#Pairing: The Manner To Which You Have Become Accustomed

[crimescrimson]

Red's Favourite Gaming Pairings Of All Time [9/?]: Johnny Cage and Sonya Blade from Mortal Kombat (Various)

[alessiamalfoyzabini]

𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫

Pairing | Yandere Jungkook x Reader

Word Count | 2,438

Warnings | +18, kiss and touches noncon, Jungkook is always obsessed and gets a bit angry

This does not reflect my way of thinking or living at all, it is just a work of fiction, it is like watching a horror movie, many of us love horror movies, but we would never dream of what we see in those movies happening in reality as well.

Simply put, this story was written for entertainment purposes, it should not be seen as a reflection of my values, opinions or morals. I absolutely do not condone such acts.

⤷ Summary | If she had paid attention earlier to the sin that dwelt behind those obsidian irises, she would never have trusted it.

If she had noticed earlier the devouring love that dwelled in his corrupt heart, she probably would have fled.

She had done none of that, and now she had to come to terms with her new reality.

➢ Author's Note | Hi, guys! Ready for you the fourth chapter of Happy Ending! ❤

If you have any questions, please write to me! 🥰

Taglist: @katherine-kookie, @douknowbts

Taglist is open!

Chapter List - I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII / The End

When Y/N opened her eyes that day, she felt strangely physically satisfied, stretched her arms with a smile on her face, thinking that she must have finally had a good night's sleep.

Too bad the environment around her was quite different from what she had become accustomed to for two and a half years now.

The sunlit walls that gently filtered through the window were cream-colored, not gray and gloomy like those in her apartment, plus the mattress she was lying on was too soft to be the uncomfortable second-hand one she had bought to fit in her monthly expenses.

Even the blankets were different, and soon an alarm bell went off in her head.

She stood up abruptly, seized with terror.

"Where the fuck am I?" she muttered to herself, cradling her head in her hands in a vain attempt to think clearly.

Could it be that they had kidnapped her? But who, then-and for what purpose?

Her parents were not rich and wealthy people, she was a normal, average girl, she knew her neighborhood was dangerous, but to go this far?

Maybe... maybe they wanted to sell her.

She had heard of girls disappearing in the middle of the night and never to be found again.

She blanched, seized by a sick feeling, and although she wanted to refuse to believe her own consideration, the well-appointed and elegant room suggested only that one option-why else kidnap her if not to make her work in some illegal brothel frequented by bigwigs?

She shrugged those soft and foreign blankets away from herself and stood up with trembling legs, noticing that she no longer had only her camisole and panties on, a long nightgown that reached her calf covered her body, but she still felt naked given the absence of panties concealing her intimacy. In a flurry of shame she realized that whoever had been abducting her had also seen a lot of her as she blissfully slept.

The girl took a deep breath, walking to the door, which, to her surprise, she found open.

Had they forgotten to lock it? ... Or, was it a trap to test her?

She opened it wide slowly, her heart caged in a powerful grip of anxiety, the first thing she saw was a long dark hallway with artistic paintings hanging on the walls, to Y/N that style seemed similar to something she had seen before, but she could not give herself an answer.

She went into the corridor hugging herself with her own body, she did not know what she would find during her exploration, perhaps a group of kidnappers with sullen faces and brutal manners?

She noticed a bright glimmer at the end of the corridor and reached it at a slow pace, her bare feet stepped on soft carpeting that kept her from feeling cold, and even that made her say that the house must belong to someone wealthy. She could only dream of such an abode, so the idea that she had been abducted for her body grew stronger as the seconds ticked by in her mind.

When she opened the door from which the light reflected in the hallway came, a choked breath caught in her throat at the sight.

The boy with his back turned, busy among the stove, seemed all too familiar, she prayed it was not him, her beloved professor, but the sight of the tattoos on his arm, visible thanks to the short sleeves of his dark shirt, spoke volumes.

It was him, her captor was Jeon Jungkook, the same boy who had promised to protect her only the day before.

"Professor?" she asked anxiously, the young man at the stove froze.

There were a few seconds of stalemate that weighed in the air like boulders, then the boy turned around, revealing the handsome, jovial face of her teacher.

It was really him.

The bewildered girl took a step back, a gesture that did not escape Jungkook's notice.

The latter narrowed his gaze, "Y/N, you've woken up!" he exclaimed coming toward her.

Y/N shook her head, made to put further distance between them, but Jungkook grabbed her by the arm and this reminded the girl of Yoozu's attack the previous day, she found herself shaking and this alerted Jungkook.

"Sweetheart, are you sick?" he gently placed a palm on the girl's forehead, fortunately she was not burning hot, but something in her pallidness told him that something was wrong, "No...you're not hot, maybe.... It's because you're here, isn't it?" he smiled gently in her direction, Y/N would have liked to answer, but her voice wouldn't come out of her throat.

"I know it might feel strange at first, but I'm sure you'll soon get used to it, after all, I did it for your sake, baby."

Baby.

Trying to ignore the all too affectionate nickname, Y/N opened her mouth, forcing herself to answer, "You said you would protect me, that I just had to trust you," she croaked, shocked.

Jungkook frowned, "That's right, here I will protect you from all those people who have always treated you badly or never believed in you! I believe in you, and I love you, honey!" he brought his perfect face closer to the girl's, trying to steal a kiss from her, but Y/N managed to break free from his grip, not that it had been a feat, Jungkook had softened his grip for fear of hurting her, he had already seen the bruises Yoozu had given her without regard, to say Jungkook was pissed off was little, at the next opportunity he would eviscerate that useless blowhard.

Y/N, for her part, recorded his words confusedly, had he really said "I love you" to her?

She denied with her head, it couldn't be true, the professor she had so admired and had a crush on...was a psychopath.

"You can't be serious, tell me this is just a joke," begged the boy, who frowned.

"I'm not joking, Y/N, I'm sure that past this moment of confusion you'll realize that you love me too, and you'll accept me," he concluded confidently, "Now, which breakfast do you prefer? Sweet or savory?" he continued cheerfully, approaching the stove, Y/N saw toast already crispy and ready to be topped with chocolate or scrambled eggs, she took the opportunity to run out of the kitchen.

Jungkook sprinted toward her, missing her by a whisker, "Y/N!" he exclaimed shocked, not understanding the young woman's hostile attitude. He only wanted to protect her, give her the gift of a fairy tale happy ending, why didn't she understand?

Y/N returned to the previous hallway, ignoring the bedroom she had come out of, and spotting that and the kitchen, the front door must have been further down on the opposite side.

Too bad that was not a normal house, it was in fact structured differently and what she found as she pushed open yet another door was just a storage room.

She imprecated mentally, trying to turn back, but her race to safety ended with Jungkook managing to tackle her from a corner.

Y/N shrieked, terrified.

"Let go of me! Let go of me! I don't know what you want from me!" she burst into tears, she wanted to go home, her parents had done so much for her, she could not waste the opportunity they had given her to study and make a name for herself in this way, especially after they had shown themselves to be so displeased. She just wanted to make them proud.

How mocking the world was, just yesterday she had shouted those exact words, and had been saved by the very person who was now showing herself as the real danger.

Jungkook clutched her to his body, causing her to turn abruptly as the back of the small figure in his arms went crashing against the wall.

The boy inhaled in irritation and to shut her up he attached his lips to those of the woman, who widened her eyes trying to push him away.

The boy pressed even more against her, biting angrily on her lower lip, Y/N had to open her mouth wide because of the tremendous twinge she received and the man's tongue invaded her completely, demanding absolute dominance.

Y/N felt violated as the boy expertly entwined their tongues, unaware that the night before Jungkook had dared to do much more with that same tongue.

Jungkook moaned in that violent kiss, enjoying in the taste in which he was willingly drowning himself.

He reached down with one hand between their bodies, lifting one of the young woman's legs and bringing it around his hips, pushing his already hard cock against her pussy covered only by her nightgown, Jungkook could only feel the softness of that area so delicate and delicious, Y/N's eyes widened, between the lack of air and that vulgar gesture that shocked her, she began to moan shakily without any more resistance, in a pitiful surrender that made Jungkook pull away from her lips with a loud pop.

The breathing of both of them was labored and Jungkook's wild eyes met Y/N's tear-filled ones and begged him to stop.

Jungkook did not want to get that far so quickly, but the girl's actions had not pleased him, not at all.

"If you'll be good, I promise I'll stop," he hissed, "We'll go to the kitchen, where you'll eat your breakfast and we'll talk about how it's going to be between us from now on, understand?"

The girl nodded, obediently, and followed him into the kitchen, and when Jungkook let go of her wrist she sat clutching her legs, unable to banish the heavy sensation of a cock against her folds.

She had never had a boyfriend, consequently had never received such attention; it had been shocking and strange.

Why did someone like him want to be with someone like her?

Jungkook put some toast in front of her with a variety of toppings next to it, there was jam and butter, chocolate and even eggs with bacon and cheese, he filled a glass with juice for her.

The boy wanted her to eat and feel good, he really wanted the best for Y/N and was very sorry to see her so uncooperative.

He took a seat in front of her and began to eat, giving her a look that intimated her to do the same, the girl tremblingly took the butter, beginning to spread it on her toast, she did not want to anger him again, she had yet to find the entrance and realized that in order to get the go-ahead, she had to first keep the landlord happy.

"Y/N" she lifted her eyes to his, a twinge of guilt hit the boy in the stomach in front of those red, shiny eyes, "I only wish you to be happy" he began, but Y/N interrupted him.

"But you kidnapped me" she said in a huff, Jungkook for a moment did not know what to say.

"No, I didn't kidnap you, we belong together since we first met," he said confidently, "Do you remember that? You were completely wet with rain, I saw you and you bound me to you with one look, my job is to protect you and make you feel loved."

Y/N remembered that day, which took place seven months earlier, but she did not think she had left such an indelible mark on her teacher, in short, he had never shown any interest and she had never given herself false hope.

"Why didn't you say anything before, because-"

"Jungkook." the boy blocked her, "Call me Jungkook, I'm not your professor outside of school," he pointed out, disturbed by the continuous distance Y/N seemed to want to put in the dialogue.

The girl sucked it up and agreed with him.

"Why didn't you ever come forward, Jungkook?"

In a normal way, she would have liked to add, but did not want to dare too much.

The young man took a moment to absorb as best he could the girl's voice as she spoke his name with what seemed to him to be familiarity; he found the sound of those syllables coming from his woman's lips enchanting.

Y/N did not understand, why had he suddenly approached her and in such a crazy way then?

"Because I'm your professor and it wasn't ethically correct, plus you had never given me a reason to step forward...until yesterday, I couldn't allow them to go on with their torture," he said harshly, "You'll be safe with me forever."

The girl took a deep breath before she began to speak.

"You can't keep me here forever, I have a family and studies to complete, take me back to my home, Jungkook," she begged him again, the boy shook his head.

"You are home, and don't worry about your studies, I will help you and you will get your degree one hundred percent, the principal is a good friend of mine...as for your family, they were the first to hurt you."

The girl's blood drained from her face, she began to finally understand where Jungkook was going with this. He wanted to isolate her from the world, because the world had been evil to her.

Jungkook in those months had been researching the young girl's parents, neighbors told him about how they were always rude and irritated with Y/N, went around saying that the girl was squandering all their savings on that absurd belief that she wanted to continue her studies, not understanding the sacrifices they had made to raise her.

Those statements were enough for the boy to realize that they did not deserve a daughter like her, too good and sweet for such people.

