, although her eyes seemed to be interested in a wrinkle on her dress.

“OK…” Piper wasn’t at all convinced but she didn’t comment on it more. “Well, I just wanted to tell you that we have breakfast downstairs. Whenever you’re up to it.”

“Yeah, we’ll be there in a minute! Just let me… clean up a bit.” Calypso exclaimed, getting up and starting to head to the closest bathroom. Leo also got up from the bed and started pulling on the clothes he had had under his costume the previous day.

“See you soon then,” Piper said, leaving the very flustered couple to get prepared for the day. Calypso could imagine that she and Jason would probably get good laughs from this once she and Leo would leave.

[other-cullen-ficrecs]

DA January Challenge: Day 13 - Breathless.

Pairing: (pre) Cullen/Krem Warnings/Additional Tags: talking about bad binding habits, fluff, crush, mentions of dysphoria Summary: This fic is specially dedicated to my new binder which is awesome but also one day will probably break me in half.  

Krem ignored his back pain with years of practice when he went to sleep but it was becoming more of an issue when it refused to go away in the morning. He tried stretching out as subtly as possible but Stitches eyes were immediately on him.

"Your back is bothering you?"

"It's nothing, don't worry about it," Krem said quickly, sitting up straight and ignoring Stitches' unimpressed look.

"We've talked about this, Krem. You need to be more careful."

"It's fine! I've done the same thing for years in the army and it was... alright. Oh, stop worrying. I'm just no longer used to it!"

"And a few years older with more injuries on your record and a longer history of abusing your upper body."

Krem frowned.

"... Are you calling me old?"

"You will always be a child to me," Bull assured him walking into the room just to start a day with a good breakfast and an impressive eye-roll from his favourite lieutenant.

"Thanks, chief."

Stitches would not be derailed.

"He's playing a dangerous game with his binding again."

"Now that sounds more like me than Krem."

"Leave him be," Rocky tuned in and now apparently it was an all-Chargers issue.

Just a usual mercenary business. Meet in the tavern's backroom for breakfast and talk shop so everyone stays updated. Chief just returned from three weeks long mission with the Inquisitor, Stitches needed volunteers to drag to the woods and collect herbs, they finally received the payment for their last job in Orlais, and oh, yeah, Krem was binding too tight and for too long.

"He came back after last training with the recruits panting like a dog, he could barely catch a breath."

"Oh, now I'm old and out of shape."

"Binding this tightly for the whole day while sparing and training recruits is just dangerous. Maker's breath, I'm your healer, not a nanny. You know this perfectly well. Either cut hours and take breaks for breathing or just skip full binding and keep the armour for..." Stitches finally lost the momentum of his rant and gestured vaguely with his hand, "You know."

"Aesthetics?" Rocky suggested helpfully making Grimm snicker.

"But his armour doesn't show off his ass," Skinner protested and Krem pointed at her happily seeing someone was finally on his side before he realized what she said.

"No, wait, what? That- That doesn't have anything to do with this."

"You're showing off and you know it."

"I- No!"

"For Maker's sake, you've shown off enough," grumbled Stitches. "Just tell him."

"Waiting for him to make a move might take a while," Dalish agreed sympathetically.

Krem carefully made sure not to look at the Iron Bull who was oddly quiet and his eye just kept moving between them, clearly catching on the developments he missed while he was stuck at Wounded Coast with the Inquisitor. Oh well, he came back with a Vint boyfriend from one of those trips. Let's see how he felt on the other end of that bargain.

Not that Krem had a boyfriend.

"It's not so easy and you very well know it."

"Sure it is," assured Stitches. "You go and say, hello handsome, do you like the look of me in this armour? I look even better without it and when I can actually breathe. - Wait can you actually speak that long once you're panting like a dog?"

"Stick to short sentences," advised Skinner.

"It's not that easy because he most likely doesn't like guys. And if he doesn't like guys then he won't like me. Or worse, he will like me despite not liking guys. And he might already know this or he might not know about me and he doesn't know why he likes me despite me being a guy and when he finds out it will be really awkward. Or maybe he does like guys and it will only be worse."

Finally, there was a moment of silence around the table.

"Going on a limb here, since I clearly missed a bit of foreplay, but is it possible you've been overthinking it a little, oh Krem de la Creme?"

"Absolutely not! I was very careful to overthink it A LOT."

Bull snorted and patted him on the back, careful to avoid any extra painful spots but paused quickly seeing how Krem tensed already and winced in pain. He just looked down at him and Krem sighed.

"I know, I know. I'll just wear armour today."

"And tell your boy you wanna do him over his desk," suggested Rocky.

"All in good time," assured Bull as Krem just threw cheese at the dwarf.

-

"Krem? A word?"

Krem ran a hand over his forehead, wiping off the sweat. He nodded, already moving towards Cullen who stood unobtrusively next to the training ground. Just Krem's luck to actually speak with the Commander when his armour didn't lay on him exactly as he would prefer. Logically he knew the soldiers would have to try hard to even notice but logic rarely was able to battle the tricks his mind tried to play on him. At least, he cheered himself, he had some breath to speak with.

"Commander?"

"I just wanted to make sure you were in good health, you seemed... unwell, yesterday."

Krem winced. So much for his aches and pains being easily managed and hidden.

"I'm fine," he assured, thinking fast and looking up at Cullen.

The man didn't seem worried like Stitches did, Stitches was a friend and a healer and knew better than anyone how far Krem could push his spine and ribs when he felt worse about his torso. Still, Cullen didn't look like a commanding officer annoyed that he will need to replace the man he talked with. He was frowning at Krem, his gaze focused and serious as if he was faced with the most important problem. As if it barely mattered if he was thinking the strategy to take on Corypheus' general or making sure Krem was alright.

Krem sighed, the whole daydreaming and overthinking could only go so far. And if Cullen turned out to be a dick about it, he could probably just knock him out on his ass. And if he couldn't, Chief would. It wouldn't do them any favours but Bull punched more important people for smaller offences. Krem squared down his shoulders, looking nonchalantly away as if it was just another calm chat they had leaning on the training rings' rails. Best techniques to train fresh recruits, tactics for fighting with and against mages, running training with your chest wrapped tightly enough to bruise...

"I overdid it a bit with binding my chest. Don't worry, I already had a talking to with Stitches... It was just a while since I was this close to being in the army, I think my old habits of trying extra hard came out." Cullen was blinking at him, clearly surprised and Krem bit down on a sigh and went for a reassuring smile instead. "Don't worry about it, Commander."

So much for the crush.

Cullen looked away from him as well. His hand going to his neck as he scratched it awkwardly.

"I-" he coughed. "Of course. I- We can also plan the training better, so you could have sufficient breaks."

"There's no need, I am perfectly capable-"

Cullen just raised his hand to silence him.

"I've no doubt. However training new recruits, while crucial to our cause, is not a task that cannot be scheduled in a better way. We may yet need you soon on a battlefield, I would rather not risk your abilities being limited then due to back pain or breathing issues."

Krem just stared, nodding slowly.

"It's a bit jarring how I went from being kicked out of the army for this," he said with a somewhat confused smile, "to having training rescheduled around me for my comfort. Templars get some special inclusiveness training or something?"

Cullen snorted, flashing him a smile. His hand clenched nervously around his swords handle.

"Hardly. Templars..." He paused and looked at Krem again as if he was trying to decide on what to say and looking for a suggestion. He sighed quietly and continued in a slightly lower voice: "Templars are not allowed to ask a healer to change their bodies in a major way until they're eighteen and completed their vows. There.... There's a lot of training before that."

He licked his lips nervously but his gaze never wavered from Krem, urging him to understand the unspoken implications. Krem nodded shortly, his eyes wide in surprise. He smiled brightly seeing the relief on Cullen's face. If any lingering recruits passed them and saw them smiling at each other silently for a long moment, they were smart enough to just keep walking.

[doorsclosingslowly]

Do You Remember the First Time?

A Dregs member with a grudge, a cruel ambush—but to Kaz’ luck, a boy named Jesper Fahey has just joined the gang and he happened to tag along.

3.1k | pre-Six of Crows | warning for attempted rape, violence, ableism

By the time the door closes, it’s too late. Kaz is curled belly-down on the floor just past the entrance in a room with Beertjie and his mates Kert, Frans and Sonna, and Beertjie—well, he’s a much better actor than Kaz gave him credit for. Or Kaz is still more naïve than he believed—it’s probably both—but before two seconds ago when the truncheon hit his head, he never expected Per Haskell’s old enforcer to pull this off. The man’s neither creative nor ambitious enough. He’s been with the Dregs for longer than Kaz has been alive, and he’s still occasionally pulling bouncer duty when Haskell doesn’t need a brawler to second for him: Kaz, meanwhile, in less than three short years, has worked his way up to doing the accounting for all the Dregs’ gambling halls. He’s working on building up Fifth Harbour. Kaz has plans.

If this trap isn’t Beertjie’s own idea, though—then whose? Kaz has watched him, and he doesn’t have any contacts outside the Dregs. Outside his three accomplices, really, and a couple of bar men. It could’ve come from the boss, but Haskell’s at least clever enough to know that he needs Kaz.

So what—

“Nothing to say now, you little brat, eh?”

“I’m trying to understand how even you could be stupid enough to attack Per Haskell’s favourite second.” Kaz uses the lowest rasp his teenage voice will go to. “Give me some time. It’s an enormous amount of stupidity to tally.”

When in doubt, rile up. Kaz isn’t holding any cards at all right now—he doesn’t know who ordered the hit, he’s outnumbered and outmuscled, Frans over in the corner has his foot on Kaz’ cane and his hand on a gun, the three new Dregs who accompanied them—who lulled him into a false sense of security—they’re on the other side of the locked door, plus they might be in on the attack anyway, and when Kaz blacked out from the truncheon for a second someone locked his hands behind his back in some iron contraption, not Grisha thank the Saints but unfamiliar enough that he’ll need a few seconds to unlock it.

When all their attention is on him—and by his position, his back— they’ll notice if he fumbles a lockpick from his coat, but if they get angry enough… well, angry men make mistakes.

Unfortunately, angry men with truncheons also hit him in the head again.

“Is that your only trick?” Kaz smirks through the pounding blur in his eyes, not that they can see it when he’s face-down in the dirt. Beertjie’s not worth straining his neck to look up. Still, it doesn’t hurt to keep the acting impeccable. “No wonder you never got further than bouncer.”

“Thieving little bitch. Just ‘cause you suck Per’s cock just right doesn’t make you a big man,” and Beertjie’s genial ruddy cheeks are stained crimson with hatred now. “Stick to your books, cripple.”

So that’s what this is about: jealousy.

“If you’re worse at your job than a fifteen-year-old with a bum leg, I’m sorry to say, that reflects more on you than it does—”

Another blow, this time to the back. It glances off, no real damage done, and Beertjie’s even terrible at his actual job. He’s losing his cool.

So is Kaz, unfortunately, although he has enough sense to conceal his growing unease. No matter how subtly he wriggles his hands, the shackles are ratcheted too tight to slip out, so tight he’s starting to lose circulation. It might not even suffice to dislocate a thumb. He’s trapped. New plan. So if he’s going to stay prone and tied up and unarmed and anger’s only making Beertjie hit him more, that does not rob him of all his weapons. He’s talked his way into and out of far more dangerous situations before. Threats? No, Beertjie doesn’t have any connections outside the Dregs. No spouse, no family. Extortion? He doesn’t have any secrets either, save the insecurity he just revealed. He does jobs for Haskell with his buddies, he drinks in Haskell’s bars with his buddies, he plays poker in Haskell’s bars with his buddies. He’s a profoundly boring man. Maybe that’s why Haskell has kept him for so long: boring men provide no leverage, much to Kaz’ current detriment.