"It's not the same thing!" blurted out Y/N then, ready for another fit of hysterical crying, "I want my freedom!"

"Freedom? For you to live like that is to be free? Living with the constant fear of being attacked at school or in that neighborhood you call home, without a shred of a friend?" he asked, strangled.

Those words struck Y/N, because they were so fucking true they hurt.

But still, those were not good reasons to kidnap a person, and he had done exactly that.

She shut up for a few moments not knowing how to retort, Jungkook looked at her with disappointment.

Y/N felt a pang in her heart, because in spite of everything, that was still the guy who until the night before had given her butterflies in her stomach, seeing such a look in him too made her want to vomit.

[defectivehero]

Hi recently found your blog it’s so good! But was wondering if you could one where the hero lost there glasses in a fight maybe or just at home and the villain sees them idk take your pick possibly m x m? Ty even if not have a good day!

your wish is my command! (not really, but this is a great idea and you asked very nicely!) here you go, hope you have a great day <3

The hero has grown accustomed to working late night hours at the agency. He's grown used to being the last person in the office, to shutting the lights off and locking the door behind him once he leaves. The hero always feels guilty leaving right at his scheduled time, especially when his job can determine if a person lives as a bystander to a horrible event or dies as a victim. He begins to stay later and later into the night, and it becomes increasingly hard for him to tear himself away from the agency and his hero mask.

This overtime habit is how the hero finds himself hunched over his desk with rather painful crooked posture as he compulsively checks his computer for messages. His agency is one of the first to adopt a sophisticated messaging system that converts audio from emergency calls to text, which are sent as alerts straight to their inbox. The idea sounded morbid at first—the hero didn't want to equate life-saving to checking his email. But the system grew on him. It's convenient and easy to use, drastically improving the agency’s response time.

He squints at the screen in front of him, rubbing his eyes roughly when his vision begins to blur. He's tired.

Perhaps the hero’s exhaustion is the reason why he fails to notice a figure standing in the corner of the room, watching him. “Your eyesight is terrible.” The hero hears, stiffening in his seat and turning around to find his enemy, the villain, lurking in the shadows. It takes him a few moments to process the statement.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” the hero then huffs, blinking a few times as he realizes his eyes feel incredibly dry. His close-up vision is passable, so he's still able to do his job. His distance vision, on the other hand...

The hero has worn glasses since fourth grade. He experimented with contacts but eventually went back to wearing glasses. He's spent an ungodly amount of time in his life wiping his glasses clean with a cloth or pushing his frames further up his nose.

“I’m serious,” the villain sighs. “How can you even see out of these?” At that, the villain steps forward and holds out his hand, revealing a pair of glasses. The hero immediately recognizes the telltale blue gleam that distinguishes his glasses, and reaches out to his enemy. He almost expects the villain not to hand them over, so when the glasses hit the hero's palm, he raises his eyebrows.

"Thank you," the hero feels the need to say, when the silence stretches on to a painful tension. When he puts on his glasses, the blurriness around his vision clears and he can see the words displayed on his screen in sharp, clean strokes. The hero then stares at the villain, several questions on the tip of his tongue. How did the villain remember the hero had lost his glasses? Did he go back to retrieve them? And if so... why?

"It took me a few days to realize why you hadn't shown your face since our fight," the villain answers, as if reading his mind. The hero has to wonder how he grew so predictable. "After that, it didn't take long for me to remember that blow I dealt you—rather powerful, if I do say so myself—and the ensuing clatter of your glasses falling to the ground. So... I went back to the rooftop and grabbed them."

That answers the hero's first two questions. He is still left with the most important query of all: why?

The villain seems to telepathically understand this question too. He takes a slow breath in and ambles around the office in a carefree manner that makes it seem as if he owns the space.

"A win is more enjoyable if it's a complete victory," the villain drawls, tapping his fingers along a nearby desk. The hero has to wonder if his enemy has his power activated—if charred fingerprints will be left as remnants (as tangible evidence) of their encounter. "That means no cheap advantages or hinderances."

Ah. The villain wanted a fair fight—one unimpeded by the hero's poor vision. He supposes he can understand that. The villain is honorable above all else. The hero knows this about his enemy, has grown to accept it. Perhaps he should've intuited that motivation before bothering to ask.

The villain is still lingering, as if waiting for something. The hero's patience only lasts a few minutes. “Well, was there another reason for your visit, or…?” The hero asks, looking at him with sharpened vision. His glasses now provide him with a glimpse of the nuance written in the villain's form—the minuscule pull to his lips, the faded scars tangled around his hands. The hero is suddenly thankful to have his glasses again—but for entirely different reasons than before.

“That was it,” the villain says, his gaze turning scrutinizing. "Why are you in such a rush? Got a hot date?" The latter statement is spoken with a surprising amount of venom.

The hero raises his eyebrows. "A date?" He hums casually, his heart racing in his chest. He didn't expect the conversation to take such a sharp turn into such a convoluted and confusing subject. "At this hour? Of course not."

Something settles in the villain's expression. "Right," he says, something close to relief coloring his tone. "Then, I'll be seeing you." He remarks, turning on his heel and walking out the door. The hero watches him leave, a multitude of different emotions battling in his chest.

©2024, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

tag list: @lateuplight @wit-is-wisdom @greengableswriting @whump-me-all-night-long @noawhite @rekhyt-of-arcadia @the-blind-one-speaks @sufferfictionalcharacters @basically-psyduck @alexkolax @subval01 @emerald-blade @felicia609 @surplus-of-sarcasm @ilickedanenvelopeandilikedit @a-chaotic-gremlin @unknownogre @prompt-fills-and-writing-spills @whatwhumpcomments @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @agayprince @starsick1979 @a-lonely-little-ghost @agayprince @plum-tello

click here if you’d like to be on/off the tag list!

[lamemaster]

The Evermoor (Chapter 2)

Request: Sinister love for Maedhros, especially if it's after his fiery death ~how very SPOOKY~ he'd be scary enough as a ghost, but more terrifying would be if he survived or was resurrected, with his burns.Gosh I love Halloween

Pairing: Maedhros x Reader

Genre: Horror

Summary: He was better than ever—but not the same. It was as though the fever had washed away more than just his illness. The man you loved had been replaced by someone—or something—else.

Chapter 1| Chapter 2

AN: perfect gif does not exist

Next up- Glorfindel x Valyrian Reader Fall trope event list

A wedding dress fitting had been your only excuse to escape him. Zaid or whoever he was now hadn’t let you leave otherwise. He prowled the Evermoor’s every corner, confining you to the home that now felt less like a mansion and more like a tomb.

The six-hour round trip was far too short, given that the audiobook Tevildoisapookie had sent would take nineteen hours to complete. But it was your only chance to learn more.

Leaving, however, came with conditions. Zaid had insisted that the ring stay behind, "safely guarded" in his care. You couldn’t have agreed more. Whatever cursed power lay within it would hold his attention, buying you precious time.

The house seemed to breathe a sigh as you slipped out. The ring, left on the oak side table in the hallway, glinted, its polished surface catching a shard of eerie light. You shivered, almost feeling it watching you as you closed the door.

Just as you merge onto the highway, fifteen minutes and several miles from Evermoor, you press play on the audiobook, The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien..

Then, the name hits. “Fëanorian.” You almost stop breathing. The word echoes inside your soul. Fëanorian. A son of Fëanor, the elven crown prince.

Your car jerks to a halt, tires skidding, as the realization crashes over you. It was him. He was one of those seven. The being who now haunted the Evermoor’s halls was not Zaid. It was an ancient elven lord bound by a forgotten oath.

A blaring honk snaps you back to the present, the impatient driver behind waving their hand in frustration. Your hands tremble as you press the gas, heart thudding wildly as you continue down the road.

The highway stretches ahead, but you can’t shake the feeling that he’s watching, even from miles away.

Things had shifted in the past few days. The Fëanorian—how absurd it felt to even think it—had adapted. His mannerisms grew unnervingly similar to Zaid’s, so practiced that at times, he seemed almost familiar. But there were moments when the façade slipped, and you saw him—the ancient being hiding just beneath the surface.

Dark brown hair, once untouched, was taking on a strange bronze tint, gleaming faintly in the low light as if kissed by a sun that no longer existed.

His eyes, which had once unsettled you with their unnatural glow, were changing, becoming more palatable—gentler. You were growing accustomed to his silent steps, the way he moved as if the air parted for him, carrying no sound of his passing.

Even Hermes and Zeus had relented, their initial wariness giving way to a tentative acceptance. They no longer barked or cowered at his presence, though they watched him with guarded eyes, their tails stiff, as if instinctively bracing for something they couldn’t understand.

The familiarity of it terrified you, a false comfort settling into the routines of daily life. But you knew. He was not Zaid.

The first few days had passed in a blur, your mind consumed with Zaid’s lingering ailment. Between the long nights and restless days, you’d busied yourself fussing over his weakened body, tending to him as his fever waned. You hadn’t noticed, then, the unnatural stiffness of the figure beside you—the way his responses to touch felt detached, slightly delayed, as though they were learned rather than instinctive.

When you climbed into bed each night, exhaustion weighed so heavily that you didn’t register the changes. Zaid’s arms no longer wrapped around you with the warmth and ease you knew. That first night, you missed the slight twitch of his fingers as they lay there, unmoving.

Then, a week ago, you’d felt it. His arms around you, colder than you remembered, more rigid than flesh should be. Zaid’s embrace had always been familiar. But this, this was something unknown. Alien.

The master bedroom remained unfinished, half-done walls and barely-set fixtures casting shadows that stretched and loomed. You’d painted the ceiling the color of a soft sky, a choice encouraged by the recommendations in the comments on your YouTube videos.

That night, the room felt colder than ever, the chill seeping through the blankets as you burrowed deeper into the duvet, seeking warmth.

His hand slid over yours, each finger achingly careful, his eyes fixed on the ring you wore. A small, tight smile played on his lips, but it held no warmth, only fascination—a quiet reverence as his gaze traced the curve of the diamond, glinting in the pale light.

Yet, he never truly touched the ring. His fingers skated along the band, pads pulling away before contact, as though the metal might sear his skin. His reluctance to lay hands upon the object he seemed to covet so deeply twisted something sharp and cold in your chest.

You closed your eyes, willing your thundering heart to settle, forcing your breath to steady. Not yet. You couldn’t confront him. Whoever, or whatever, this was, you needed to understand more.

Rushing into a revelation could jeopardize not only your safety but Zaid’s as well—if he still existed somewhere beneath this stranger’s silver stare.

Your gaze met his, searching those terrifying, metallic eyes, desperate for a glimpse of Zaid’s warm, familiar brown. But they were gone, submerged in an ocean of silvery depths, like light swallowed whole by a storm.

The man beside you felt as though he were slipping, inch by inch, into something other, too ancient to understand, too powerful to hold back. It was a force far older than the walls of Evermoor, something seething beneath its surface, waiting, coiled, as if the house itself held its breath.

The unsettling realization settled in: Evermoor was watching, its silence as loaded as his gaze.

By night, the house was different. Its hallways stretched impossibly long, the walls narrowing in oppressive shadows that felt like they might crush you.

Corners that held charm in the daylight painted trims, playful wall sconces morphed into looming shapes you averted your eyes from. The colors, so rich and warm by day, faded to a ghostly gray under the cold moonlight, reduced to ashen shades.

It struck you that no coat of paint, no cheerful touch of modern decor, could strip Evermoor of its past. The house held tightly to everything it had ever seen, every life it had ever sheltered or stolen.