The next strike is to Kaz’ bad leg. Another, same location. Then the healthy one. Not enough force to break bone, but still, it hurts enough that he has to bite his lip to stifle a moan, and worse yet is the way Beertjie’s bending over him in order to aim. The bouncer’s got enough core strength that he doesn’t need to prop himself up, doesn’t need to touch Kaz with anything but the truncheon, but—every rush of air from the body above him makes his heart jackhammer. He screws his eyes shut. It’s hard to think of a plan, now; hard to even have the presence of mind to be grateful his humiliating position is hiding even more humiliating panic. Another strike. Another close movement. He’ll lose another leg. Another—

“Everything alright? We heard scuffling.”

The screech of the door as it opens wider—the pain as it hits Kaz’ bad leg—Beertjie cursing as he hurries out of the way, and then three pairs of footsteps. The new Dregs. Kaz swings his throbbing aching good leg until he’s turned on his side—the wrong one, he still can’t see any faces—but though that would’ve been useful, he doesn’t strictly need it. He knows the new Dregs. He recruited all three of them, and that interruption was Jesper Fahey’s voice. Jesper is the newest, and the one with the most potential.

Their presence makes the whole unfortunate situation slightly more embarrassing. However, any mix-up also presents new opportunities, and Kaz just has to think…

“Hey. I’m talking to you.” Jesper, again. Insufferably confident for a teenage dropout gambling addict with debts in the thousands of kruge watching the person who recruited him a month ago get roughed up by a washed-up old guy.

So confident it even catches Beertjie on the back foot. The man opts for nonchalance. “Fine,” he says. “Just teaching a little rat some respect.”

The constant references to his height are starting to grate uncomfortably against Kaz’ skin. Sure, he’s almost fifteen and still hoping for another growth spurt, and the malnutrition of a Barrel kid probably didn’t do him any favours if he was ever meant to grow up tall, but in Beertjie’s wide mouth, the word takes on a more dangerous hue. Something predatory.

“Well, I was. Seems like he needs something a little bigger than a truncheon to teach him some respect. Something to replacethat stick in his ass.”

The implication alone is enough to leave Kaz’ reputation in tatters. If this gets out—if the young Dregs leave, and he wants them to leave now, but he can’t—none of this can leave this room, ever. Kaz can’t see the obscene leer on Beertjie’s face, but he doesn’t need much skill to imagine it. He can feel the movement of his vicious greedy eyes deep in his bones, can feel them travelling through his layers into his skin, and he’s wriggling in his fetters with more and more urgency. He’s managed to pull a tiny lockpick from his shirt cuff during the beating, and with just a little time he might be able to…

“Got any room for one more?”

It shouldn’t feel like a betrayal. There is no honour among thieves, and the Bastard of the Barrel’s only friend is his vengeance, but still. The new Dregs were supposed to be his. Jesper was supposed to be his. After all, it was Kaz who saw the potential in the Zemeni gambler in the first place. His quick, easy charm, his steel under pressure, his skill with a gun.

And Jesper is not as subtle as he probably likes to think, when his eyes keep flickering down to Kaz’ mouth—yeah, Kaz knows about the crush, even had vague notions on how to put it to use, but somehow, he’s never expected the other boy to just want to take what he’s been denied. Stupid, stupid.

Kaz led him to the Dregs. He had great plans for the boy. Had. Jesper’s going to die bloody. What a waste.

Something about his loathing must have bled through in Kaz’ posture, because Beertjie chuckles.

“Brekker makes his enemies quick, eh?”

Jesper laughs, too. It’s a grating sound, somehow: Kaz has heard him laugh often at the gambling tables, doing trick shots, making friends, and that’s what helps him pick out the new nuances. This laugh is breathy, high, almost hysterical. He sounds like it’s slowly sinking in what he’s planning to do. He sounds terrified. Good.

“They’ll remember your death in Ketterdam for decades,” Kaz vows. It’s all he can do, because the lock still won’t give in. “Centuries. It’ll be so gory and painful they’ll use it to terrify their children into submission. If you wanted your name to become immortal—well, congratulations, Jesper Fahey.”

“I’d like to shut his smart mouth,” Jesper says, his voice still wrong and shrill. “Stuff it, if you catch my drift.”

And then, Jesper’s on his knees next to Kaz, heaving him up. Kaz refuses to be of help, until one of the hands holding up his clothed upper arms moves down to the knee of his bad leg to bend it. Heavy boots move closer as if to offer help, either Beertjie or Sonna or young Peer, and that’s—it’s too much, not when Kaz still hasn’t found a way out of his handcuffs, not when he knows what’s going to… thank the Saints he’s still clothed and he won’t get torn bare this soon, won’t have to endure as much skin touch anywhere except his head and that’s bad enough, though at least it will thoroughly spoil their fun when he spews vomit all over…

He bites his lip bloody to halt his thoughts. There’s still time to escape. Maybe on his knees, picking the lock will be easier. Maybe—it’s Peer who came up pull him into position, Kaz can see the boy now, and that’s too much, too many people around him when Jesper’s bad enough, and so he gets onto his knees of his own accord. Peer stays.

Jesper’s hands fondle Kaz’ wrists for a second. Even through the gloves and the shirt cuffs and the jacket and the steel shackles, the trembling touch makes Kaz sick.

The fucking traitor rises to his feet, and then he’s standing right in front of Kaz, so close Kaz can smell leather and gunpower and sour sweat, his groin right in front of Kaz’ face. His still-clothed dick, as far as Kaz can tell, is soft. Good. At least he isn’t enjoying this as much as he expected. At least this won’t even be worth it for him. For a fraction of a second, Kaz steels himself by imagining biting his way through that soft rat bastard belly and tearing out Jesper’s liver with his teeth. The blood. The screams.

Jesper, though, has other concerns.

“I guess you’ll be a biter,” he says softly, as if to himself. Kaz can see his eyes flick over to Beertjie, though: he’s playing to an audience, though for what— “I happen to prefer my dick attached,” and he pulls out a gun. Uses it to caress Kaz’ temple with a parody of tenderness. “You know what’ll happen if I feel a tooth. You can touch your stick now, boss,” even more quietly, and—

As if Kaz was gonna get off from this. Is if he’s going to let Jesper pretend it’s consensual, as if his arms aren’t cuffed behind him, as if—Jesper’s grey eyes are staring down past Kaz’ face even though his chin’s still raised, and despite himself, Kaz follows his glance.

Next to his knee, there’s the bottom end of his cane. It must’ve rolled over, and before he can bury the child straining to hold onto any security that drowned in the harbour years ago he’s reaching for it, and—his hand moves.

The cuffs are open.

They clatter to the floor before his hands locks around the cane, and Jesper spins around and shoots Frans right in the head.

Kert and Sonna are next, before they even manage to take a step closer; and Peer stumbles when Kaz’ cane meets his foot and dies when the cane meets his neck. Another couple of bullets for Beertjie. Screams. Otto the other new recruit desperately rattling the handle of the locked door and Jesper glances at Kaz and Kaz shakes his head and then the boy’s brain paints the door.

And Beertjie’s still screaming.

“I’m out of bullets now, boss. Only brought the one gun.” Jesper looks almost shy now, standing in the blood splattered room. It’s strangely at odds with the ruthless fighter he was a second ago; the eager rapist he—pretended to be, with admirable quickness of mind and acting acumen, for a few minutes. Now, he’s only meeting Kaz’ eyes for a fraction of a second and then glances away again, as if it was him who was humiliated here. As if—

“He’s yours, boss.”

As if he’s an eager cat who fetched Kaz his revenge and is hoping it’ll please him. Because Jesper shot Beertjie in both knees, Kaz realises. Deliberately. He shot him in the knees and left him for Kaz to kill, and it’s almost—almost—enough to paint over the terror and humiliation of the past few minutes. He was right. Jesper will be useful.

So he stands on his aching bad leg and his throbbing bruised good one and ignores his trembling as he works his way up, breaking bones, from the thighs to the arms and ribs and, finally, the face. The shaking’s just adrenaline, pleasure, leaving early. He’s fine.

Jesper is proving his mettle even more by studiously ignoring the way he can barely stand, can barely limp over to the door.

The door. That’s what he almost missed. The unlocked door that was locked when Otto tried to escape, and unlocked when Jesper got in, and locked before that. Just like the shackles were locked until they weren’t.

Jesper’s going to be very, very useful indeed.

+

It's been six days since The Event, and Jesper’s in the Crow Club, losing badly at poker. This time, he knew he was going to lose even before he sat down at the table, but his head’s spinning, and there’s something about the familiar banter and shuffle and the weight of the cards in his hands, the practiced movements, that often helps him think. That might help him now not lose himself in bouncing questions and worries left over from The Event, even if it’ll lose him a hundred kruge.

The Event. That’s how Jesper has taken to referring to what happened, even in the sanctity of his own head: because despite what happened in the leadup to The Event, he’s not entirely convinced that Kaz Brekker isn’t a mindreader Grisha, and if Brekker’s gonna murder him for—for pretending to go along with raping him, oh Saints—if Kaz is gonna kill Jesper as the last witness, well, not provoking him needlessly will maybe buy Jesper time to write a last letter or two to his Da.

So he’s waiting on hot coals, and drinking, and losing at poker, and not thinking about What Happened. Or What Didn’t Happen, because whenever it comes up Jesper’s been going along with Kaz’ version of events: that creepy old guy was a traitor who’d turned all the other guys to his side too, and Kaz confronted and eliminated him, with minor assistance from Jesper himself. If underplaying his own initiative, quick planning, superb acting skills and cool under pressure—not to mention his perfect kill shots, but then Kaz did go back and set the house on fire to get rid of the corpse evidence—if letting Kaz rest on what should rightfully be Jesper’s laurels is what gets him another lease on life, so be it. He’ll have more chances to prove himself. Unless Kaz murders him.

He doesn’t regret the impulse that made him save Kaz. It was wrong, what that creep planned, regardless even of the fact Jesper’s maybe a little only here with the Dregs in the first place because Kaz asked him and even that first time, he liked Kaz. Maybe Kaz would stop planning to murder him if he explained—but on the off-chance that Kaz hasn’t realized he’s Grisha yet, and Kaz hasn’t brought it up so there’s at least a possibility… He was close to picking the shackles himself, after all. On the off-chance he doesn’t know, it would be pretty stupid to tell him—case in point, Jesper’s still fifty-fifty on whether Kaz will murder him—but the only explanation for why he went along with the rape pretence in the first place is that he needed to get close enough to those shackles. Maybe Kaz will just calm down on his own. Fifty percent non-murder are still good odds, after all. Better than Jesper winning today at poker.

More worrying—and just plain unfortunate, because even if he’s fucked his chances now Jesper really does like the guy—is that Kaz hasn’t exchanged a single word in private with him. They’ve barely been in the same room, and when Jesper clapped him on the back two days ago the guy actually jumped. If it wasn’t for the fact that this is Kaz, Dirtyhands, Bastard of the Barrel, who did torture a man to death a week ago even if that guy deserved it and Jesper did help him, so he really can’t claim any white vest there—if this wasn’t Kaz, Jesper would almost think he’s afraid of him now.

So he’s going to get murdered by his crush who’s also scared of him. And he’s just lost another two hundred kruge. Life is great.

But when he’s waving to the dealer to signal he’s up for another round—it’s Tom today, who’s always nice to Jesper and kind of pretty but he’s definitely no Kaz, so maybe later once Jesper’s nursed his sore heart… But the dealer’s not even paying attention to him. He’s staring straight behind Jesper. Not even a chance of a rebound tonight, then. Saints, Jesper’s luck just sucks.

A hand raps on the table next to him. Slim fingers, black gloves.

“Fahey, with me,” Kaz rasps from behind him, closer than he’s been in a week. “Geels wants a talk. I need someone reliable at my back.”

Or, just maybe, Jesper is the luckiest man in Ketterdam.