At times, you imagined the hallways shifting around you, doorways leading somewhere else entirely, a labyrinth only Evermoor understood.

Shadows pooled in corners like spilled ink, thick and impenetrable, defying any attempt to peer within. And when you walked its halls, even the familiar became foreign, twisted by darkness, and the eerie feeling that Evermoor itself was reshaping, closing in with a slow, patient grip.

Tonight, you lay beside him, feeling the house press in, the walls heavy with the weight of centuries.

The Evermoor felt alive, its past lingering in every creak and whisper, watching, waiting.

“Maedhros,” you whisper the name, and his head turns sharply. His eyes lock onto yours, a flicker of recognition glinting within their silvery depths, a knowing that tightens the air between you.

“What was that?” your aunt asks, frowning as she hands you a bowl of soup, her gaze shifting between the two of you with mild curiosity. You break away from him, forcing yourself to focus on the steam rising from the bowl.

Back from the “wedding dress” appointment, you’d asked Zaid to meet you here, at your aunt’s house, for dinner—a simple gathering, ordinary and unthreatening.

You hadn’t dared confront him at Evermoor, where each word felt swallowed by the walls, each thought snared by the shadows. The mansion seemed to be listening, as though ready to consume the truth along with your every breath.

But here, you saw him for what he was. The red tint in his hair, the metallic gleam in his eyes, the wry, calculated curl of his lips—all unmistakable markers. It was him, the eldest of the Fëanorians, Nelyafinwë. And now, there he stood, or rather, there he lurked, watching you from the corner of the room with that mocking, ageless smirk.

Maedhros. Burned and broken by the Silmaril, yet still refusing to let go, even in death. It was as if his spirit had clung to the jewel, shackled to it, drawn to it.

And now, the Silmaril rested on your finger, gleaming quietly, alive with the light that had once damned him.

In this strange, twisted tale, Maedhros had finally won. The Silmaril and its bearer sat within his grasp.

You force a smile for your aunt’s sake, lifting the spoon with a steady hand. But in the periphery, his gaze holds you fast, unbroken, as though nothing not death, nor centuries of exile could keep him from what he believed was his.

After ages of silence, he hears it—his name, spoken with trembling conviction. As if summoned by some ancient spell, Maedhros looks up at you. His eyes narrow, watching the realization settle across your face, the knowledge breaking over you like a wave you cannot outrun.

The Silmaril on your finger pulses, its light swelling, as if acknowledging the presence of a Fëanorian nearby. Its glow intensifies, catching in his eyes.

A slow, vicious curve that spreads across his face. A laugh bubbles up from his chest, low and triumphant, reverberating with a power long buried.

You figured it out. Smarter than he had anticipated, indeed. An Edain, ages removed from his own cursed bloodline, had seen through the disguise, calling him by his name, shackling him to the fate he had once tried so desperately to escape.

But the horror now dawning in your eyes does little to phase him—no, he savors it, the raw terror.

The Silmaril was already his; it had been since the moment you slipped it on your finger, binding yourself unknowingly to his doom. And with the vows of marriage, his victory would be complete, his soul woven irrevocably into yours, fused for eternity.

He can feel it now—the lingering fea of the body he inhabits, its beating heart softening his Elven light, reshaping him into something both human and elven.

Soon, his true name would blur, fading into the mortal coil of his host, diluted until not even the light of Aman could recognize it. And with his name and his soul veiled, he would slip through his doom’s fingers at last.

The Silmaril would be his to touch, his to hold in hands that could feel no burn. And one day, perhaps, he would raise it upon a crown, it would be his to possess.

He watches you, his gaze steady, gleaming with an ancient mockery. You would not stop him. You could not.

[bijouxcarys]

𝐓𝐨 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐨 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 (𝐑𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧)

Masterlist

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

Description: Sometimes the pain of what should never have been, opens your eyes to what can be.

Tags: @firethatgrewsolow @whothefuckisanja @celestial-dragoness @chromations @ourshadowstallerthanoursoul @m-faithfull @strsmn @callmethehunter @angrychicksposts (if you want to be added to the tag list, just let me know!)

The amber liquid sloshed gently as another glass was filled, marking a gradual countdown to a much-anticipated break.

In the heart of Walsall, John Bonham's pub buzzed with life on that particular day. The recent return of kids to school after half-term holidays granted parents a brief respite, allowing them to savour the comforting ambiance of their cherished local haunt.

Walsall might not have dazzled the urban enthusiasts accustomed to the bustling streets of London, Liverpool, or Manchester. However, for the residents, it was a haven. The community thrived in tight-knit bonds, where familiarity bred friendship. In Walsall, faces weren't just faces; they were familiar chapters of a collective story.

For Elena, the pub job John had offered was a lifeline, an escape from the logistical challenges of her previous employment that entailed rides back and forth. The relentless hour-long bus ride on days when John couldn't drive her had become a wearisome routine. Yet, she never had to ask; John's commitment to her safety was unwavering. Opting for the haven of John's pub proved to be a decision that reshaped Elena's narrative, making it the finest choice she'd ever made.

Elena gingerly massaged her lower back, easing the strain from bending over the rack of pint glasses. A flush of warmth crept across her face, and the rebellious baby hairs escaping her ponytail adhered to her forehead. Glancing at the clock above the bar had become a ritual, each tick dragging its heels toward the elusive 2pm.

The half-apron snugly tied around her waist doubled as a saviour, mopping the moisture above her eyebrows and guarding against any accidental beverage spills. A fleeting grimace transformed into a welcoming smile as the next patron patiently awaited service.

John's pub drew a crowd of amiable souls, and Elena effortlessly charmed them, especially the older clientele. Navigating conversations with the seasoned regulars was her forte. Despite the occasional pang of longing for a break, she generally relished her role. The only thorn in her side was the relentless passage of time, leaving her body ablaze with exhaustion. Today was no different; an unrelenting marathon had her yearning for a damn cigarette break.

Adjusting the grip on her ponytail, Elena’s attention was snatched by the entrance of two familiar faces, their boyish grins lighting up the pub like a burst of energy. 

John and Robert, when together, had developed an aura of mischief since they met. They were both confident in each other’s presence, and both knew they were destined for greatness. Although Crawling King Snakes had disbanded early that year, the pair were still in touch and had become virtually inseparable, which in turn meant Elena saw Robert a lot more than what she would have otherwise.

It hadn’t even been a year since she met him and it felt like she’d known him an entire lifetime. She’d already picked up on his little quirks and mannerisms; the way his smile was slightly crooked, his accent thickened when talking about something he loved, and his eyes would narrow when in deep thought. Elena would poke fun at Robert when the Black Country accent warped his words into almost unintelligible murmurs, but he was always quick to bounce back with a light comment about her own accent. 

Recently, Robert had started to let his hair grow out along the sides, turning his blonde locks into a short mass of messy curls that now dropped down into a fully defined beard. It was an intricate development, experiment, he was trying out, searching for a style he felt fit him perfectly.

“El!” John’s voice echoed cheerfully, arms flung wide in a theatrical greeting as they approached the bar. Elena’s face lit up in response, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Y’alright, Bon Bon?” she inquired with a sly grin, her gaze subtly drifting to the blonde figure beside John. “Hi,” she added, her voice a soft undertone.

“Workin’ hard, I see,” John teased, playfully tapping his fist on the freshly polished surface.

“Obviously. Isn’t that why you handed me this job?”

“Could’ve been just because you’re my best friend.”

“Oh, not because I’m a hard worker or anything, eh?” Elena retorted, shooting a smirk at Robert, who observed the banter with an amused expression. “I’m so glad you hold me in such high esteem, John.” With a snort of laughter, she tossed the cloth she had been using to wipe the bar into the wash bin, adding a touch of flair to the mundane task.

“Nah, just joshin’ with you, El. Look at your face! You’re clearly putting in the effort,” John nodded his head in reference to her flushed cheeks and tired demeanour.

“Oh, thanks,” Elena deadpanned, giving him an exaggerated eye roll. “Have you had a good look at your own face lately?”

“Yeah, it’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” John tilted his head back, theatrically flipping his hair.

“You are so fucking insufferable. You’re lucky I love you,” Elena dismissed John with a playful grimace, a sentiment he returned with a mock offended expression. She then turned her attention to Robert. “And how are we today, Robert?”

“Ah, not too shabby, not too shabby,” he shrugged casually, leaning against the bar with a nonchalant air. “You?”

“Oh, I’m having the absolute time of my life here,” she answered Robert but darted her eyes over at John, who was occupying himself by creating a steady rhythm with his hands. He was entirely in his own world, head moving along with the beat he’d created. Looking back at Robert, she smirked. “Has he been smoking again?”

Robert stifled a laugh, standing up straight and nudging John. “Oi, Bonzo!” No answer. “My Lord…” he muttered, resuming his previous position. “Not been smoking, just bangin’ on about Ginger Baker for the last half hour.”

“Ginger Baker… why’s that name sound familiar?”

“Cream.”

“Ah, yes!” she clicked her fingers with a nod, “That’s right… Great, aren’t they?”

“Superb, yeah,” Robert nodded. “You listened to their new album yet?”

“Uh, of course I have, I never miss a new record from my favourite artists,” she told him pointedly.

“You don’t have any of mine!” John interrupted.

“Oh, so you’re competent now, are you?” Elena jested. “You don’t have any records, you plonker.”

As she and John continued their usual back and forth—nothing but love—Robert kept his eyes fixed on Elena. He’d known it within the first 15 minutes of meeting her. He just knew. Deep in his soul. As sure as he was that the sun would rise in the morning. He liked her.  

She was so entirely endearing to him, and that only intensified throughout the months he’d had to get to know her. It turned him into a giddy little boy, the way she made him feel whenever she was around. Her smile was totally intoxicating, even more so when paired with that accent—that stabbing bluntness that gave her an air of invincibility. 

When John had made a passing comment about visiting Elena at work, Robert was almost embarrassed at how quick he was to encourage the idea, his stomach flipping at the mere mention of her name. If it were up to him, he’d have sprinted his peppy self all the way down that road and bulldozed into the pub. He would have dove over the bar, taken her into his arms and attacked her with kiss after kiss…

But he simply could not bring himself to make that move. Never had he ever felt this intimidated about approaching a girl he found attractive. Perhaps it was the lingering knowledge that her rejection would strain his relationship with John, or the straight fact that he couldn't muster up the correct string of words to accurately convey the urge he had to be around her.

So, he did the safest thing and cherished the friendship they’d formed, making the most out of every moment he got with her.

“Listen, I got ya a lovely little job in my lovely little pub,” John gestured around him. “What’s so wrong with the decor?”

Robert was quickly brought back from his thoughts as Elena let out a jubilant laugh. My favourite sound…

“Uh, there aren’t enough plants. Try putting some plants in here, Bon. Plants make everything more lively and colourful!” She gave him a playful pout, batting her lashes in a plea for botanical relief.

Robert stood straight again, nodding his head at John. “Go’won mate, it won’t hurt.”

“Shut up, you, you’re supposed to be my friend.”

“And I am, but give the girl a plant.”

“We don’t need plants in here, El,” John tried to reason with the brunette, who had already settled with the fact she would not be getting her way this time. It was his pub, after all… 

“Besides,” John continued, “The only ‘plant’ anyone ever needs is right here.” He shot a glance at Robert, whose eyes widened in a subtle appeal for silence.

Elena raised her eyebrow, arms folded, and looked over at the boy in question. It was a relief to see Elena smiling at the comment, taking it lightly, and Robert was quick to breathe out his ease. He was lucky John hadn’t caught the fleeting exchange of smiles between the two, and mentally praised his decision to keep the beard in its concealment of a pink flush.

“Fine,” she sighed, facing the drummer. “But you owe me, Bonham.”

“Anything but a plant, please,” he groaned. “What time’s your break?”

Another useless glance at the clock proved a whole 10 minutes had passed, yet it was still a gruelling 20 from her golden 2pm. With a small whimper, she told him.

“Well, why don’t you go on break now, I’ll man the bar.” He gestured for her to come out of her enclosure with a sympathetic nod of his head.

“Really?” she breathed, already moving to untie the apron from her waist. “Ugh, you’re a lifesaver, cheers, Bon.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, catching the apron as Elena threw it to him. “And take ‘im with ya,” he pointed at Robert. “If I have to hear about fuckin’ Derrick Morgan and that reggae shit for another second, I’ll wring his neck in.”

“Ses you with fuckin’ Ginger Baker, ya twat,” Robert shot back with a roll of his eyes.

“Oh, leave him alone, Bon Bon, just because he can grow out his beard,” teased Elena as she passed him by.

“Yeah, but look at this ‘tache.” He ran his fingers over the thick hair above his top lip, encouraging a laugh from Elena. 

“See you in a bit,” she shook her head, the smile still lingering, as she and Robert made their way out the back of the pub.

“You put up with that your whole life?” Robert asked with a smirk as she stopped in the cloakroom to dig out her cigarettes from her jacket pocket.

With a nod, she giggled and gestured to the correct door. Pushing it open, he gave a theatrical bow in Elena’s direction. “Ladies first.”

“Oh, thank you,” she responded with an equally flamboyant nod, stepping outside into the cool May breeze. Whilst the pub’s atmosphere was laid back and welcoming, there were some ventilation issues that made it stuffier than most would prefer; especially if they were working. Elena had to take a minute to breathe in the fresh air around her before lighting up her cigarette.

The space behind the pub was a small, abandoned patch of land that doubled as the car park. It meant Elena could be alone during her breaks and smoke as much as she wanted without the possibility of judgemental eyes. Not that she particularly cared what others thought about her; she would just prefer not to find herself in an altercation.

“I’m telling ya, don’t ever work in a pub,” she advised Robert, groaning as she slid down the wall into a seated position on the floor. With a chuckle, he joined her, weary of how close he was. Just a few more inches to the right and his leg would be touching hers. Don’t do it, Rob… So he settled for bending his knees and resting his arms on top of them. 

“‘S not that bad, is it?” he peered at her through squinted eyes, the afternoon sun lashing down on them. Elena shrugged, crossing her ankles together and rolling them to relieve her of the burgeoning ache.

“Nah, it’s alright. John just needs to put some proper ventilation in there.” She flicked some ash onto the gravelly floor. “There’re plenty of things I’d rather be doing, but it’s okay for an 18-year-old that doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing yet.”

Robert gave her an understanding nod and smiled to himself. “What would you rather be doing?”

“I’m not too sure yet,” she thought, resting her head against the wall. “I’ve only just finished sixth form. Everyone’s buggering off to uni—it was a struggle just surviving the last 2 years, I ain't gunna spend thousands on a bloody degree.”

“I mean, you must be smart if you made it through sixth form, at least,” Robert speculated, unable to unglue his eyes from Elena as she took a long drag from her cigarette.

“It was mostly to appease my dad,” she snorted, blowing out excess smoke into the air. “Oh, do you want one, by the way?” She turned to him, offering out her packet of Marlboros.

Looking down at the pack, he couldn’t resist. “Well, if yer offerin’,” he accepted somewhat giddily with a shrug of his shoulders. Elena giggled, passing him one before striking a match, leaning in to light it up for him. “I coulda lit it meself,” he mumbled out the side of his mouth, but gladly leaned into the flame. 

Perhaps he was imagining things, but he swore he caught the scent of her perfume—or is it her hair—as she cupped her hand over his cigarette and the match, her own cig dangling from her lips. Whilst she was distracted with the small task, he took a moment to let his eyes wander over her face, still slightly red from her labour. Thick, dark brows knitted in concentration, long eyelashes untouched by makeup, the natural glow of her skin… He’d never had the chance to take a good look at her up close like this, but he wasn’t expecting to fall even deeper into whatever spell she had unknowingly cast upon him.

What he didn’t catch, however, whilst admiring the slope of her nose, was how she took her own experimental glance at him. It was brief, but long enough to truly admire the vibrancy of his eyes; she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen any as blue before. 

And it was definitely long enough to notice his wandering gaze. 

She felt strange being in such close proximity to Robert, but it was in no way unpleasant. His energy was warm, that much she gathered from the day they met; it was the reason she enjoyed being friends with him so much. Robert had the warmest soul she’d ever crossed paths with, even though she’d known him for the short span of 10 months.

Pulling back, she shook the match, the smoky residue thick in its ascendance, before she dropped it beside her, swiftly joined by the ash that had collected at the end of her cigarette.

With a small smirk on her face, she watched Robert as he took a drag. Yes, he was definitely looking at her… 

Then, his bushy eyebrows narrowed, as if in confusion, and he snapped his head towards her. “Hang on, 18?”

“18 what?” She mirrored his expression.

“Since when were you 18?”

“Uh, since last week.”

Robert’s mouth dropped open, an almost offended expression taking over his features.

“What?” she laughed. “What’s that face for?”

“Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”

Tilting her head to the side, she pulled her mouth into an amused line. “Didn’t think it was that important.”

“Your 18th isn’t important?” he gasped.

“Well, yeah, it’s an important age, but I didn’t know I needed to tell you about it,” she chuckled.

“I coulda gotten you summet, luv…” 

“Don’t be silly, Robert, you never needed to get me owt.”

“Owt?”

“Anything—you wouldn’t have needed to get me anything!” she huffed.

He held back a laugh by bringing his cig to his lips. “Okay, if you insist…” he murmured.

Even though he was taking a jab, yet a-fucking-gain, at her accent, and being allusive about her birthday, she couldn’t suppress the smile it put on her lips. She lowered her eyes to her legs for a moment, picking at the skin around her thumb, before looking back over at Robert.

“My birthday’s the 13th. For future reference…” Her voice had dropped to a softer tone, and she gave him a smile of the same candour.

“Noted,” Robert nodded. “Don’t be complainin’ if I ever get you owt, though. For future reference,” he smirked.

“You’re as bad as him in there,” she nodded her head towards the door, wondering how John was coping behind the bar and finding some unbridled amusement in the image.

There was a small silence between the two, during which she had finished her cigarette and was now simply reclining against the jagged bricks that made up the pub.

“How’s everything going with finding a new band?” she asked him after a moment, staring up at the clouds now that they had mercifully shielded the sun.

Robert’s sigh was heavy, and through stubborn lips. He shook his head, grumbling something incoherent before finally answering. “‘S alright…” He ran his tongue over his teeth, narrowing his eyes in thought. “Uh, Elena?”

“Hm?”

“D’ya think… I dunno, if I were to ask…” he paused, clicking his tongue. “Ya think Bonzo would be up for playin’ with me again?” He looked at her with genuine curiosity.

It didn’t take much thought for her to reply with a confident nod. “Oh, absolutely! I mean, he’s having a lot of fun with A Way Of Life, but he really did enjoy working with you.”

He sighed in relief, smiling to himself at the response, it being exactly what he wanted to hear.

“Who wouldn’t?”

Robert instantly looked back up at Elena with slightly widened eyes, wondering if he’d just heard her correctly.

“A-as in you’re a good singer,” Elena was quick to clarify, “You’ve got a… just this… the right…” she stuttered, before sighing and looking right into his eyes. “Energy…”

Robert’s eyes softened and grinned characteristically, with a hint of bashfulness. “Tha–”

“Oi! Have you two finished your mother’s meeting out ‘ere?!”

The pair on the floor whipped their heads towards the door to see John’s face sticking out the small gap in it.

“Fucking hell, man, don’t do that!” Elena exclaimed, her hand shooting to her chest. “Wanker…” she mumbled as she pulled herself up from the floor and dusted off her trousers, Robert following suit.

Giving him a jesting shove on the way inside, Elena begrudgingly set herself up for resuming her shift. Meanwhile, Robert slowly made his way back inside, stopping to face his friend.

“Your timing is nothin’ short of fuckin’ exquisite, Bonzo.”

Playfully flicking his forehead, Robert sauntered his way back inside. And as he did, John watched with the complete knowledge of Robert’s seemingly ever-growing interest in his best friend.

[robininthelabyrinth]

The Other Mountain - ao3 - Chapter 29

Pairing: Lan Qiren/Wen Ruohan

Warning Tags on Ao3

———————————————————————-

The first thing Lan Qiren did upon arriving at the Cloud Recesses was to instruct the Wen sect disciples that had accompanied him to wait outside the front gate.

This instruction, which Lan Qiren thought ought to have been obvious and expected, was not received well.

“But our orders – ”

“Are to obey mine,” Lan Qiren said firmly, having found that an appearance of sternness and unquestionable authority was as effective on Wen sect disciples as it was on the rest of his students. “As you may be aware, the Gusu Lan sect requires a token to enter through the gates. If you wish to enter, you may apply for a guest token in the same manner as any other unexpected guest, but I have no intention of waiting.”

Lan Qiren’s own token, which he had taken with him to the Nightless City, was still functioning. To him, this served as confirmation that his brother had not returned to the Cloud Recesses after his plan to destroy the sect at Xixiang had failed, and also came as a profound relief. First and foremost because he did not know what his brother’s aims might have been, should he have returned to the Lan sect rather than being trapped in Lanling after his murderous attempt on the entire cultivation world, but also…well, to be frank, because it would have been exceptionally embarrassing for Lan Qiren to have needed to go petition at the outer gate for a token, as if he were truly an outsider rather than a part of the main bloodline of their clan.

Anyway, it wasn’t as if he actually needed guards, no matter what Wen Ruohan might prefer. Not here.

Not at home.

The Cloud Recesses were always going to be home for Lan Qiren. He had grown surprisingly fond of the Nightless City, having found that that arrogant, sprawling, and often quixotically organized place bore a striking resemblance to its equally arrogant, sprawling, and quixotic master. And just like its master, the city’s flaws and annoyances had grown endearing with time – even the sheer presence of it, never-ending, had become tolerable, the faint but constant background noise of people fading into something not dissimilar to the background calls of birds and grasshoppers, of snuffling rabbits and croaking frogs. Walking through the streets of the Nightless City was not entirely unlike having a look inside Wen Ruohan’s brain: brilliant and self-assured beyond all reason, with a firm foundation and an orthodox layout that became increasingly complicated by unexpected deviations, all of which were, without exception, either breathtakingly creative or eye-rollingly stupid. Sometimes both at once.

The Nightless City was not yet a home to Lan Qiren, but neither was it a strange place, full of discomfort. He grew more and more accustomed to it every day. He had already started building himself new routines, breaking in new habits, and he had every expectation that given some time, he would be able to make himself wholly comfortable there.

And, of course, the Nightless City had Wen Ruohan. That was worth a great deal by itself.

Lan Qiren would be content, living in the Nightless City, and likely in time even happy, even delighted. It might not yet be his home in his heart, but it contained his beloved, and so he had no doubt in his mind that it would one day become his home.