[dontasktheradiodemon]

Chat log - Oct 8

Somehow we got from "Valera confronts Alastor about his obvious crush on her fiancé" to "Alastor makes a bargain with the fae in exchange for time travel" and that's why RP is beautiful.

Valera

Valera walked through the front door of the hotel, a folder of newly acquired sheet music swapped between one hand and the other as she shrugged her way out of a coat that dissolved into so much sparkly vapor as it hit the floor. Ah, the smell of paper and ink, the thrill of a New Thing To Play With. Why, her tail would be wagging if she wasn't consciously trying to avoid accidentally stabbing Alastor! Speaking of, she turns back, waiting for the aforementioned deer to join her.

Alastor

Alastor, on the other hand, will be keeping his coat on. He checks to make sure Valera's entire tail is safely inside before letting the door swing shut. "And there—safely back in the hotel! Mission accomplished, and with no shots fired!" He says this as if that's a common danger when going to the music store. Everything's relative.

Valera

How generous of him! "You say that so casually, Hell must be quite a bit more exciting when you've made a name for yourself! But thank you, my dear. The escort was appreciated." She offers a shallow curtsy, fanning herself with the folder for added effect before popping back up. "Actually! Would you like to come try the new music with me?"

Alastor

"You're quite welcome, any time. It's both more exciting and less exciting! But I've been a sensation in Hell since the day I arrived, I can't truly tell you what the alternative is like."

Oh, the magic words. His grin stretches wider. "I'd be delighted to!"

Valera

Hook, line, and sinker. She grins, luring him away to his doom the piano, where she makes a dramatic show of plopping down on one end of the bench with plenty of room left for him, and setting the sheet music up. "Here, get comfortable! Fair warning, I'm better on a harpsichord than a piano, so I'm sure you'll do much better than I will."

Alastor

Oblivious to his pending doom, he takes the offered seat and glances over the sheet music. What have we got today? "I don't think I've ever played a harpsichord! But I can imagine the adjustment—I've taken a spin once or twice on an organ, and oh, what a world of difference! Isn't it amazing how many instruments have identical keyboards and yet you have to play them completely differently!"

Valera

"Oh yes! Harpsichords don't have any subtlety to them. No matter how hard or gently you hit the keys, the note is always top volume!" A wink. "Like a certain snake, come to think of it!" She'd thought of him in the music store, lucky him, and went out of her way to find a piece or two from his own time along with a few well known showtunes from Broadway. And in the back, a few pieces from Disney. Scandalous. "Figured we'd start with something simple. Are you familiar with Carroll Gibbons?"

Alastor

"Hah." And he'd been doing so WELL trying not to think about Sir Pentious; he'd lasted almost five minutes—which was pretty long when he was talking to Sir Pentious's fiancée. "All the better to ensure as many people as possible hear his grandiose proclamations, I'm sure!"

He skimmed over the sheet music. "Vaguely familiar, can't say from where." Muffled disembodied piano notes played the melody sped up as Alastor glanced over the first page—ought to be simple enough to play. "Sounds like my time."

Valera

Poor, poor Alastor. Wipe off that chalkboard, he wont be making much progress on that timer today. "I asked for something from around that era, so I certainly hope so! You were right though, it's a very fine store indeed. We're lucky you couldn't go in with me or I might have gotten more than I could carry, and we all know I'm struggling enough with that problem already." Wink!

She cracks her knuckles, trying to keep a straight face as she puts her fingers to the keys. Oh, the funny little inside jokes of friends who are obviously both in on the bit.

Alastor

He wonders whether that was a sexual euphemism or just a reference to Sir Pentious's new length. "THAT weight, I could have helped you carry!" He's gonna quietly pretend he doesn't detest the implication that Sir Pentious is too much. Probably just a reference to him being fifteen feet long, don't read into it.

It's music time now!

Valera

The answer seemed in line, no reason for Valera to hesitate, so instead she gives Alastor a smile and launches into a rendition of The Gay Imposter's medley. A simple enough piece for her to start with, and while she starts with a heavy enough hand on the keys that even she flinches at the sound, she eases off quickly into something he wouldn't have to shout to duet with.

Alastor

She adjusts fast, he'll give her that; and makes a mental note that apparently one has to play harder on a harpsichord. He doesn't know if he'll ever use this knowledge, but one never knows.

And so a duet it is—or more, once he realizes that this little medley could benefit from some strings, couldn't it, and calls up a shadow with a violin to improvise an accompaniment.

Valera

She hums and pulls her hands away from the keys, reaching for the folder for another piece to try. "Here, the next one is yours." Actually, now that she's said that.. That brings something to mind. "Do you want to go hunting on Earth, when this.." A gesture towards herself. "..Ordeal? Is over? So, sometime next month? I've seen you talk about missing venison."

Alastor

Hunting on Earth—there's a thought! Something he never imagined he'd do again!

Something he isn't sure he should. That's... something he's going to have to consider. But he doesn't need to give an immediate answer, does he?

"'Ordeal'? I hope you're not referring to your own company! I wouldn't call a stroll to the music store and a spin on the piano an 'ordeal'!"

Valera

... She blinks, brows slowly furrowing as she turns that over in her head. Did he not know? Was he playing it off? Fuck, maybe Pentious hadn't said anything yet, if he'd even planned to. Uh oh. Alright. Carefully, carefully, she turns back to the folder, browsing through sheet music to keep her hands busy.

"Apologies, dear Alastor. I thought Pentious had informed you shortly after he told Match." A polite clearing of her throat, her fins dipping down apologetically. "I'm chock full of eggs, dearie."

Alastor

Alastor blinks in amazement, gaze flicking from Valera's face down to her abdomen and then back up to her face.

For a couple of seconds of loudly buzzing static, a hurricane of thoughts storms through his mind:

Why hadn't he been told? Did Sir Pentious not want him to know? No, that's ridiculous, Sir Pentious trusts him—even though he shouldn't, it's obvious he does—so it wasn't a decision made out of secrecy but out of—what, apathy? Apathy toward what? Certainly not the eggs, certainly they weren't too uninteresting to share, not when Sir Pentious wants children so badly he collects dolls of them, he has to be brimming over with joy—then the apathy was toward Alastor himself, he didn't qualify being told the news. Why should he? They barely knew each other—sure, their friendship had moved fast—sure, the second time they'd met they'd fallen asleep together drunk and curled around each other and— But what's rushed intimacy like that worth when they hardly know each other?

All that in just a couple of seconds as his heart plummets. Then a broad smile breaks out across his face. "Are you really! Well, a thousand congratulations to you both! I'm sure you must both be completely overjoyed. And they're due sometime next month?! I suppose you'll be scheduling that wedding a little sooner, ha! My, but we rarely get news like this in Hell!"

Valera

A moment of calm as she watches him take the information in, and then he starts in with the cheer and she has to watch. The moment he's done, she practically vibrates, hands frantically waving between them as she resists the urge to grab the poor man by the shoulders and shake him. No shouting, she has to hiss whisper before the whole hotel hears their conversation. "Wh-- No, whoa whoa no!!! No you put those thoughts back in the pit they crawled out of, I could FEEL your brain breaking!!! Alastor they're completely nonfertilized. There's not going to be eels tearing through the hotel anytime this year! You're okay!"

Alastor

"I—Oh!" Give him a split second to restructure all his thoughts. "Oh, are they!" He laughs. "Goodness me, and here I was about to run off and buy baby bonnets as a gift, hah—Pity, though." And it is a pity. Does that mean Sir Pentious and Valera aren't fertile together after all? Or did they expect this?

As delicately as he can, he says, "I'm afraid I don't know enough about your people to tell if I should be offering you my deepest condolences, or if you just lay a batch every once in a while like a chicken."

Valera

Oh, now he's trying to be kind? How sweet of him. She chuckles, a bit breathless, and puts a hand to her chest. That could have gotten ugly. The questions are a bit TMI, but such things can't be avoided, sometimes. She'll try to keep it vague, for Alastor's sake.

"I'm on contraceptives! He just confused my body into thinking it was fertilized. Overachieving first timer performance, you know? Which I suppose I understand. Thirty six years of nothing, nada, and then constantly being in contact with someone who keeps sending all the right signals." It's funny, now that she thinks about it. But very nonhuman. No wonder everyone keeps being confused.

Alastor

He'd like to think he's been trying to be kind the whole time.

He blinks for a moment as he tries to wrap his mind around that medical explanation. "Well... I... can't say that I've ever met a creature that can get false pregnancies just from an enthusiastic lover. It certainly doesn't happen among humans!"

Or does it? Maybe that's what some miscarriages are? He has absolutely no idea, it's never been relevant to his life. Certainly, if it does happen to humans, that hadn't been part of the medical knowledge in his time. "Poor man must have been completely baffled by the whole thing."

(He's doing a pretty good job of not thinking about the "right signals.")

Valera

"It doesn't happen often, it threw BOTH of us for a loop. But he took it remarkably well, all things considered! Just the proof he needed that we really are compatible. He's just being a bit more possessive and touchy feely since he heard, and that's hardly a negative." Her cheeks flush. Oh yeah, not a negative at all. But best not to think about that around Alastor. He's already trying so hard not to die over her relationship.

She coughs. "Actually, that brings something else to mind, if you'll humor me."

Alastor

"A test run, then! In that case, my congratulations again—for the evidence of your compatibility." It'll make things easier later on, won't it? And that's something Alastor has worried about—whether Valera's species really would let Sir Pentious get around the natural infertility of demons. Well, there it is.

"Oh, does it?" He gives her a sly look. "Well, I didn't think we'd be having this conversation so soon, but since you brought it up: yes, if you insist, you can name the first boy after me, as long as you promise to spell my name right! You'd be amazed how many people don't spell it with an O." Laugh track, laugh track. "But really—what's on your mind?"

Valera

A wheeze, her body nearly doubling over, a fist over her mouth to muffle stifled giggles as Alastor yanks the rug out from under her feet with his bit. Dear gods, the very idea. The scandal! It's more tempting than it should be, but Pentious would murder her... Probably. Maybe not.

"Well, I mean...... No no, I could never. Veci can have multiple sires for a single pup, people would think you really were one of the fathers. But tell you what, you think of a good snake pun and I'll put it on the list." Humor aside, time to get serious. A pause while she composes herself, smooths down the front of her dress.. And she is suddenly very nervous all over again. Lovely.

"There's no graceful way to put this, I'm afraid. And let me preface this by saying. I'm not angry or judging you, I wont tell anyone without your explicit permission, and I'm willing to shake on that if it brings you peace of mind." A beat. "But I am fully aware of your feelings for Pentious, dear Alastor."

Alastor

His mind is bouncing between the medical miracle of a child with multiple fathers and the list of snake puns that as it so happens he already has, trying to decide which he wants to comment on first—and then it's his turn to have the rug pulled out from under him.

He only spends a split second silent, mouth half open from almost starting a sentence on a prior topic he's already forgotten; and then his teeth click shut like a dial turning off, and now he's all polite smiles and genial tone. "Are you?"

Valera

She nods, just once, and offers Alastor what she hopes is a comforting smile, though it may be a grimace with how her stomach is turning. "I am. And again, I have absolutely no intentions of breathing a word to even suggest it to anyone but yourself. I wont run off and tell Pentious, or writing it out on dash for anyone to see. I'm speaking to you about it because I want to make sure you know that I don't mind. You've been a good friend to him, and myself as well. You've been incredibly respectful, and I want to acknowledge that. This isn't an accusation."

Alastor

"Ah." His glowing red gaze lingers for a moment on the piano keys—no hope of getting to play for a while now, is there—and then his traveling gaze falls on the shadow he summoned up earlier. "What—Are you still here? Aren't you nosy!" He hops out of his seat, making a comical little pantomime of shooing the shadow until it hustles across the room and vanishes, taking its violin with it.

"Eavesdroppers." Alastor tisks, critically watching the spot where the shadow disappeared.

His gaze is still across the room when he says amiably, "You're wrong, though." The corner of his mouth twitches up: haha, gotcha, had you fooled. "It's not him. Just someone who looks and sounds and acts the same."

Valera

Valera turns back to the piano, playing a few barely audible notes to buy herself some time while Alastor busied himself with shooing off his shadowy minion. It was easy to go in heavy handed, get the most from your efforts. But a delicate touch made sweeter sounds, in and out of the world of music. Perhaps she needed a more delicate approach..

Wow, that was as stupid as it was fake poetic! Ugh, back to what she SHOULD be focusing on. "The Pentious of your own Hell, then. My apologies. So you're projecting your feelings for your own Pentious onto the one we both know, then?"

Alastor

"Oh, completely!" He laughs ruefully. "I've known him a mere thirty-three days! Everything I know about him amounts to thing I can assume about the one based on the other, and a list of points that differ. I don't really know him at all. How could I?"

Valera

Well now, that seems unfair to both Alastor and Pentious! She knows for a fact that the two of them have had GREAT fun together, with and without her around to witness it! "I understand what you're saying."

She stops, squints. Shakes her head. "No. I shouldn't say that. I don't understand what you're saying, I just think I can empathize with your predicament. I've spent years knowing various iterations of all sorts of people, but I've never met an alternate of a person I pined over. It sounds like torture."

Alastor

The word torture is met with studio audience laughter. "Then you should consider yourself lucky!" The chipper tone doesn't falter for a second. "I wouldn't recommend it to anyone, hah! Well, maybe my worst enemy—PROBABLY my worst enemy, truth be told, I am not and never have been gracious to my foes—but that aside, oh, no, the experience has nothing to recommend it." Prattle, prattle.

Valera

She licks her lips, raspy tongue flicking out far further than necessary as she weighs her options. She could try to end the conversation here, reel him back in with a musical number. Or dive into his emotional anguish and run the risk of either bonding with him OR making him so wildly uncomfortable he'd avoid her for weeks.

Eh, fifty fifty shot, she likes those odds. She hops off the bench, walking over to Alastor to.. Well. She wont touch him, but she'll just make her presence.. present. "Alastor. I'm going to ask a lot of you here, but tell me. In your ideal outcome, the best case scenario, what would you want out of this whole... Thing?"

Alastor

"Oh! Jumping straight to the thousand dollar question and skipping over the tens and hundreds?" He puts a hand over his heart as though the audacity has sent him into near cardiac arrest. "No no—the last time we played this little question-and-answer game, you remember, we left off on my turn. I get to ask the next one."

He turns more fully toward her—still the polite smile—to ask, "What gave me away? I am a performer, you know; I do pride myself on my ability to keep in character!"

Valera

If Alastor wanted to make a game out of it, so be it. Maybe that was simply what he felt comfortable with. Hope he can appreciate an honest answer. She makes dead eye contact and grins.

"You're touch averse to everyone but Pentious. You latch onto him given the slightest chance, jump on every excuse to be around him. Always craving any kind of touch. A bite, laying on his coils, anything you can get. You stare, you sigh, you practically swoon every time he smiles at you. I act the same way, don't get me wrong, but I'm engaged to him."

Alastor

Thank god for being dead, no blood flow means one's cheeks never burn. Alastor would point out that Valera has never seen him around anyone but Sir Pentious, how would she know whose touch he is and isn't averse to—but no, he confessed that one himself, didn't he? Slouched all over Sir Pentious at the theater while laughing about how much he hates being touched.

An uneasy pit forms in his stomach. (A second, new, additional uneasy pit, next to the gaping sinkhole that's already been forming.) That was right before Sir Pentious shoved him off and didn't address him for the rest of the show. If Valera had been able to put two and two together then...

He draws himself upright in mock offense. "I do not sigh! I won't object to the accurate accusations, but I'm quite certain I'm not a sigher!" He pauses. "And I'd protest the swooning too, except I don't know what a swoon looks like. I don't think anyone actually does that outside of novels."

Valera

She snickers, bouncing on her heels while her fins waggle. Good, something she can crack a joke about, the atmosphere in here was getting downright suffocating. "Well! I'd show you my best swoon, but I'm very heavy and I think I would break either your bones or the couch if I tried it." His skinny little arms would shatter like toothpicks trying to catch her, probably. And that was IF he caught her. No no, there will be no trust falls today.

"Now answer my question, dear fellow. What would be your ideal outcome in this terribly tricky predicament? It doesn't have to be realistic, it just has to be what would make you happiest."

Alastor

He arches an eyebrow. "No working your way up with the easy ones?" He's stalling.

Valera

She arches her own right back! "No. If I wanted to pussyfoot around difficult subjects, I'd find a cat to dance with, not a deer."

Alastor

"Why, don't you know how skittish deer are? Liable to bound off into the woods at a moment's notice!"

He's still stalling.

Valera

She leans in closer, all three eyes narrowing as she stares down at the smaller man. "Alastor, if you keep stalling I am going to start shaking you until the answers fall out, touch aversion or no."

Alastor

His polite smile turns cold. "Try it and you'll never get another word out of me again." It's gonna be all instrumentals all the time, baby. Just orchestras and sound effects.

"If you'd rather wait in silence than enjoy my delightful banter, then fine. Just—give me a moment. To think. I don't have all my dialogue prewritten, you know."

He doesn't yet have the words for something he's never, ever considered putting voice to.

Valera

She withdraws, glossing over his cold threat with a pleasantly bland smile and nod. "Fair enough. My apologies, you were starting to sound like you were about to make a break for it to avoid the discussion entirely. Take your time, Alastor."

Guess she might as well get comfortable then, the couch is looking rather inviting, and as fun as towering over people is, it does tend to make them more nervous than necessary. He's going to talk, she's going to magic up some tea.

Alastor

He plays an idle boring tune over a metronome to fill the silence as he sighs, shuts his eyes, and tilts his head back, thinking.

The problem isn't that he doesn't know what he wants. The problem is he wants so much in so many different ways. The problem is choosing one facet of it that's small enough to say out loud. The problem is putting it into a sentence that won't terrify his nosy guest. The problem is finding words that he can squeeze out before a lump forms in his throat.

Finally, opening his eyes, still staring at the ceiling, he says, "The most ideal, most unrealistic outcome would be to go back in time—fifty-four years, four months, and two days—and change one thing. In a way that doesn't cause the timeline to form a new branch, but that—erases this path completely. So it never existed." He gives Valera a tired look. "But that's beyond even you, isn't it."

Valera

Her mouth opens, but she hesitates. Then shrugs, and gestures for him to take a seat with a far more genuine smile.

"If I answered that in any kind of simple manner, we'd be here all week. Why don't you sit down and have a drink with me, and we can approach this more gently. I'd like to help you, Alastor, even if my methods are.. Overly direct at times." That's putting it mildly. After a day of politics, her capacity for subtlety was shot at the BEST of times. Poor Alastor was getting her at her finest, here.

Alastor

He studies her a moment, a spark of energy lighting his eyes with interest. "Well, if that's your way of saying 'maybe'—I've waited fifty-four years, what's another week?" He waves a nearby chair into sliding over and takes a seat. "Go on."

Valera

She slides a cup of tea across the table, mutely gesturing to the customary cream and sugar she'd not bothered to partake in herself. As an afterthought, she drags a plate of venison jerky through from her own realm. Not a customary tea snack, but it's not like she could truly enjoy anything sweet right now. Plus, gnawing on a piece of jerky was a wonderful stalling tool for both of them now.

Mm, jerky. Now.. Goodness. How can she be delicate about this? "In theory, my dear, I could attempt to put your current mind back in that exact moment you described. It would, of course, destroy this current reality and everyone in it if it worked, and force you to relive the trauma from a spectator's perspective if it didn't."

Alastor

He glances at the cup, but doesn't move to take it. "I like those odds."

Valera

"Really? Most people would hear that opener and cut the conversation there. Though I suppose you aren't most people." No, this was the Radio Demon himself, willing to sacrifice anyone and anything to get what he wanted! Allegedly!

A dry smile. "Might I remind you that I'm thirty six years old and entertaining the notion of attempting to rewrite reality itself for a man I've only started growing comfortable with calling a friend, all so you can fix whatever you broke on that fateful day, dear Alastor?"

Alastor

He blinks. "You're thirty-six?"

Valera

That's what he fixated on? Dear gods, the cackle that came out of her.

"Yes, yes I am. Thirty six years old, and already so accomplished that I've seen both Heaven and Hell. Aren't I lucky?"

Alastor

When she'd mentioned "thirty-six years" earlier—in the middle of a conversation about her sex life—he'd thought she was giving the length of her dry spell, not her life. "My, oh my! Amazing! What's that in Earth years?" He leans forward, all chipper again. "And look how lucky you are NOW. A chance to attempt rewriting a reality you have no personal attachment to, on behalf of a man you only barely consider a friend—no great loss to you! All the risk falls on me! You get to document the results and learn something new about these fantastic abilities you're wielding—even as impressive as they are, I'm sure you must have more to learn! Why, I don't see a downside for you!"

Valera

Her nose scrunches in disgust. "Ugh, you're going to ask me to do math? Some friend you are. But more seriously."

Give her a moment while she adjusts herself, shoving a pillow under her back as she lifts her legs to take up the couch in a comfortable lounge. Oh yes, that's the good stuff. "You really don't see any downside for me? How about the risk of re-traumatizing my friend if it fails? Or destroying an entire reality for one person's desires? That would mean destroying the residents of this hotel, plus the Pentious that exists right now."

Alastor

"I'm in Hell, I deserve the trauma." Absolutely no hesitation. "Destroying one reality to create another. Another with the exact same people who were erased. Another where he wins. Where he comes out on top." He scoots forward in his seat, insistent, animated. "This isn't about me, darling—the fact that I benefit is just a bonus. This is about him. He was poised to conquer. Change one detail, one decision, and he could be ruling half of Hell by now. Maybe more! My god, he was already unstoppable, what if he'd picked up the pace?!"

He reaches for one of Valera's hands to squeeze. "I'm trying to give him Heaven and Hell—I want to give him everything he's ever wanted. Wouldn't you?"

Valera

The sudden touch was jarring, but her hand curls around his reflexively, the warmth seeping through his gloves a marked contrast with the coolness of her scales. It was almost enough to make her relax into his touch, and that was dangerous. She hesitates.

"Would I do anything in my power to help Pentious? Of course I would. But.." She would. She'd make a deal with just about anyone if it meant helping her beau. And Alastor was trying to do that now, for his own object of affection. It was between helping Alastor, and.. Well. An entire reality possibly being voided.

"Are you certain it's worth it? Could you live with yourself if you tried, and failed, and came back to this current present with all those memories fresh? What did you do, Alastor, that was so unmendable that you'd turn to a coinflip to fix it?"

Alastor

"I'm damned. I don't need to live with myself." His smile thinned grimly. "I'm asking you to try to help me cheat the system. If we succeed, then he gets what he wants. If we fail, then that just means the system works, and—and I get what I deserve. Hell is a punishment. I accept that."

He holds up a finger at her last question. "We're supposed to be taking turns asking the questions. I don't see any reason why you need to know if you aren't going to help me fix it. So: are you?"

Valera

Valera looks down at the table, staring into her teacup as if it could answer the questions racing through her mind. Was it worth it? Could she willingly sacrifice the people she'd met at this hotel, in this Hell, just for a chance to help a friend fix a problem it sounded more and more like he'd caused? Was this really a deal she could make? What would she want?

She takes a breath. Lifts her gaze to meet his. "If you're certain you're willing to try this, I'll help you. I'd beg, borrow, and steal from anyone capable if I was the one in your situation, even if the odds were a hundred to one. I'll give you one chance, Alastor, to fix your wrongdoing. But I can't promise it'll go how you want it to. You know that."