But even if it did, the Cloud Recesses would always still be home as well.

Even now, arriving as Lan Qiren did with the full intent of challenging his sect elders and pursuing justice at any cost, even knowing that the potential cost of his goal could include being ejected from the sect, ostracized and permanently banned from returning – even so, he could not bring himself to dislike this place, or fear it. The Cloud Recesses was his home, for good or for evil. He had been born here, grown up here, lived his life here; his family was here, his students were here, his every memory was here. Every line of it, straight and true and walked over with a million steps that he could trace in his sleep, was as much carved into his bones as the rules on their wall. This was the place that had formed him into who he was today, shaping him in its reflection just as the Nightless City was Wen Ruohan’s, and in the end, despite the trials and tribulations he had faced, it had turned him into a person he was glad to have become. He could not distance himself from this place in his heart, which was gladdened by every familiar sight that he encountered, every face he knew, every tree and building that matched his memory.

Truly, Lan Qiren did not understand his brother.

For ten years, for his whole life, Lan Qiren had given everything of himself to this place, to the Cloud Recesses, to his Gusu Lan sect. He had been grateful to it, he had been angry with it, he had loved it beyond all reason, giving himself to its service. He had accompanied it in good times and in bad, had suffered with it and triumphed with it, felt the joy of delight and the pain of despair and the calm routine of day-to-day life, all here. In many ways, Lan Qiren, who had always sought to love, had in the absence of others married himself to his sect as a bridegroom to a bride, taking upon himself both the unexpected burden and the unexpected delight. For all that his elevation to the role of acting sect leader had come as an unwelcome surprise, he had chosen to accept it and even to embrace it. It was a commitment he had made knowingly, willingly, and without reserve, and he would never have willingly forsaken the duty he owed to it - and indeed, had not, even when a separation had been forced upon him. For the rest of his life, no matter where Lan Qiren went, he would always carry this place and these people with him, as much a part of his heart as his nephews or Wen Ruohan.

That was why he had to come here.

That was why he had to try to fix what had been broken.

If his mission was not successful – even if his sect as a whole disagreed with him, even if it turned away from him, rejected him, rejected what he had to say to them and the truth of what had happened, even if it became something he did not recognize, something he could not recognize – Lan Qiren would accept it, and he would grieve for the loss for the rest of his life. He would mourn the loss of the sect that the Lan sect should have been, could have been, but wasn’t. But if there was something he could do to forestall that fate, if it was in any way within his power to stop the rest of his sect from going too far down the wrong path, if there was a way that he could remind them of who they were and what they were meant to be and bring them back to righteousness, then he would do it. He loved his sect far too much to let it go without fighting for it, without doing everything he could for it.

He owed his sect that much. He wanted to give it that much.

He was not afraid.

And he most certainly did not require guards in order to do it. What Wen Ruohan was thinking, Lan Qiren had no idea – he’d even given Lan Qiren equal part of the power they had generated between them in their dual cultivation, despite the fact that only one of them was going off to fight a battle that required spiritual energy. Lan Qiren’s battle would be waged with words, not swords or arrays. What exactly was he supposed to do with this excess spiritual energy? He’d been glowing by the time they’d finished! Actually, genuinely glowing!

(Wen Ruohan had claimed that the glowing was a normal side effect for orthodox cultivators when they’d just made a very significant improvement in their cultivation, similar to the way that forming a golden core purged the body’s impurities. It would eventually be consolidated into his golden core through his traditional cultivation methods to further strengthen him, and it was absolutely nothing to worry about, nothing to be annoyed about. As the world’s foremost cultivator, it stood to reason that Wen Ruohan would know the most about how such things occurred, and he had insisted that Lan Qiren defer to his expertise in this matter. However, he had also been laughing throughout the entire explanation, possibly at Lan Qiren’s loudly expressed disapproval, so Lan Qiren hadn’t yet decided if he entirely believed him.)

Lan Qiren still hadn’t consolidated much of that power, as for him personally that would require meditation, music, or philosophical contemplation, or alternatively a great deal of training in swordsmanship, but at least the visible glow had gone away before he’d arrived at the Cloud Recesses. He would never have been able to show his face here if it hadn’t.

He had barely taken three steps past the gate when one of the passing juniors caught sight of him and blurted out, “Teacher! You’re back!”

Lan Qiren had expected to be recognized quickly and greeted with surprise, particularly given that he had not sent any advance word of his anticipated return, so he mentally excused the mild lack of courtesy, only inclining his head in a nod in response. He was just about to ask where he could find the sect elders when suddenly everyone around him seemingly started talking at once – the junior’s cry had gotten everyone’s attention, and to Lan Qiren’s surprise he was abruptly surrounded, juniors of all ages and stripes abandoning their duties to rush over to greet him.

Not just the ones who were already standing near the entrance gate by coincidence, either. It was almost a little like a flood, white-robed juniors appearing out of just about every side path Lan Qiren could think of and charging up to gather around him, much to his deep bemusement. Some of them actually issued a proper greeting, many of them did not, but each and every one of them was talking, excitedly pouring out words like a bottle that had just been uncorked. There were so many of them that their voices merged together into a single overlapping wave of noise, no individual speaker distinguishable, all of it together:

“Teacher! Teacher! You’re back! So much has happened! They changed the teachers for your classes! They’re awful! You’re finally back! I don’t think they’re following your curriculum anymore, Teacher, tell them to stop! Teacher, would you look at my essay while you’re here? Teacher, you’re back! We went to war, Teacher! Well, not all of us went, do not tell lies, it was just the seniors –! Are you back for good? I don’t like these new teachers. So much has happened, Teacher! I can’t believe you’re finally back! We missed you! There’s a rule I don’t understand, Teacher, could you please help –! I’m so happy that you’re back! They said you got married, Teacher, is that true? Are you staying for long? See, I told you he’d be back! Teacher, the new teachers rely too much on self-study, I don’t feel like I’m learning anything! Teacher, can you fix it? They changed the routine, Teacher! We – ”

“Causing noise is prohibited!” Lan Qiren bellowed, trying to make himself heard over the unreasonable din. For a moment he felt a distinct sense of displacement in time and space, wondering if this was really the Cloud Recesses or if he’d somehow ended up back in the Nightless City where he’d started out. He’d just been comparing the tranquility of one against the noisiness of the other, and then promptly encountered something like this…! “And running is prohibited for those of you just arriving now! What are you thinking?! I have not been gone so long that you should have all forgotten basic discipline! The next person to say something should take care not to violate Do not use frivolous words, or I will assign you lines to copy, regardless of age or status!”

They all fell silent, although many of them were looking at him with pleased expressions that tempted Lan Qiren to remind them that Do not smile foolishly was also a rule. That wasn’t one of the ones that called for discipline for minor violations, though – joy was meant to be expressed in moderation, while keeping Do not exult in excess firmly in mind – so he refrained.

Also, minor violations of discipline aside (and increasing concern over their newly imposed curriculum, if this was the result of it), Lan Qiren had to admit that it was rather nice to see the juniors’ enthusiasm at his homecoming.

He’d missed his students.

Wen Ruohan’s ridiculous plans for world domination through education aside, Lan Qiren was genuinely looking forward to starting to teach again. He would freely admit that he was likely not the most interesting lecturer, particularly given his inclination towards monotony and his free hand in imposing discipline where necessary, but he thought that he balanced it out by doing a good job in being reliable and clear, laying out his expectations and being stringently fair in applying them. He committed himself to helping his students form the sturdy foundations of morality and principle that they would build their lives on, to helping them become the fine and upstanding young men and women he knew they all had the potential to be, and he had the pleasure of knowing that sometimes they even looked positively on the experience.

It was a pleasure to be greeted by them now.

Though actually, now that he looked around, this crowd wasn’t just his students, strictly speaking. It wasn’t even just misbehaving juniors that used greeting him as an excuse to abandon their tasks. There were definitely a number of former students of his in the crowd, those that had since become adults, sometimes long since, and there were even a few that looked suspiciously like they were old enough to have been, at most, in the classes he had assisted with as an adolescent. And possibly some that hadn’t even been his students at all!

“How long are you back for, Teacher?” one of the braver juniors finally piped up.

It was a legitimate question, not a violation of Do not use frivolous words, so Lan Qiren would answer it. He cleared his throat and reached up to stroke his beard.

“That has not yet been determined,” he said, and tried to ignore the disappointed expressions on the faces all around him. “I have come to speak with the sect elders, and preferably all of them at once. Where – ”

“Most of them are already in the Hall of Serenity, Teacher,” someone said. “Would you like us to take you there? Or fetch the others? We can send messages – ”

“I have not been gone so long that I have forgotten where the Hall of Serenity is,” Lan Qiren said censoriously, though again he noticed that all the juniors seemed to almost brighten with enthusiasm when he scolded them, which was not the usual response to his lectures. Perhaps it had something to do with a sense of familiarity – he often scolded juniors, and doing so now certainly made him feel as though the world had gone back to normal. Maybe the same was true for them. “Ensure the other sect elders are directed to go there at once. In the meantime, I have another task for you: those who attended the last sect conference were handed golden coins by Lanling Jin, meant to act as memorial tokens to honor the event. These coins must be collected and put into the mingshi at once. Furthermore, consider this a further exercise: you must accomplish the collection utilizing full precautionary procedures, meaning that I do not want to hear that any of you have had any physical contact with them whatsoever. Will you do that?”

Much like Wen Ruohan’s confidence in his Wen sect’s obedience to his orders, Lan Qiren was equally certain that his Gusu Lan juniors would carry out his instructions swiftly and without question, even when he added, without explanation, a requirement usually applied to items of significant danger. Probably they would assume that there was some ethical reason they could not keep the coins…

“Can we get extra credit?”

Lan Qiren paused. He had not expected that.

“I am not currently acting as your teacher,” he eventually pointed out when no one clarified or withdrew the question, deciding not to comment on those in the audience who were definitely too old to be in class anymore. “As a result, I am not responsible for your grades. Extra credit from me would be utterly pointless.”

“Can we get extra credit anyway?”

How ridiculous. Lan Qiren huffed out a sigh. “…I will see what I can do,” he said begrudgingly.

The juniors all seemed very pleased.

They also did not move, which was less helpful.

“Dismissed!”

The juniors immediately scattered like startled pheasants, or at a minimum very enthusiastic ones. Lan Qiren was pleased to see that the majority of them responded immediately to his instructions with diligence and industry, many of them automatically organizing themselves into groups and peeling off in various directions, undoubtedly to go collect the coins, while the remainder set about continuing their original tasks, if they were urgent ones. That was what he would have expected to see, and what he wanted to see. Diligence is the root, organize work properly – the juniors might still be learning the rules, still working on improving their understanding, but they were already striving to live up to them.

That was what he had come here to fight to preserve.

Lan Qiren made his way to the Hall of Serenity, where the sect elders often gathered to discuss weighty matters in privacy. It was convenient that many of them had already gathered, as it would spare him the trouble of having to gather them up himself – though it would mean that he was interrupting whatever discussion was already in progress.

It had been years since Lan Qiren had felt genuinely intimidated by the Hall of Serenity, but he’d never felt entirely comfortable with it, either. It was a place reserved for the sect elders, with limited entry permitted for other sect members, other than obvious exceptions like the sect leader. Ever since Lan Qiren had first crossed the threshold as acting sect leader, ten years ago, he had always felt as though he were an imposter. He knew, deep inside, that he shouldn’t really be there, not really, that this wasn’t something that ought to belong to him. It had felt like he was taking yet another thing that ought to belong only to his brother…though Lan Qiren had never quite settled with himself whether this particular thing was a privilege or a duty.