Alastor

He lets out a laugh that almost sounds like a sob. "One slim chance is more than I ever dreamed I'd get! Five seconds, one word, that's all it'll take, and the universe changes!" He seizes both her hands as he jumps to his feet, beaming broadly. Behind him three different songs are trying to play simultaneously. "A water spirit from a place without a Hell—I should have known, the moment I met you!"

Valera

Oh, dear gods, what has she signed up for? What is she doing? She couldn't even regret the decision, the sheer ecstasy on Alastor's face was near heartbreaking in its sincerity. The absurdity of it all forces a chuckle out of her, hands squeezing his as she indulgently clambers off the couch.

Great! Two idiots holding hands in the middle of the room while the invisible orchestra goes buckwild! This is great! It's fine! Her chuckle is more of a wheeze, but she smiles indulgently. "Known what, my dear?"

Alastor

"That—never mind, Earth things—that you can help! That's all!" Get ready, it's dancing time, Alastor is pulling Valera into a waltz. An extremely enthusiastic waltz. "So how's it done—what's it going to take?!"

Valera

Let it be said that Valera always enjoys a good waltz, and especially when it distracts her from the gut feeling that she's just agreed to do something awfully selfish that nobody would approve of. Now THERE'S something she hasn't felt in a while! But no, she's falling into step with Alastor for their merry The King and I moment, a genuine smile breaking out across her face at his gleeful energy.

"Not as much as you may think, dear fellow! I'll need to gather materials to build the anchor and casting line, and you'll need as much hell energy as you can muster to manifest yourself strongly in the time as possible. Do you have something significant you associate with that day? A possession we could use as an antenna, more or less? It would let us focus in so I could try and take you there as precisely as possible."

Alastor

His dancing slows as he thinks. What does he associate with that day? A quilt. A robe. A pipe organ. Tea. Cold. A scent he'll never smell again. "Does it need to be a literal possession from that day? Or would a symbolical representative be close enough? I didn't keep souvenirs." He has nothing from that day but the clothes on his back; a coat he'd been wearing since 1933 would make for a poor antenna.

Valera

She purrs, pursing her lips as she considers the question. She shouldn't be excited, but the idea of such a dramatic project was sounding better and better. What was this, if not a test of ability? "Anything you can use to attune yourself should work. A smell, maybe? Human memory is tied to scent pretty strongly. The important part is the emotional tie, something to take you back to that moment, essentially. As long as I know where and when we need to be, I can compensate for one or the other. Ideally not both, that'd be a strain."

Alastor

He stops dancing completely; he's gotta focus. After a moment of thought, he says slowly, "There is a scent. But, there's... no good way to acquire it again. Besides, that moment is... still a couple of seconds before taking action, but after the decision's been made. It might be too late." Not that, then. "Would weather work? Cold?"

Valera

Great! They can just stand there, frozen mid waltz. She'll just sway them back and forth, a nervous tic of her own. "Yes, if that would take you to the moment again, cold would be one of the sensations that would suffice. Would a combination work? Cold, and a sound we could mimic? Something like that?"

Alastor

A sound, what sound? The exact moment he needs to reach—the organ wasn't playing right then, Alastor was by himself. Pacing the hallways.

"Maybe the... the airship. While it's flying." He hasn't been aboard one since then; but he remembers how the sound of the engine underscored everything. "I don't want him—yours—to... to have to hear about this."

Valera

"If you don't want him to, he wont. I promised confidentiality on your terms." She looks around as she gives Alastor's hand a comforting squeeze, glancing from the piano to Alastor and back.

Sound, sound.. "So it was on the airship. I'm familiar with the sound of the mechanics going, the engines humming away. A constant undercurrent. Relaxing, once you get used to it." Thinking about it made her feel at ease, but Alastor seemed to have a very different emotional association with the sound. "Maybe you could reproduce it on your microphone cane?"

Alastor

A nod—yes, yes, yes that's the sound. "One of the airships," Alastor corrects. "Back then, he—" hrmph. He's not getting that sentence out. "My mic doesn't make the sound effects, I do. And it would just be... remembering out loud. I don't know if that would be close enough." A jerky shrug. "I'd say get a recording out of his ship, but... different airship model. The engine might sound different. I'll know when it's flying again."

Valera

She keeps rocking them back and forth, tail slowly curling one way, then the other. "I see! So, what would you like to do, then? I hope you aren't going to ask me to slip my way onto your Pentious' airship circa the time period and try to grab a recording. I don't much fancy the idea of trying to pass myself off as an egg."

Alastor

"No, absolutely not. It's unthinkable." The only, only reason Alastor would even consider going back there would be this one time, to fix what he'd broken. Not for any other reason. Even sending someone as his proxy was too much. "We can wait until yours has finished his repairs. If it sounds the same, wonderful. If not... we'll figure out a plan B then."

Valera

"Sounds like a plan! You focus on getting hell energy, and I'll get the materials. We'll see how Penny's ship shapes up." Another squeeze to his hand, and she leans in to bump against him, trying to get him to look her in the eyes. "I promise, Alastor, as friend and fae. I'll do everything we decide I should to make this work in your favor. You're my friend, and I do genuinely want you to be happy." Okay Val just say that I guess.

Alastor

Oh. He grimaces and endures the bump. Well he was making eye contact, maybe he will again once he gets his personal space back.

"Then consider my happiness optional. I had my chance and I blew it. I don't need another chance." Not in Hell. Not even with fae help. "But he had his chance taken from him. That's what I plan to fix."

Valera

The message got across, no need to stay in his personal bubble. Being close to people who were viscerally uncomfortable always made her scales crawl, it was downright nauseating after long enough.

"Good gods, you're head over heels for him, aren't you my dear fellow? But very well. If those are the terms you want met, I will put his own happiness as my priority for this venture." Ooh, that's a little ominous. Maybe she should reword that? A glance at Alastor.. No, she'll leave it. "Well, our game plan is set. Now, I believe you owe me a story, dear fellow."

Alastor

He endures the vicious accusation without a flinch. He has no argument against it, anyway, except for his perpetual simmering indignation over the fact that it's true.

"Not a story; just an explanation." Might as well step back. They're not dancing anymore and he can use the added space. "At a point, I had to choose whether to stay forever or go forever. I chose to go." He's whittled away at what's a massive tree of a tale until it's a toothpick, small enough to squeeze out of his throat. "Of course, he's—stubborn. You know him. If I'd simply left, he would have pursued. I had to convince him I wasn't worth following." He huffs. "So I told him he bored me and blew up his fleet."

He spreads his hands as a little fanfare sound effect plays. Tadaaa.

https://youtu.be/bjxf-eQWKoo

YouTube

baniger3711

SOUND EFFECT TADA

Valera

Alastor may have gone out of his way to make the explanation as unimpressive as possible, but the look Valera gives him is one of pure horror. She backs away, gracelessly flopping back onto the couch and very deliberately taking up her tea to give herself something to do.

Her mind runs through the idea of wounding her own fiancé like that, betraying him so completely at the peak of his game. The damage that would cause would be... Dear gods. Would he even recover from that? No, no. She can't assume Alastor and his own Pentious had a bond like that. But they'd been close. Allies. And he'd clearly been in love, who knew how his Pentious had felt about someone so important. It's hard not to feel a tinge of malice for her friend, but. No, he was many things. Unrepentant wasn't one of them. He knew what he did was wrong. She said she'd help him fix things. By gods, was she going to fix things if it killed him. He might even like that.

"So you lied, and you ran, because.. You were afraid? Of what, your own feelings? The idea of being with him forever?" She snaps a hand up, a barrier between them, and shakes her head. "No, you don't have to answer that. You told me what you did, you answered my question. I've got no business pressing." Her cup is shaking in her grasp. When did that happen?

"I'm going to help you fix this. But I see now why you place his happiness at a higher priority than your own."

Alastor

She's horrified. He's vaguely glad of that. She should be. He knows what he's done, knows it's so monstrous that he can't even feel the monstrosity of it anymore. It's been over half a century. She's reacting the way he ought to every day when he sees himself in a mirror; but it hurts and he's gone numb.

He hopes he's dropped in her estimation.

He nods when she gives him permission not to answer—good, he doesn't want to answer. He doesn't think the answer's relevant. No possible motive short of I'd discovered he'd killed my mother would justify what Alastor had done; and if the motive doen't justify it, then the motive is irrelevant. "Good." His wan smile widens. "So we're on the same page now. Got all our priorities in order."

Valera

She takes a moment before she forces herself to look at him again, eyes sharp and lips set into a thin line. He wanted to fix his mistake. He was desperate to. He was willing to jump through any hoop it took, and she had to remember that. Chant it over and over in her head as she made herself nod. "We are." A slow breath in, a hold, and a slower exhale.

"What you did was.. I don't need to tell you. But I think you've beat yourself bloody over it without my help, there's no need for me to salt the wound. You want to make it right. That's the important part." Another breath. She isn't going to lash out. She's better than that, and it wouldn't help anyone. "You are my friend. I want to help you fix this horrible, awful mistake. Because it was a mistake. You chose wrong, and you've had to live with that ever since. When Pentious' airship is flying, we will review this. Shake my hand."

There are no pyrotechnics. No magical flair of lights or ominous humming, nothing to mark the moment binding as she extends a hand towards Alastor. Only the look in her eyes, and the unnatural stillness of her frame.

Alastor

He has fallen. Good. He should. And it means if things start to go wrong, she'll have a higher chance of trying to make sure things fall apart in a way that benefits who it's supposed to rather than in a way that benefits her "friend."

He'll be the one to mark it as binding, then. The lights around his hand are subdued compared to his usual glow; just a few little green threads coiling around and between his fingers.

He shakes without hesitation. He doesn't know what's put on the line in a bargain with a Veci—but this is the one, the only thing he'd sell his soul for.

Valera

The smile she forces is sickly sweet. The grip on his hand curling in until her claws are digging marks into his glove. But she releases before any damage is caused. Even now, she wouldn't hurt him unnecessarily. Anger isn't enough.

"Good. Until we review our terms, the only thing I ask is that you remain a good friend to my love. He thinks highly of you, and the bond you share is good for both of you. Rest assured, after I leave this room, I will treat you as I always have. He will hear nothing about this from me."

Alastor

Oh, he's plummeted. He takes a long, slow breath in. Okay. He understands. This isn't a friendship he deserves.

At her request, his breath catches. His eyes widen. Even after, she'd still trust him with...? "I..." His voice is thick with distortion; he tries to clear his throat with a staticky noise. "I—would do nothing less." He examines the marks on the back of his glove; then clasps his trembling hands behind his back and stands straighter. "I'd do anything I can, for him." Borderline unintelligible beneath the static. Shameful. His station would have been inundated with angry letters if they'd ever broadcast such a poor signal.

Valera

There it is. What she'd been waiting for. The disbelief, the raw emotion. A genuine show of weakness, intentional or no, at the barest trace of kindness he knew from the bottom of his miserable heart that he didn't deserve. Just what she needed. Somewhere, a balance tips.

Her smile turns, as soft and warm as ever, and she raises those same claws to cover her mouth as she chuckles. "I know, Alastor. I've made mistakes too. Nothing exactly like yours, but.." A shrug. "Mistakes that cost me dearly. Don't worry. I'm angry, and I'll need time to really absorb what you've told me here, but you're always welcome in my home. We'll fix this."

Alastor

The switch is too fast. He can't trust it. Suddenly it's only "mistakes." Suddenly it's merely "angry." Suddenly it's "welcome." Either it's a performance worthy of the Academy, or it's true—and of the two possibilities, the latter is infinitely worse. He's afraid that one's true.

He opens his mouth to speak, but he thinks if he tries it will just come out as static. He turns away sharply, and nods without showing Valera his face.

Valera

Oh, this poor man has no idea what to do with himself! She should at least put on a better face about it, but.. No. He'll have to realize at some point, that her emotions are purely her own to process, act on, or shove down into a tiny box and stomp on as she sees fit. Oh, if Pentious could see her he'd be shaking her by the shoulders by now.