He put aside his unease and let himself in without waiting for permission.

“Qiren!” someone called, sounding surprised – surprised but pleased, which wasn’t necessarily the tone of voice used by some of the others that murmured his name as he walked in.

Lan Qiren saluted appropriately. “Greetings, elders.”

As usual, he was greeted with a flurry of murmured responses:

“Get up, get up, no need for salute – ”

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“He was married, remember? Married out. Your memory…”

“Is that Qiren…?”

“ – Qishan Wen sect – ”

“There’s no need for such politeness – ”

“Welcome back.”

“– always been such a nice boy.”

“What is he wearing?”

“What are you doing here, Qiren?” Lan Yuanbai said loudly, cutting through the murmurs. “Has something happened outside? Do you bring news of your brother? Or perhaps…?”

Lan Qiren had expected that question, or something like it. Naturally the elders’ primary concern would be his brother’s absence, as under normal circumstances the sect could not proceed without the presence of the sect leader or his nominated alternate – and just as naturally, his brother’s inexplicable disappearance would have created a considerable frenzy of worry, just as the disappearance of his nephews would have until they’d realized, as they must have by now, that Lan Qiren would not be so calm unless he knew that they were safe.

“Those are matters that can be dealt with later,” Lan Qiren said firmly, declining to answer either of the questions they had actually asked. “I am here on a different matter. I require an audience of all the sect elders on a matter of utmost importance, a matter of ethics – ”

Rather rudely, he was interrupted.

“Whatever it is, surely it can wait for a better time, Qiren,” Lan Yuanbai said. He was a prickly old man, conservative and often tetchy. Lan Qiren had few enough fond memories of him, between his fervent support of Lan Qiren’s brother during his brief tenure and the way, later, that he’d often skirted the edges of violating the rules against gossip by complaining loudly within Lan Qiren’s hearing about how much better his brother would have handled some event or another. “Discussing a matter of ethics! Now! The world is in chaos and the sect leader is missing, the sect heirs are missing, everything is in an uproar. Now is not the right time. We are discussing important matters – ”

Lan Yuanbai also tended to go on at great length about nothing at all.

“Now is the right time,” Lan Qiren interrupted, regretting the need: he, at least, knew it was rude, but he also knew that there was no way around it if he ever intended to be heard. “It is always the right time for considering ethics…however, sect elders, perhaps I have made myself unclear. I have not requested an audience. I require it.”

That got some tempers in the room riled, as even Lan Qiren could tell, and had expected. The sect rules required respect for one’s elders, and they were accustomed to deference. But despite that, there were only some murmurs in response to his statement, some in agreement, some in disagreement, but at any rate no one stepped up to argue with him. Perhaps it was the familiarity of his presence or his former role as acting sect leader that tamed their reactions, but whatever the cause, the majority of them seemed generally inclined to agree with him.

And then, just as he thought that it would be fine to proceed, a smooth, cool, and dreadfully familiar voice said, “Such a presumptuous demand is most unlike you, Qiren. Who are you to make such a demand?”

The room quieted after that – but then, it always did, when it was Lan Zhengquan who spoke.

Lan Qiren had been trying not to look at him.

He had known, he supposed, that the moment he did, he would not be able to help himself.

He’d been right.

Lan Qiren’s grasp on his temper, never the strongest, snapped.

“I am myself,” Lan Qiren said sharply, “and whatever you might be implying, I need be nothing more. You all know me well, elders, and you know that I would not raise such a request trivially. We will be having an audience to discuss this matter, and we will be having it right now, without delay, without excuse. Immediately. Is that understood?”

Lan Zhengquan looked coldly disapproving. Lan Yuanbai mumbled something about improper behavior, though his surprise at Lan Qiren’s defiance kept his voice relatively weak. Even some of the sect elders that tended to support Lan Qiren looked taken aback by the strength of his words and the harshness of his tone.

After a moment, Lan Bocheng – another longstanding political rival of Lan Qiren, more moderate in his views than those in Lan Zhengquan’s camp but nevertheless as a personal matter inclined to be rather officious and overbearing when he felt disrespected – stepped forward, frowning.

“Your disregard for your elders and for sect hierarchy does not do you credit, Qiren,” he said, voice slow but loud. The sound of his words carried, seeming almost to fill the room. “It is arrogance more akin to your married family than your own.”

Wen sect arrogance, he meant, to be precise. His statement was not merely a pointed reminder that Lan Qiren had married out of the sect, making him technically an outsider, but an emphasis on who exactly it was that Lan Qiren now represented, as if the Wen sect suns embroidered on his white robes alongside the Lan clouds weren’t obvious enough.

It was the sort of snide put-down Lan Qiren had become accustomed to over the years.

The disapproval in Lan Bocheng’s words was technically implicit, not explicit. He had not officially condemned Lan Qiren for bad behavior, or identified any particular rule he was said to have violated, but in its own way the censure and disapprovement in his tone and stance were so obvious that even someone who had difficulty understanding social situations like Lan Qiren could get the message very clearly. In the past, Lan Qiren would have taken his elders’ chastisement to heart and treated as a sign that he should back off from whatever position he had adopted, as a sign that he should go worry over what he had done, to reflect with contemplation and thoughtfulness and correct his own behavior in the hope that there would be nothing to criticize in the future.

Well, perhaps some of Wen Ruohan’s constant exhortations to remember his own value had in fact sunk in, because Lan Qiren had no intention of backing down. He certainly had no intention of accepting fault where he had done nothing wrong – while others had.

“It is correct that you mention my own family,” he said curtly. “That I am married out is no matter under our family rules. Married out or not, I am still Gusu Lan’s Lan Qiren, second son of the last sect leader, younger brother of the current sect leader, and uncle of the future sect leader. I am part of the main line of the Gusu Lan clan, entrusted by our ancestors with authority over this sect – and that, too, is sect hierarchy, elders. As you well know, in the absence of any other member of the main clan, even though you are my elders, you must defer to my authority.”

Perhaps it was arrogance, perhaps it was merely temper.

Lan Qiren wasn’t sure which it was, but no matter what, he was not going to let himself be pushed around by the sect elders this time, the way he had on so many other occasions. This time, the matter was too important to give up, too important to put off, too important to waste time with introspective reflection – it had already been put off for too long. It was his entire sect’s conscience at stake. It was a question which, however it was resolved, related to the very foundation of their sect, the things that made them who they were, the rules their sect depended on. That they all depended on.

It was the Gusu Lan sect’s future at issue. His nephews’ future, the future of all those juniors that called him Teacher, the next generation and all those that came after…whether they could live proudly under their family rules or not, it would depend on how the sect handled this issue, and how they all chose to behave going forward. Whether they chose to uphold justice and morality and doing what was right no matter how painful, as their rules demanded, or – or otherwise.

Lan Qiren could not back down.

The rules said Do not disrespect your elders, but they also said Uphold justice. When two rules came into conflict, it was up to the individual to choose which rule they ought to follow.

Rules and righteousness.

Their sect had never governed itself by rules alone.

Lan Qiren had always questioned his choices, always doubted himself. He knew too well his weakness in understanding people, his struggles to interpret subtleties, his inexperience and his naivete and his often unthinking stubbornness. Because of that, he tended to err in favor of yielding to others’ opinions over his own, relying wholly on the rules and his elders to guide him. But today, perhaps for the first time, he felt no doubt at all.

He was right – and he knew it.

“Qiren is correct,” someone said, a creaking old voice. It was Lan Jinyan, an antique from the generation before last, curled up over a cane with furrows on his face deeper than those in the craggy cliffs of the nearby mountains. He did not interfere with sect affairs too much anymore, to Lan Qiren’s knowledge, but he’d always been kind; Lan Qiren supposed that he could count him as an ally, in some fashion. “In the absence of any other, he has the authority – certainly enough authority to demand an audience, at least. And as far as I am concerned, after ten years of dealing with all the troubles that come with sect leadership, he’s also entitled to it, if he thinks it’s necessary. So be it! He demands an audience, so we will have one. Tell us, Qiren, what subject are we discussing?”

“The core of our sect: ethics, good conduct, the rules, and righteousness,” Lan Qiren said, putting his hands behind his back. His spine was as straight as a ruler. “I set as the subject – the spiritual iron mine in Xixiang, and the events that took place there ten years ago involving our sect and my sister-in-law, He Kexin.”

Complete silence.

Behind his back, Lan Qiren’s fists clenched so tightly that he could feel his knuckles going white.

That answered that question, he supposed.

His brother had been right. They had known. They’d all known, all of them – or at least enough to make a difference, with those who did not know being few enough in number to not to now ask questions the way they would have if they had known nothing.

The leaders, at least, knew.

They were the ones that Lan Qiren looked to now – that everyone looked to, now and in the past. They were the ones that would have otherwise spoken up, the loud voices, the ones that would have been demanding an explanation if they did not know what he was talking about. The ones that should have been demanding answers as to why Lan Qiren would consider the events of ten years ago in a place outside of the Cloud Recesses to be sufficiently important to demand an immediate hearing with the sect elders. They should have, but they weren’t, because they already knew.

They knew.

“I set the subject,” Lan Qiren repeated, and his voice echoed through the unusually quiet hall. “I set the subject as justice, sect elders. I assert that there has been a terrible wrongdoing perpetrated by our Gusu Lan sect, an act done in our name and on our behalf. I assert that we have been party to an injustice that is long overdue a reckoning. I assert that if we are to consider ourselves bound by the rules of our Gusu Lan sect, rules that demand justice, demand morality, demand righteousness, then we must act, and act now, to rectify that injustice…I call, sect elders, for punishment.”

That got them buzzing.

“Qiren, you don’t understand,” Lan Suiying said, tugging at his beard in a fretful sort of manner. He was one of Lan Qiren’s typical allies, along with Lan Yiran and Lan Yichi at his side, but all three of them were frowning at him now. “The circumstances back then, ten years ago…it is not so simple as you might think. Matters were complicated, events confusing. The context of the situation must be considered. Everything in moderation, everything considered as a whole…”

“I call for punishment,” Lan Qiren said again, ignoring Lan Suiying’s indirect plea that he drop the subject. “Elders, you know the rules as well as I. I say it again: the rules say that we must uphold the value of justice. The rules say we must shoulder the weight of morality. The rules say that we are bound to stay on the righteous path. Those are the rules our ancestors set into place, and the rules to which we have all bound ourselves. These are the rules that govern our lives! If we are to be true to them, we must be true in all respects, whether in public or in private. We must follow them wherever they apply, even where it is inconvenient, even when it is uncomfortable, and even, yes, when it is complicated…indeed, we must especially apply them in those situations.”

He looked around the room.

“These are our family rules,” he stressed. “Our family, our clan, our sect. We cannot look away from them for our own convenience, we cannot ignore them for our benefit. The rules say, stay on the righteous path. This is our family’s path, our path. And so I put to you, this question goes to the very core of our sect’s values, just as I said at the start. There was an injustice. It must be remedied. I call once more for punishment.”

There were murmurs everywhere in the room. Everyone was whispering to their neighbors in hurried voices, with many, if not most, of them disagreeing with each other.

(“To think he’d revive such a subject after so long – ”

“Pah! Can it really be said to be so long? Ten years is not too late for a gentleman to seek revenge. Is not the same true for justice?”

“Revenge – would you call it revenge? But for whom?”

“Who do you think!”)