She sighs, moving back to the piano to reorganize her sheet music. A polite disengagement, a chance to collect himself while she's busy. "I believe it's your turn now, Alastor. Though I can't imagine you coming up with a question in your current state."

Alastor

In your current state. That's galling enough that now he has to take his turn. "Wh—What—" pardon the interference, "—will it be like—on my end? Do I teleport back? Do I—ride my younger self?"

Valera

She cannot believe that worked. But it's a fine question, and the answer may distract him.

"If I were creating a branching reality, which would be the easy route, I'd take you back on a physical level and you'd simply march up to your younger self and tell him what for. Or kill him and attempt to take his place, I suppose, but that tends to work out very poorly."

A scoff. Oh, to be a being who had more than one version of themselves to worry about. "With what we're attempting, I'd essentially be melding your mind into that of your younger self. Like overlaying old film. Your time appropriate memories would be the most vivid, but you'd keep your current knowledge as reference, including our deal to send you back in the first place. A bit recursive, perhaps, but I'm not a temporal being."

Alastor

A pause. "Melding" sounds a little permanent. "And—at the end—how do we... get old me out of young me's head?"

Valera

"Well my dear, I'm surprised you'd even want to, when it would be so easy to crush you into one being, but the answer is simple!" She glances over her shoulder, grinning with all of her teeth. "I pull him out like a worm from the mud!"

Alastor

"Of course I want to. I don't get to stay there." Still turned away, he roughly wipes his face with the back of his sleeve. "Not after what I've done. But, the me as I was then—his conscience is clean. Let him reap the benefits alone."

Like a worm from the mud. How fitting.

Valera

She twitches, then reaches into her pocket for a handkerchief. Was this one of the ones she stole from Pentious? Yes. But she'll float it over to him anyway, like a tiny ghost. She'll even use it as a prop, dancing it around as she speaks. "And what am I to do with your current self, my dear Alastor? Keep you around like a leashed trophy, a wisp tied to no reality for my own amusement? That seems heartless, and I'll have you know that I've got four hearts."

Alastor

That's definitely one of Sir Pentious's. He snatches it out of the air. Valera's never getting it back.

"Toss me in the trash when I'm done." He laughs bitterly. "By all logic, I ought to disappear with my reality, oughtn't I? As far as things are concerned from your point of view, I'll just suddenly be upgraded to a better version of myself—less baggage, fewer regrets, and consort to the new king of Hell, hah."

He finally turns back around. Still smiling. Pay no mind to the slight redness around his eyes. Have you seen his eyelids?—that redness was probably always there maybe.

Valera

That's fine, she can steal more. Besides, better than using his sleeves. "Were it that easy, dear fellow! But I am not part of this reality, I'm a guest. I'll remember all of our dealings, like I've remembered every dealing I've had. I could toss you out, but why would I? The you that I know is the you that is a friend to my beau. The new you would be unpredictable. Is there any insurance, any reason for me to believe you would still be so kind?"

Alastor

Alastor considers that a moment. "Tell me you're a water spirit, the same way you did the first time we met, and tell me you sent the messenger who kept me from making a stupid mistake. There's your insurance."

It won't guarantee he'll be kind. But unless he changes beyond recognition, it will at least guarantee he'll be respectful enough not to be an enemy.

Valera

Valera mulls it over, turning it round and round in her mind as she approaches Alastor once more. This was too serious for playful distractions. And finally, she nods.

"Very well, Alastor. If you're so willing to sign your existence over to me for destruction, I'll try to play my part." Or something close enough, anyway. "For now, I suggest you do your best to get used to my company. We'll be seeing quite a bit of each other in the coming weeks."

Alastor

That's what he's doing, isn't it? Destruction. Hah. At least he's taking down a whole universe with him, that's something.

No, not destruction; replacement. With a better version of himself. The worst decades of his life scrubbed off like they'd never happened—like he'd never caused them. Cheating the game on a cosmic order. He is going to survive this, and he's going to get everything he wants.

"You say that like it's going to be a chore." He scoffs. "I have no reason to resent your company. I suggest you do your best to get used to mine."

Valera

Now it's HER turn to scoff. "Alastor, my good man, every day I wake up and you didn't sneak into my bed to try and cozy up to Pentious is a day I wake up surprised. We are from very different cultures with very different standards."

Alastor

"Well." Rueful laugh. "If he'd ever invited me to, you'd never get rid of me."

Just saying that out loud sends a shock of alarm through his system; even though there's hardly anything left to hide now, even though he's not saying anything that she doesn't already know.

Valera

Who knew all it took to get direct responses from Alastor was offering him his deepest desires and making him cry? It was so simple all along, how hadn't anyone else thought of it?

"Well! I'll be sure to keep that in mind. Now, I think we've had more than enough excitement for one day, don't you? Unless you've got any other questions you feel are pressing at this current time."

Alastor

Admittedly, the crying was optional.

And make no mistake—the only reason he's offering a direct response now is because he remembers full well that her encouragement is why Sir Pentious offered friendship in the first place. If there's the slightest chance that Sir Pentious would like a second guest in his bed and he conveys that info to Valera, she'll remember this conversation.

He racks his brain. "Poor interviewer that I am, I think I've run out of questions for my interviewee! Although I admit you've been less an interviewee and more an interrogator." Modest studio audience laugh; Alastor's getting back in character. "No queries, but one humble request: the next time you plan to rub my nose in my dirty laundry, let me take the first turn on the piano, would you?"

Valera

She snickers, but makes a show out of curtsying deeply in a grand show of apology. Yes, this is more comfortable. An emotional barrier by virtue of theatrics, something they both knew well. This was good. "I'll do my best, dear Alastor, but is it required after every piano recital, or can I enjoy your talents without the dramatics and emotional anguish?"

Popping back up, she tips her fins forward, then back, quirking one side of her mouth up until the dimple showed. "Oh, I should probably give you some form of resistance to my toxins, hm? I doubt we'll be touching each other often of our own free will, but being in close quarters to Penny means being close to me."

Alastor

Dramatics? The nerve. "The more recitals that conclude without my sins being flung back in my face, the better! I'm a comic actor—I'm just not suited to star in tragedies!"

Exactly how close are the quarters she's expecting to be in? He shrugs. "I'll never say no to a spare antidote. Or whatever it is you're offering...?"

Valera

"I could offer an injectable antitoxin in emergencies, but in your case, I think an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure." And now Alastor gets the pleasure of watching Valera go back to her own cup of tea, slam back the liquid like a shot, and then crush the cup in her fist. Then she turns back and he has a tiny bottle of pills shoved at him, Valera's emblem emblazoned on the lid.

"You get seven. Take one of these each time you anticipate being at risk of my toxins. They're take ten minutes to set in, they're effective for twelve hours, and they wont save you from ALL the symptoms, but they'll stop the worst of it. Don't expose them to high heat, it'll melt the casing off and then the magic will explode out violently."

Alastor

She's basically guaranteed that he's going to drop one of these in a cooking pot on a campfire and then watch from a hill with binoculars.

He examines the bottle curiously. "You simply must teach me how you make these."

Valera

He should. She did, and it was incredible.

The pills inside are the size of a pinkie nail, white and round with a pearlescent.. Actually, they just look like pearls. Did she give him a bottle of pearls? She might have. "You want to learn how to make an antitoxin? Or the magic behind it?" She'd be willing either way, she's VERY proud of her accomplishment.

Alastor

"Both, obviously! A form of magic I haven't played with yet and the ability to brew up my own antitoxin so I don't have to pester you for more after every few visits? Why would I pass up on either?"

Valera

"Hah! Fair enough. Alright. Next time we visit, your place or mine, I'll teach you. I'd love to see if you could master it, I had to create the technique myself and it is quite the hodgepodge." Alastor's going to have to learn to extract toxins from a fish, oh boy.

Alastor

"Everything I know is a hodgepodge! I look forward to the challenge." And he's going to love doing it.

Valera

Well, that's all she can think of-- Oh wait. "Alastor, while we're on the subject, did you want a sampling of Veci flesh to try? Not mine, unfortunately, but the fellow that Pentious disposed of. I saved a sample for you, but never thought to offer it up."

Alastor

"I'd be delighted to! I hope the sample comes with a recommended recipe or two?"

Valera

A dainty gasp, mock offense painted on her face. "As if I'd ever neglect you so terribly! I transcribed a few of my favorites over into English, just for you." She claps her hands, and presents Alastor with a torso sized chunk of tail, chopped straight from the bastard himself and neatly wrapped in cheesecloth and cooking twine. Craving seafood, Alastor?

Alastor

Always.

He accepts the bundle with a gracious half-bow. "As always, a pleasure to deal with you." And one of Sir Pentious's kills, no less. My, my. He looks forward to finally hearing that story.

Valera

A pleasure to deal with her? Of course it was. "Of course! Now. Recipes are on the table, help yourself to the venison. I'd best be off, Penny's sure to get lost in his own mind if I don't check in and harass him to rest. I'll be seeing you, my dear."

Alastor

He glances at the table, almost says something, then just nods. "Until next time."

Valera

And she's off, gone in the blink of an eye back to.. Wherever she was going.

Alastor

And Alastor goes to pick up the recipes and venison from the table... then instead sets down the chunk of tail meat, sinks onto the couch, and stares at nothing.

[reynesofcastamere]

Thrown Gauntlet[Ω]

(A/N: Sooooo....I’ve decided to start another series of fics that I will be marking with [Ω] in the titles: To disinguish them from both the main series (which I am still working on) and the [β] drabbles (which are all over the place in terms of timeline, setting, universe, etc.). Essentially a very self-indulgent AU where Savage, Maul, and Feral all get adopted by Clan Wren. This installment takes place in 20 BBY, so Ahsoka is around 16 and Maul is about 34. However. I want to state outright that the dynamic is intended to be a verrrrry slow build and that nothing romantic and/or sexual will be occurring between Maul and Ahsoka until MUCH later. If what I’ve described does not sound like your personal cup of tea, then by all means, feel free to give this fic and/or series a pass. This is getting a bit long, so to sum up: No trigger warnings, Obi-Wan is an Incurable Flirt, Rex is Flustered, and Maul is about 100% Done With Everyone’s Nonsense. Unbeta’d)  The Jedi Temple is buzzing. Not literally, of course, but Ahsoka can feel a strange vibration in the Force. Excitement, or maybe irritation? There’s definitely quite a bit more whispering amongst her fellow Jedi and the clone troopers she passes on her path to the east hangar. Master Anakin had told her to pack for a long trip, which she can only assume means they’ve been assigned another mission and he’s withholding the details so as to ‘surprise’ her appropriately. Typical Skyguy.

She spots Rex near the door, sans helmet. “Good morning, Captain.” A proper salute, quickly returned, though her tone is light. “Morning, Commander. And-er, yes, it certainly is.” He actually seems to be fidgeting a bit, and his face- “Rex, are you...blushing?” “N-no. No. Just-ah...Finished up my workout routine. Took more out of me than I expected. You know how it is; One day you’re all shiny-new and the next you feel older than General Yoda.” “Reeeeexxxx....Come on, whatever it is can’t be that bad.”

“The Clawbirds arrived about an hour ago. Captain Wren’s refusing to do much of anything until he finishes repairs on General Skywalker’s ship.” Rex caves, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Master Anakin can’t be too happy about that.” Ahsoka observes, knowing just how...particular he is about his personal projects. “Should I be worried?” “Er...maybe? It’s kind of a toss-up. Depends on whether M-” He begins, before a subtler voice cuts in. “Captain, there you are. I was hoping to speak to you.” The speaker is a male Zabrak with soft golden-yellow eyes and skin, the latter of which is liberally patterned in brown markings. Unusual enough, but he’s also clad in full Mandalorian armor, helmet tucked under one arm and carrying what looks like field medic gear along with the standard jetpack and arsenal of weapons. And he’s glowing; a defined Force signature radiating Light and positive energy like a solar lamp. How-? “Medic Sergeant Wren. They are still getting along, right?” “Oh yes. He’s in a much better mood than last time. Apologies, am I interrupting?” “Thank the Maker. And no, um. Commander Tano, this is Medic Sergeant Feral Wren.” Rex looks like he’s in danger of heatstroke with how red he’s gotten. It’s not hard to see why, especially when Feral gives a smile that could melt half the ice on Bahryn. Rather than salute her, he stretches his right hand out so that they can clasp forearms briefly, a greeting from one warrior to another. “It’s a pleasure, Medic Sergeant.” She smiles back. Ahsoka can’t help it. He’s just...She’s fighting the urge to hug him like some kind of stuffed animal toy. Which is bizarre and will most definitely not be happening anytime soon. “Tano...Oh, you must be ‘Snips’. It’s almost a shame Savage volunteered to help the younglings train, we’ve both wanted to meet you for some time now.” Wait, what? “Tranyc’vod [Sunny(star-burned) brother] Anakin hasn’t been able to call as often, but he’s very proud of your accomplishments.” Feral remarks, genuinely pleased even as her head spins with the implications. Her Master has a lot of explaining to do. “Speaking of which, I’d better not keep him waiting much longer. I look forward to talking to you again, though. See you later, Captain. Maybe you should ask the Medic Sergeant about those stamina issues you’re having?” She can’t resist ribbing Rex as she departs, watching him splutter as Feral, like any good medic, starts making inquiries about his ‘condition’ while looking him over. And placing a hand on his chestplate, apparently. Huh. Maybe her friend’s obvious crush isn’t quite as one-sided as she’d thought. Ahsoka navigates her way through the semi-organized rows of ships. Even if Anakin’s presence in the Force wasn’t abnormally strong, she doesn’t need to focus to find him. Not when he’s talking loud enough to be heard across half the hangar. “-last time, it’s fine! You’re just being paranoid, as usual.” “Every ship I have been forced to borrow from you has either crashed, suffered a critical malfunction, or was confined to the scrap heap mere hours after landing. No one is setting a foot on this poorly-constructed death trap until I am absolutely certain it won’t spontaneously combust mid-flight.” And that must be Captain Wren. He sounds...irritated, to say the least.

“My ships run perfectly, thanks. Must hurt that Mando pride, knowing a Jedi is a better pilot and mechanic than you, Captain.” She’s not quite within visual range yet, but she knows her Master is smirking. “How sad that as a Jedi, you cannot recognize your own failings, General. Perhaps you should conduct a survey of your ‘victims’ instead of this poor attempt at distraction. Mir’osik adiik be’kyorla hut’uun![Dung for brains child of (a) rotten coward!]-” “Ouch. What, did one of your horns get caught in the hydraulics?” “Hilarious. Make yourself useful by grabbing a towel, or something from Kenobi’s closet. I’m coming out.” “Ah, Captain Wren. I thought the general ambience had improved. What were you saying about my clothing?” She hadn’t been aware of Master Kenobi’s presence before this. Either he’d used a secondary entrance or had been waiting for his chance to join the exchange while the captain was busy. “Kenobi.”

“Oh come now, surely you can muster a more polite greeting than that. You’ve been away so long I’ve had to listen to recordings just to remember the sound of your lovely voice.” “Perhaps I will address you with respect when you learn to stop leering at me, besom [ill-mannered lout].” “Busted. Again.” “You’re not helping, Anakin.” Ahsoka rounds a corner and-Oh. Wow. How far down do those-? She blinks a few times, just to be sure of what she’s seeing. Yep, there is a very shirtless Zabrak with the kind of muscle definition that would make scores of artists weep standing with his back to her and wiping his face off with a towel. She desperately hopes that her jaw is not hanging open as he turns his head to survey her with one vibrant yellow tourmaline eye. She honestly doesn’t know if she wants to draw closer or back away in that moment. His presence in the Force is not a benevolent, harmless light, but rather a controlled fire that sparks and issues dark threads of smoke. This...Ahsoka doesn’t understand what is going on, and it’s starting to make her uncomfortable. “The spy finally shows herself.” He remarks, assessing and dismissing her as a non-threat within the span of a few seconds, continuing to wipe off whatever type of mess had been spattered on him. “Don’t mind him, Snips. Someone shoved a shock baton up his ass years ago and the medics never found a way to pull it out. Tragic, really.” Anakin Skywalker grins, arms loosely folded across his chest and leaning against the outside of his ship. “Ahsoka, this is Maul. We’ll be working with him and his people for the forseeable future.” It clicks suddenly where she’s heard both his name and that of his group before: Captain Maul of Clan Wren and his company are the only Mandalorian supercommandos who will actually work with the Jedi Council. At least, when they’re not busy with bodyguard or mercenary jobs. Part of that involves what is referred to -with some awe and a lot of fear- as ‘running the gauntlet’, a mandatory training course for any Padawans or Knights posted to or intending to spend a considerable amount of time in the barely-civilized regions of space. It’s been suspended since the war started in earnest, but if they’re going to be sticking around for a while...Well, the implications are pretty serious. And Ahsoka has somehow managed to ogle one of the most infamous hardasses this side of the Mid Rim. Fantastic. Really. Maul disposes of the stained towel and turns to face her properly, Ahsoka’s gaze staying determinedly on his face as they grip each other’s right forearms. He doesn’t pull back after a few seconds as Feral had, hand locking in place as he seems to peer into her soul.  “I will say this once. We are not like our evaar’la vod’e[young brothers]. We are not subservient to you, and I do not accept excuses or blatant disrespect.” A pause and a slight increase in pressure, just below the threshold of inflicting pain. “Are you ready, Ahsoka Tano?” “Yes, Captain.” She answers with a certainty that she can feel in her very bones, and is rewarded with the hint of a wry smile when he lets go. Well that’s...something. Master Kenobi clears his throat pointedly. Right. Mission briefing first. Sort out her feelings later. Still, she can’t help but look forward to whatever comes next. (A/N: *cracks knuckles* Well, that’s the first installment. A little vague on the details, but I’m hoping to elaborate on what’s been hinted at here relatively soon. The name of the supercommando company comes from the Legends novel Maul:Lockdown by Joe Schreiber. And yes, for fellow Rebels fans who are reading this thing: In this AU, Sabine and Tristan get three badass Zabrak-hybrid uncles and a fair amount of adopted cousins. (Which is entirely Savage’s doing.) I do believe that Anakin is a gifted mechanic, but also couldn’t resist the running joke of ‘Skywalker’s ships/anything he tinkers with only work for him and Artoo’. Cheers!) 

[cosmic-affinities]

BKDK DM fic/Twt thread

BKDK Soulmate Mind Reading Word Count:1322

AU Summary: Everyone has a soulmate, at 16 you gain the ability to hear/read their thoughts, the only way to stop the mind reading for good is to kiss your soulmate (If the pair has previously kissed they have to kiss again after they come of age)

This is a Ficlet/DM fic/ twitter thread thing SO that just means it is not structured the same way as something I would post on AO3. The format is much more loose and is more so me detailing a plot from start to finish rather than an actual fic. I write these in a chat so the spaces are message breaks, after I hit send on a message. I hope you give it a chance! I have another one of these posted on my twitter (this one is over there too!) which you can visit here

A BIG BIG thanks to @we-stanjirou for encouraging my bkdk rants that eventually become these fics and for getting me to finally post them!

The mind-reading starts at 16 and it happens on your birthday (so there are a couple of months where Bakugou can hear Deku’s thoughts before it’s mutual)

You have to focus on it for it to work, it’s not just someone else in your head all the time (unless you are unfocused and kinda just listening)

They become roommates because they were training in Bakugou’s room and busted up two walls and, instead of giving Bakugou a new room, Aizawa moves them both to an extra room on the fourth floor slightly bigger than the rest of them because they would have to share

They were stressed about it cause they were both crushing hard while also having their soulmates voice in their head

They both tended to try and keep the voice away unless they were alone but now that they were sharing a room it was a bit more difficult, they each caught themselves listening to the voice before bed or in the shower, etc

When Bakugou focused on it a majority of the talking was vaguely about people or it was detailed work

He figured out that his soulmate went to Yueii because they were thinking about principal nezu one day

He really tried hard to not pay any attention to the voice but he couldn’t help wanting to know

Deku on the other hand was really curious about who is soulmate could be but he never got any hints about it, he guessed he was never listening at the right time

When they became roommates they found themselves thinking about their soulmate more and more often, leading to them accidentally reading their souls mates thoughts just because when they began to think a little too much about their roommate they redirect themselves to a more abstract concept

Bakugou heard a curious thought one night ‘I wonder who /he/ thinks about at night.’ before he could even process the question his mind supplied ‘Deku obviously’ and he could only hope his soulmate wasn’t listening to that (sadly he wasn’t)

The next time something big happened it was in class, Aizawa had given them some free time and the class ended up having a big conversation

Bakugou had been commenting vaguely but mostly keeping to himself

Deku had been lost in thought

At one point Bakugou sent a light push at Kirishima for something stupid he said when he heard the voice say

“I wonder if /his/ soulmate is Kirishima”

(they can tell when the voice is about them, special soulmate bond)

His immediate reaction is to scoff and he whispers a quite “tch shitty hair is not my soulmate”

Deku looks over and says “did you say something Kacchan?” and Bakugous focus on his soulmate voice drops

He quickly patches things up saying “tch no I didn’t fucking say anything” although he was a bit unconvincing

Deku let it go and Bakugou let out a breath hoping no one else caught his response

The implications of his soulmate 1-knowing who Kirishima is and 2-wondering about their ‘relationship’ right after they interacted didn’t hit him until a few minutes later

His eyes widened and he looked around him knowing that one of these shit heads had to be his soulmate and he, unusually, had a preference

He glanced at Deku and wondered if he was reading his thoughts

He decided to try something, he wanted to try and push his way into his soulmates head, whoever reacted would be his soulmate, it was better than not knowing

Bakugou turned away and focused and repeated in his head “are you listening”

Once he stopped he focused on the voice which responded with a repeating “I’m listening”

He smiled and began repeating “I’m in class A and I’m pretty sure you are too”

After he replied he took a look around, no one seemed to be acting weird

Deku was trying very hard to not make it obvious that he was freaking out a little

There was only one person in class A that he would want as his soulmate but that was unfair to both of them (Kacchan and his soulmate)

Bakugou took the chance to focus on the voice again and heard “you’re right I am”

Bakugou decided to kick it up a notch, the voice seemed panicked and he figured whoever it was, was on the verge of reacting

So he decided on “by the way shitty hair isn’t my soulmate, he and pinky can hear each other even if they don’t know it”

After a moment, one he assumed his soulmate took to focus on his thoughts, there was a crash

Behind him Deku had dropped his textbook into his desk, surprised to hear Kirishima and Mina be called by nicknames only Kacchan calls them, in his head

In order to try and keep his cool he let out a quick “sorry lost my grip!”