(“Perhaps we should instead consider why our sect’s teachings allowed such behavior to occur? When we see such an event, we must question their sufficiency and contemplate adding additional lessons on the applicability of the rules, or even additional rules to help mitigate future instances – ”

“Oh, stop trying to talk around the matter the way you always do. You know perfectly well that that’s just a distraction, not the subject at hand. This is about the past, not the future! We can talk about improving the rules and the teachings later: the subject is punishment, not education. Anyway, are you telling me that you really want to go against Qiren on matters of curriculum?”)

(“Nasty subject. Nasty subject…”

“I don’t disagree with you, it is. No one’s arguing against that. But that’s more of a reason to talk about it, not less. Remember where we are! This hall was built to remind us that we must strive to bring serenity to our sect, not to ourselves. We can’t avoid discussing a subject just because it’s unpleasant…”)

(“About time someone brought it up, I say. No surprise that it’d be Qiren…”

“I suppose so, but I must ask, does he perhaps have some particular purpose in bringing it up? Or at a minimum in bringing it up now? There is so much happening, and our sect leader is absent, his heirs missing, and you know what people have said about that. It doesn’t seem to be the right time. And do not forget that Qiren has married out…and look at what he’s wearing! He could not be more clearly displaying the flag of the Wen sect, right in the middle of the Cloud Recesses – ”

“That is his right as a married man. Do not forget why he married out, and at whose compulsion that marriage occurred – and for that, blame not just the sect leader, but ourselves!”

“We didn’t authorize it!”

“No, but it was our negligence that permitted it to happen in the first place. Don’t think you can get around this –”)

“I remind the sect elders of the purpose of punishment,” Lan Qiren said loudly, cutting through the noise and drawing attention to himself once more. “Justice calls both for reparation and for punishment. The purpose of reparation is to right the wrong that was committed, while the purpose of punishment is to teach: a twofold teaching, to teach the individual and to teach the community. To fail to impose punishment for wrongdoing is a violation of our rules, for it leaves the individual free to continue in his crime or to perpetrate others; moreover, it implicitly condones that behavior in others, leading to further injustice. Even when it is a matter that will never be made public, the impetus for punishment is not lessened, but is on the contrary all the greater, for the lesson to the community can only be conveyed through the changed behavior of the individual. More than that – we have a duty to abide by our principles in private and in public, to live up to the commitments we have made for ourselves before we dare impose them on others…to not be made hypocrites. And we would truly be hypocrites if we did not take action, for to refuse to right a wrong is to ourselves join in with the wrongdoing.”

Of course, that was what he was really condemning here.

Their Gusu Lan rules were not heartless. They often counseled mercy, particularly where the intent was good – be easy on others – but they were still rules, and rules, by their nature, were harsh and unforgiving, inflexible. That was the choice the ancestors of Gusu Lan had made, their rules and righteousness no less true than the Nie sect’s fight evil wherever it is or the Jiang sect’s attempt the impossible. The Lan sect’s rules were their guardrails, meant to help guide its disciples on the right path, but for guardrails to work, they had to be obeyed.

They had to be enforced.

Each of them was a member of a community, none of them an island alone. When one of them did wrong, it affected all the others, whether they knew it or not – it was as if they were all together on a boat, ants on the same branch, and one of them had torn open a hole in the bottom to let in the water. The hole had to be repaired and the conduct had to be censured so that it would not be repeated. They could not look away and pretend that there was no hole there simply because of the identity of the one who had made it or the collateral effects on those who had contributed.

If they did that – if they picked and chose which crimes must be paid for, and which ones did not – then in the end, eventually, they would look away too much. They would not find the hole, they would not repair it, and whether it be that time or another, they would all sink, together.

They had to punish all violations that called for punishment. They had to do it even when they didn’t want to, especially when they didn’t want to. If they didn’t, the matter would linger endlessly, an unhealed wound, rotting, and spreading the rot the longer it remained unattended to.

Just as this had.

Lan Qiren could see the discomfort on the faces of the elders around him. He could see their reluctance to reopen the subject even when they knew he was right, their unwillingness to bring the subject to open debate…he could see the complicity that chained them all to this wrongdoing.

That was what he really had to fight.

That was what Wen Ruohan hadn’t quite understood. It wouldn’t be enough to simply demand the imposition of punishment or discipline by force, not here, not now, not in these circumstances, just as it wouldn’t have been enough simply to impose some inapposite punishment on Wen Ruohan for having sent Lan Qiren to the Fire Palace. If mere punishment had been all Lan Qiren wanted, he could have obtained it, and easily; the Wen sect had all the force and influence Lan Qiren could possibly want. But he wanted more than that.

He wanted the rot to heal.

He wanted – no, Lan Qiren needed to convince his sect of the truth of what had happened. He had to make them confront not only the crimes that had been done in their name, but their own unwillingness to act righteously to fix what they had done and accept punishment for their errors. He had to make them see, make them accept it; he had to make them own up to it. They needed to accept the punishment, or else it would not be meaningful. It would not make it better.

To regain their righteousness, the sect elders, who were responsible for guiding their sect and responsible for safekeeping it, had to do more than simply consent to a punishment.

They needed to acknowledge that what had been done was wrong.

They needed to commit to fixing what they could, and paying for what they couldn’t.

They needed to understand.

“I have called an audience of elders and opened the subject,” Lan Qiren said, reminding them. “I have not dictated any course of action. If there is disagreement with what I have called for, let someone step forward as representative and tell me why. I have called for punishment. If you would not apply it, here and now, tell me why.”

Typically, a formal debate before the elders on a matter of ethical conduct required first the presentation of an essay laying out the events at issue, the eventual outcome, the intent, all the facts – normally this was in writing, to allow for cooler minds to prevail, but that was not strictly necessary. The important part was that the issue had to be brought out into the light to be examined, to be critiqued and evaluated as impartially as they could manage, with one representative to defend the actions taken and one to condemn it. No matter how clear-cut the issue seemed to be, those representatives always existed.

There was no crime that did not deserve a defense, and no conduct that was so good that it did not require an accuser to examine it.

Once the subject was raised and laid out for comment, the representatives selected, they could then debate the details. Was the intent sufficient to justify the action? To mitigate the outcome? Should mercy or justice be applied? What considerations and interests were relevant, whether private or public, individuals or the sect? What rules could be cited on each side? So on and so forth, statements, replies, rebuttals and rejoinders, the two sides going back and forth until the sect elders decided that they had heard enough and that it was time to open the floor to everyone else’s arguments, to give everyone a say before making the final decision.

The format was stiff and formal, but then, so were they.

Lan Qiren’s brother had been right: they wouldn’t be Gusu Lan without their rules.

“Well?” Lan Qiren asked, when no one stepped forward. “Does no one have anything to say? Or are you saying that this subject cannot even be discussed?”

That was a challenge.

That was the greatest taboo, the sect’s bottom line. If there was one thing that everyone could agree on, or at least should, it was that no one was above the rules, and there was no subject that could not be discussed. There were some subjects, those which risked bringing disgrace to the sect, that could only be discussed here in the Hall of Serenity, with only the sect elders to witness it – there were privacy wards built into the walls for just that reason. There were some subjects that were informally considered off limits because they served no valid purpose, or where the imposition of the rules would be nothing but cruelty. There were some subjects that were considered closed for reasons of justice; for instance, once an issue was raised and then finished, the relevant punishment meted out and served, it could not be reopened without due cause, and opening it without such cause was itself a wrongdoing.

Here, Lan Qiren was claiming that he had due cause to reopen the old issue. He was claiming that the matter of the Xixiang mine had never been closed at all. He was claiming that without punishment having been properly applied, the matter was still unsettled, that the whole thing was like a corpse walking free of its grave until its resentments had been resolved.

There were a few sect elders clearly struggling with themselves, debating internally whether they should step forward to act as representative. Lan Qiren had no doubt that one of them would, eventually, and he wondered which one would be brave enough to step up to represent the side of the defense.

Who would dare defend this – this travesty?

“I will defend,” Lan Zhengquan said.

Lan Qiren’s eyes widened.

He hadn’t expected that at all.

Lan Zhengquan was, if not the original perpetrator of the crime, then very much the next one in line, part and parcel of what had gone wrong all those years ago. He and his brother Lan Muzhi were the subjects of the debate, the ones who had committed the wrongdoing, and the subject did not normally act as the defender. They were allowed to speak, of course, and defend themselves, but their self-defense was typically considered part of evidence, not the defense.

The defense was supposed to be impartial and speaking on behalf of the sect, not the individual.

This was not how it was supposed to go. And yet – there were once again murmurs in the room, sounds of disapproval and surprise alike, but in the end no one objected.

No one else stepped forward to stop him.

Again.

Lan Qiren looked at Lan Zhengquan grimly. He thought of that mine – he thought of all those families, all those dead, those short ghosts, the ghosts that had died with resentment so strong that they bore a bloodline grudge against the entirety of Gusu Lan, even those as young and innocent as Lan Wangji. He thought of the wrongdoing that this man and his brother had caused in Lan Qiren’s beloved sect’s name, tainting it and all his brethren. He thought of how those actions had played their part in driving his brother to the worst depths of his madness, the rippling impacts of what had been done throwing the world into chaos, affecting even the next generation. He thought of He Kexin, and the trial she had never gotten, the trial she’d deserved.

The trial that he would now insist on, at long belated last.

Obtaining justice for the living, easing resentment for the dead: these were the foremost duty of a cultivator – and Lan Qiren did not shirk his duties, no matter how painful.

“So be it,” he said, inclining his head in an abrupt jerk, tacitly agreeing to Lan Zhengquan’s violation of tradition despite how much he disapproved of it. “If the sect does not object, then Lan Zhengquan will stand for the defense, and I will stand for the accuser.”

Silence settled across the room, the other elders stepping back to watch. According to the rules of the debate format, they would not interrupt, would not speak until the matter had been settled.

Good.

Lan Qiren only hoped that he would be able to show them through his words what he felt in his heart. He hoped that he would be able to convince them that he was right, and that the miscarriage of justice all those years ago had to be repaired. He hoped –

He hoped that he would be enough.

--

A/N: This is the chapter that got split up due to length, so the next chapter is part 2 of this one

[slxsherwriter]

Lost Strays

Fandom: House of 1000 Corpses / Firefly trilogy

Pairing: Developing Otis x female reader

Word Count: 2,424

Warnings: Kidnapping, blood, violence, Otis being Otis

Author's Note: Part two of the Supernatural Au I have created for Otis and his family. More of an understanding is established between reader and the family.

Freedom. That was what being out here without a pack afforded you. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Not any more. The Firefly family had become a makeshift pack of sorts for you. When you had broken away from your pack years ago, you had sworn off any sort of attachments and a pack. It was far more work and effort than it was worth. Plus, most didn't think the way that you did. But the Fireflys? They may be humans but they were far more creatures like you than anyone you had come across, kindred spirits. A proper pack in a way. Different from traditional ways, of course. You both stuck to your makeshift territories, respecting the drawn lines in a manner of speaking. The longer it went on though, the more those bonds strengthened and the figurative distance closed.  

As the weeks went on, you became accustomed to chasing some prey into their domain and having them send one in return. A system that worked well and kept both ends satisfied. A routine of sorts, specific nights set aside to allow it should either of you have prey. A respect and mutual enjoyment of the few that did come through the remote area of Texas. Then again, the family never seemed to have any sort of issue drawing in anyone from town. A benefit more to you than it was to them when it came to the exchange system.