Everyone but Bakugou believed him fully and continued with their conversations

Bakugou decided to push even harder and say “it’s you isn’t it, I’m right”

Deku just barely held back a squeak and then announced he was going to use the restroom

Bakugou knew this was his chance and left a few minutes later

He figured Deku might be overwhelmed so he stopped pushing thoughts and decided to actually talk to the damn nerd

He hoped he would find him fairly easily and he was right, Deku had only turned a corner and then stood against the wall

Bakugou walked up slowly and cleared his throat while he was still far away enough so he wouldn’t startle Deku

Once Deku looked up at him his eyes widened and he let out a “Kacchan!” and then Deku took a deep breath and said “Did you have to do that in the middle of class?!” and Bakugou smiled, of course, his nerd was just worried about all of the extras in the room

“I saw my chance and took it, you were the one thinking that shitty hair was my soulmate”

At the word soulmate, the reality of the situation hit them both and Deku wondered out loud “I wonder if Aizawa knew when he put us in the same room” (he did)

Bakugou shook his head slightly and said “you’re gonna have to keep saying our thoughts out loud, I don’t plan on being able to hear them after today”

Deku was confused for a second until he remembered the way to stop being able to read your soulmates thoughts and blushed darkly

“Really now? you really want me to say them all out loud?” Deku shot back with a raised eyebrow (the effect was slightly dulled but the bright blush)

Bakugou laughed quietly and took the comment as an ok (it was more like an enthusiastic yes but that’s beside the point)

He slowly closed the distance between them and landed a solid peck on Deku’s lips

Bakugou had begun to pull back, not wanting to overwhelm Deku once again but he was chased backward

They eventually made their way back to class staggering their entrances by a few minutes

Once Bakugou walked in Aizawa said “Bakugou, Midoriya come here for a moment”

They made their way to the front and Aizawa squinted his eyes at each of them

“Midoriya was everything resolved?”

“Yes sir!”

“Good maybe now you two won’t be so distracted in the middle of my lessons, go take you seats”

They both took their seats and then look at each other before bursting out with laughter

Everyone looked at them weird and questioned them, they both just said “nothing don’t worry about it”

For the rest of the class, they held hands around their desks facing the wall

No one was surprised to see their room had the beds pushed together and how much friendlier they became with each other leading up to the big reveal of their relationship

[mithrilwren]

Inside Edge

So, this is all because of @fiovske‘s amazing, incredible Shadowgast figure skater!AU art. It ended up going in a slightly different, slightly angstier direction than I originally intended, but what can you do - the angst finds me, no matter how much I try to run. [On Ao3] [Find the whole series of one-shots in this AU here!]

(cw. vague implications of some sketchy sexual grooming in Caleb’s past)

---

There are procedures to be followed – fans to greet, hands to shake, cameras to nod at politely before the car arrives and Essek is swept away into the night. The others have changed out of their outfits into unfashionable travel clothes, but gauzy strands of black fabric still flutter beneath his purple mantle. He draws the cloak closer around his shoulders, warding off the blast of frigid air against his damp skin as he steps out of the complex and onto the sidewalk.

The reporters adore it, of course, always praising the commitment to his on-ice persona. He is a carefully crafted statuette, never to be cracked, lest the imperfect man beneath be revealed to the public eye. That mystery is all part of the appeal.

(Never mind that the thought of changing in a public venue makes his hands shake. Never mind what lies beneath the thin layers of chiffon and velvet. The illusion is all that matters.)

But then there’s Caleb, waiting out here amidst the rapidly piling snow, his face turned to the sky and ruddy from the same night air that’s chilling Essek to the bone. He never seems to mind the cold, or perhaps he’s accustomed to it, or maybe it’s the ratty coat he wears, patched one too many times to be anything other than thrift store fare, but undoubtedly warmer than Essek’s: built for utility, not show.

Then there’s Caleb, and no matter where they are, no matter how they meet, it seems that all procedures go out the window whenever he appears.

“We meet again,” Essek murmurs, directly below the other man’s ear, and he finds himself disappointed that the startle never comes. People tend to be nervous by him, when he’s dressed like this. Though sequins and spandex might make most look ridiculous, he wears it well, and he knows it. His juniors – and yes, that sounds good to his ears – tend to give him a wide berth. At first, he’d suspected jealousy, but now he believes (hopes) it’s respect. Four times champion, and for someone his age… unheard of. So yes, he is a little disappointed that Caleb doesn’t startle, even if the man is his senior by three years or more-

And then he catches the look on Caleb’s face, in the brief moment before his expression settles back into unaffected disinterest. A brief tenseness in his jaw, a flicker of… something in his eye, too quick to parse. But it lasts only long enough for Essek note the change, before Caleb smoothes out the expression to something more neutral.

“Herr Essek,” he says. “I thought you had already left.”

“My car will be here shortly,” Essek replies, and casts his gaze about. Where is that driver of his, anyway? They’re sheltered by the overhang and a convenient slab of granite masonry – an abstract art installation that he might find garish, if it wasn’t so unexpectedly convenient – but not all the reporters have left the venue yet, though most of the skaters have. Caleb seems to realize this at roughly the same instant as Essek, and he suddenly finds himself dragged around the corner, further out of sight of the building’s entrance.

The air is cold, and Caleb’s hand on his arm is warm, warm-

(And after all, the war is over, at least officially-)

…He should not be having such thoughts.

“If we don’t wish for the media to believe us up to something nefarious, perhaps we shouldn’t hide so often in dark alleys,” Essek says lightly. Caleb barks a laugh, then covers his mouth with his scarf, coughing for real at the sudden intake of frozen breath.

His coat looks warm, but he has no gloves on, Essek realizes. He frowns.

“And where is your car?”

Caleb doesn’t quite look down, but he certainly doesn’t meet Essek’s eyes as he finally resurfaces for air from his lumpy scarf.

“Oh, I think I will walk back to my hotel tonight. Enjoy the stars for a while.”

Essek stares harder at Caleb’s bare hands, the knuckles already chapping from the melted snowflakes that fall upon them both.

From the curb, a horn finally sounds. One beep, then two.

“My car has plenty of room. Let me take you to where you’re staying.”

“…I will be in your debt again.”

Not a refusal, then. That’s progress, in their tentative back and forth – at least, the one Essek has indulged himself to believe they’ve been dancing over the last few months, despite little evidence to support the theory. Still, he figures… he’s young. He’s allowed to indulge a crush, even a hopeless one, so long as he remembers that that’s all it is at the end of the night.

A hopeless crush, nothing more. Yes, he’s allowed that much, at least.

Essek smiles. “No more than you can pay, I’m sure.”

Caleb gestures down over the wrinkled coat. “You are, as always, an optimist.”

The car honks again, and when he looks back to see if Caleb will follow, Essek finds himself disappointed once more, to see Caleb still standing beneath the eaves, unmoved. But after a solid five seconds, he shakes himself, as though to shake the snow from his shoulders, or a spirit from his bones, and hurries to catch up to Essek.

None of the reporters see them, and the windows of the car are tinted, and that is enough for Essek to breathe easy, though Caleb still seems tense as he slides into the backseat at his side.

It’s not that he’s really that concerned about the scandal of the two being seen together. In fact, it might even be seen as some strange demonstration of unity, to the right eyes. The press has been eating that sort of thing up, lately. The ceasefire between the Empire and the Dynasty has gone on long enough it might as well be called ‘peace’, and if the two nations can deign to send athletes to the same events as they did tonight, well then, the world must be ready for some progress.

Evidently, Caleb doesn’t share the same hopefulness, because his body doesn’t relax, even when the heat is blasting full force and a little of the icy quake in his shoulders begins to subside.

“Where to?” the driver asks, and Essek looks at Caleb, who looks at his hands, then bites his lip and says, “The Chalet, on East Willow.” Essek’s eyes narrow.

The Chalet. Not a hotel, then: a hostel. It’s been a long while since he’s stayed in a place like that, but what he recalls – shared dormitories, insecure lockers, group shower facilities, noise till all hours of the night – he wouldn’t be eager to do so again.

Meanwhile, Essek will return to the Lux, where he plans to spend the evening pampering his body in preparation for another sound victory on the morrow. It’s the sort of place Caleb might have stayed, all those years ago, when he was still a junior’s champion and Essek was nothing more than an undiscovered prodigy on the rise. What happened, between then and now, to change his circumstances so greatly? Essek has often wondered. He knows there was some issue with a coach, a long hiatus, and a less-than-triumphant return, and that is the extent of Essek’s intel on the matter. The skating world is rife with gossip, but this is one tale it seems no one wants to tell.

Tomorrow is the second day of competition. Free skate: Caleb’s specialty, and his only chance to redeem himself after his lackluster short program today. Without proper rest, his performance will suffer. What hope will he have of acquiring more sponsorships then? He can’t believe Caleb has even one at the moment, or he wouldn’t be staying in a place like this.

They’re nearly at the turnoff to East Willow – a dingy street, with sporadic streetlights and not much to see beyond the occasional hostel and long-term residence – when Essek puts his hand on the driver’s shoulder.

“The Lux,” he instructs, and Caleb sits up, mildly alarmed as he leans forward between Essek and the driver.

“Bitte,” he says softly, “My stop is first. We’re nearly there.” He gestures out the window, like Essek can’t already see the sorry road where he’s meant to drop Caleb off.

“Do you have anything stored at the Chalet?” Essek asks.

Caleb swallows, then turns his head. “…I don’t.”

“The Lux,” Essek says again, and because the driver is on his payroll, off they go. Caleb sits back at last, no longer protesting, and Essek smiles privately to himself. His competition will be in proper fighting form tomorrow, if he has to buy out the whole hotel to do it.

Caleb even lets him take his bag as they exit the car and step up beneath the glittering lights of the Lux’s lobby, which he counts as a secondary success, especially for someone who was so reluctant to accept even the simple kindness of a car ride on a snowy night. The proprietors know him by now, so much that he barely needs to speak his request before another room key is being handed over. And perhaps it’s best that the exchange is quick, because Caleb grows more agitated by the minute, as he huddles into himself beneath the crystal chandeliers. Essek thinks he looks enchanting in the ethereal light, but his threadbare clothes don’t match the décor, and he can’t blame Caleb for feeling out of place.

Still, he feels himself like a dashing hero as he whisks Caleb off towards the golden elevators. Like a saviour from the movies, in the most romantic, foolish sense – and this is one more fantasy, but parts of it are real. The part where Caleb agreed to accompany him here, out of the cold? Impossibly, real.

Which is why the ice-water crashes down all the harder when the elevator’s doors slide shut and he finally gets a good look at Caleb’s face, and realizes exactly how unhappy of an expression he wears.

No, not unhappy.

Resigned.

“Is this the favour, then?” he murmurs, and that’s all the warning Essek gets before Caleb’s chapped lips are pressed to his throat.

He catches Caleb’s hands, pushing him away as his heart pounds like an anvil in his chest, realizing what just-

What Caleb-

Caleb watches him warily for a moment longer, then pries Essek’s fingers off his own and takes a step back.

“I apologize,” he says, soft accent turned brittle, “if I misjudged your intention.”

Essek puts his hand to his neck, where only a moment again, Caleb was-

The realization of his own presumption chokes him, and he shakes his head quickly. “I should be the one apologizing.” And he should. In hindsight, it’s easy to see how his actions might have been misinterpreted.

But at the same time, to misinterpret those actions, in such a way…

He is suddenly glad, to not have found out more about Caleb’s past, at least not without the other man’s consent. At least not without being told.

Essek pulls the second key card from his pocket and hands it over. Caleb takes it, turning it over between his fingers. “I should have given this to you in the lobby. Forgive me,” he apologizes again. “I had no expectations of this night, other than seeing us both at our best tomorrow. Neither of us frozen, or unrested.”

As Essek waits for his response, a small shudder runs through Caleb’s shoulders, that might be imperceptible to one unaccustomed to monitoring the body for even the slight minutia of posture and poise. But he straightens up as the elevator chime dings, and when he turns to look back at Essek, his body has lost a little of its stiffness. The tension that the judges so often criticize in Caleb’s form fades in inches, like he’s finally let out a long held breath. Essek’s breath is shorter held, but he does the same still, and makes a silent promise that he’ll be more careful from this moment on.

He’s not the only one who wears a costume, and who knows how to artfully hide the cracks beneath.

Caleb raises his hand in a little wave of farewell as he exits the elevator. “Till tomorrow, then.” The corners of his lips turn up on the last word – not quite a smile, but not so much of a frown. An improvement. A step forward, after two back.

It’s still something.

“Tomorrow,” Essek agrees, and the doors slide shut, leaving him alone again.

Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow.

Show me what you’re capable of, Caleb Widogast, at your very best.