Tonight was not one of those nights. In fact, you had decided that you weren't doing much of anything. A nice soft spot on one of the gentle sloping hills had become your current home. Eyes closed, you simply basked in the rays of the moon and the peace that surrounded. That was until the sounds of dead grass crunching underfoot and desperate panting reaching your ears. Now, that wasn't something to be ignored. It was hard to tell which direction it was coming from at first. Almost an echoing of the sound in the empty space. Curious. Of course, they were easily recognizable sounds. Panic always induced the same sort of reaction in all prey animals. 

With it not being a night for them to send someone your way though, you found yourself unsure what to make of it. Had someone managed to escape? That wasn't like Otis and his family. Before you could get to your feet, the sounds grew closer still. All before…

"Please! Help!" Ah, there it was. It seemed that perhaps one had indeed managed to escape the clutches of the homestead. A unique situation, one that you quickly needed to decide on how to handle. Violence could result in some tension between yourself and the family. As much as you longed in that moment to sink your teeth into soft flesh. Plus, there was no telling what they had already done to the body. It had taken two weeks to get the taste of chemicals and drugs off of your tongue. Bringing her back would likely result in more good will. So, bring it back. You just needed to figure out the best way to do that. And there wasn't a lot of time to get that sorted as the steps grew closer and closer. You were quiet, near silent as you moved towards the small tree line that dotted the land. 

You needed to know exactly where the prey was coming from, which direction that the frantic movements were heading in. The individual would be disoriented and confused, another disadvantage for them and something so easy to play off of for you. But how?

With no car, there wasn't an option to play pretend that you had stopped because you heard the cries for help. Walking alone in the dead of night didn't create too many trustworthy explanations. Especially on the land that you called home. The best option would be to play pretend victim yourself. In a frantic panic, most lost their sense of direction. A few subtle nudges and you could have the little bunny heading right back to the proverbial wolf's den. 

It was difficult to wipe the eager grin from your face. It wasn't often that you had to play victim, much preferring watching the abject horror and confusion as people struggled to figure out how your small frame could wreck so much damage. So, you were a little out of practice. Rolling your shoulders, it took a second to pick up on the direction before you were stumbling through the dry grass and dirt. 

"Help!" The call out in return would hopefully grab attention and not make this woman second guess anything. She just needed to get close enough for you to grab her. In the dark, she wouldn't realize that you weren't bloodied or ragged looking until it was far too late. Human eyes were all but pathetic in the dark. Worse so when enough trauma had been sustained. Survival instinct was one thing but oftentimes, all the senses were so dulled that mistakes to capitalize on were abundant. Just as anticipated and hoped for, there was a response called out just moments later. 

"Hello?" She was closer than she had been just seconds before. That was it, little lamb. Keep moving closer and closer. God, it was incredibly difficult to restrain yourself. But you could not let your need get the best of you. This kill wasn't yours. "Hey! Where are you?" How stupid could they really get? Sometimes they really made it too easy. The footsteps drew ever closer until you could finally lay eyes on the woman. She looked like she had been through the ringer, clearly running on adrenaline with the injuries that she had sustained. It would be the only explanation that pointed to her movements. A desperation to live. It was almost a shame to bring her back. Almost. The iron scent of her blood hung heavy in the air, the scent practically coating your tongue, testing your self restraint and control. 

"Jesus Christ. What happened to you?" You stumbled a bit, knowing she wouldn't be able to clearly make out your lack of injuries just yet. A few more steps and she was playing right into your hand. 

"I just escaped. They….they tried to kill me. They are crazy!" Now that she was within reach, you straightened your posture and snatched at her arm, a vice grip that wouldn't escape. Panic flooded her scent, eyes widened and she went to pull away.

"Shame for you that you didn't make it far enough to really escape. Counting your chickens before all the eggs have hatched. Really, you are all the same and it becomes so boring after a while." 

"Let me go!" She struggled, thrashing against your hold and a growl erupted from you. Oh, screw this. You weren't in the mood to entertain a struggle if she wasn't going to be your prey. Her horror and desperation only grew as she watched the way that your features morphed and bones shifted. A clawed hand wrapped around her throat, releasing the hold on her arm. Weak human fingers clawed at your wrist, a fight for survival that was built into her very DNA. "Please…let me go. I don't want to die." The words were gasped out, behind the pressure you were applying to her throat. You just needed her to pass out to make bringing her back to the farm easier. And within moments, the struggle was slowing before muscles fell lax, causing you to loosen your grip just enough so you didn't end up killing her. Grunting and huffing, you tossed the body over your shoulder and began to make your way towards the property.

****

You had crossed over that imaginary border and were a few minutes from the farmhouse when you heard the cursing. Seemed that they did know that they had a missing plaything. 

"She is long fucking gone by this point! Fuck. Just what we fucking need. Now we need to go out there and fucking find her in the dark." Otis. Clearly, he was agitated as all hell. "This is your fucking fault, Baby. I told you to leave her chained up downstairs. You better fucking hope that she hasn't gotten far." You could hear the indignant sound that came from the younger blonde, meaning she did not agree with the statement. You knew that the threat was fairly empty. Otis wouldn't harm family, even if he grandstanded about it. 

"No way! It's not my fault that the fucking chain snapped in my room. Besides, RJ was in the living room when she ran through and got to the door."

"She never would have made that far if you left her where she fucking was!" Oh, this was not something that you wanted to get in the middle of but the presentation of the female should calm them both down enough that you could leave without being pulled into the family drama. You made sure to give a rumbling growl, not wanting to get shot. You had made that mistake only once when you had visited their home for the second time.

"For fuck sakes, I have to take care of everything," Otis growled out before turning his attention to you. "The fuck you want, Bunny? We got…" You watched as his eyes zeroed in on the body that you had over your shoulder, causing him to trail off mid sentence. Yeah, more important things to take care of, which happened to be the body over your shoulders.

Getting to the porch, you unceremoniously dropped the body down, a groan coming from her to let them know that she was still alive before even having to ask. Shifting back, you rolled your neck. The resulting pop brought a satisfied sigh from you.

"Caught a stray. You know, it's generally recommended to keep your pet's on short leashes." Baby snickered and Otis rolled his eyes but for once didn't have a snarled comment to bite back with as he leaned down to check over the body. "She's still alive. Didn't do anything but choke her out to make getting her back here easy. Wasn't my kill and frankly, if she continued struggling, I was going to ignore that and rip out her fucking throat." By now, she was coming to, though the blow she took when you dropped her may have helped that process out.

"Baby, take her downstairs and chain her the fuck up properly this time." Baby grumbled about the entire task but for once decided that she wasn't going to back talk Otis. Instead, she grabbed the stray by the hair and yanked the newly conscious woman to her feet.

"You aren't getting away again this time. You really fucked yourself…" Her voice trailed off as the door closed. Otis turned his attention to you now that you were alone, thinking for a moment before deciding to speak. 

"Would have been an easy meal," he started off, almost offhandedly. Like he was goading you into something. At this point, you had been around long enough to know better. 

"Learned my fucking lesson. Swear, I still taste whatever shit you drugged that last lamb with. Get why you do it, but don't want that shit on my tongue." A disgusted look twisted your features as you recalled the memory, enough so that Otis was outright laughing. Bastard would find amusement in it. You didn't put it past him to send the next lamb over to you loaded upon something. Just for kicks.

"Don't act like such a fucking baby about it, Bunny. Ain't my fucking fault that you got a sensitive palate and can't handle shit." You rolled your eyes. At least the return of his plaything had put the man in a seemingly better mood. "Well, fuck. You're here now. Come on in. Ma made some spare ribs and there are leftovers. Since you didn't get your kill tonight." The invitation no longer came as a surprise. The longer your relationship with the Fireflys lasted, the more it seemed that Otis actually saw you as a part of his pack. Or well, family since he didn't see it as a pack, being human and all. Or maybe he just saw you as a pet. It was hard to tell exactly what went on in his brain. Something that always kept you on your toes. An annoyance with anyone else but acceptable with him. 

"She make it with that sweet barbecue this time?" You stepped closer, up onto the porch and leaned against the railing. One time, you had the meal one time, and while you preferred your meat much more raw without too much coating, the cooking that came from the matriarch of the Firefly clan had sold you. 

"Do you fucking want them or not?" There was the attitude, though there was the hint of a smile on his face and anger didn't radiate off him like it typically did. Pleased, he seemed pleased with the interaction. Something that once more had the wolf preening, wanting to continue to please the figure that you now saw as alpha. Hardly something admitted aloud, or else the asshole would run with it. And frankly, while the attraction was there and things were coming along, you weren't sure if that was something you wanted to pursue. Besides, the last thing you needed to do was give him any ammunition to use against you.

"Yeah, I do." 

"Then get that ass inside already. Christ, didn't fucking know you needed a personal fucking invitation." You chuckled and decided not to push your luck any further than you had the last few minutes. Opening the door, you were barely able to get through the threshold before the contact came, his hand landing a swift smack against your ass. An embolden move that had happened a handful of times before, though it still once again drew a growl out of you, turning your eyes to the man behind you. The entirely too pleased look on his face told you that he had been waiting for the moment. A brow rose, challenging you to say anything about it and the words caught in your throat. For once. Swallowing them down, you opted instead to roll your eyes and move further into the home as he had directed. Not because he had directed it, no. It was on your own volition. 

"Asshole."  Huffing, it was accepted as another development in your integration into the pack. 

[windsweptinred]

Metamorphosis Part Seven

(It's finished, it's actually finished!!)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

The great stained glass windows of the palace throne room shifted in a continual blur of pattern and colour. At the base of the vast staircase below, Night watched them with concern. Their disharmony, a clear sign all was not well with their master. 

The young Endless in question stood upon the first step, facing him, Matthew perched loyally upon his shoulder. He looked, for all the world, like a slighter, pale miniature of Night, tall and dark as he was with Dusk balanced proudly on his own. Time stood at Night's side, one hand placed at the small of his back, resting gently on the cool leather. The other, carefully cradling the treasured baby blanket, Night had passed him.

Dream fiddled with his sleeves once more. An anxious tick, Night pondered fleetingly, just like Time. Those life green eyes looked to them imploringly. "Must you go?"

Night gave a slight, weary smile, "It is time we took our leave." He looked to the imposing stone throne above, sat empty and expectant. "And you must see to your realm, your highness."

Dream followed his gaze, expression somewhat troubled, before slowly smoothing to one of acceptance and determination. He turned back to the pair, chin high and declared in a stately manner, "I will make you proud." Time smiled warmly in response. "You already have Dream." The young man nodded in silent gratitude, eyes wet. 

"You will find your tools of office in Lucienne's safe keeping." Night informed him softly. "I had meant to hand them to you personally, earlier. However…" 

"It all turned into a colossal cluster fuck? " Time offered. 

Night bit the inside of his cheek, as Dusk looked at him sharply in appalled dismay at Time's words. He ran a finger over her flanks placatingly. This is 600 years of refinement before you Dusk, he thought. And imagined with a quirk of his lips, how his handmaiden would have reacted to the scoundrel he had encountered in 1389. 

Turning his attention once more to Dream, he continued, demeanour serious. "They will help you grow gradually accustomed to your power, but do not become reliant upon them."

Dream's eyes broke their shared gaze, fluttering about in a lost manner. Before he looked to Night with an expression of deep anguish. "I remember." He admitted almost inaudibly. 

Night screwed his eyes shut. Bitter grief flooding his heart. He had so ardently hoped the youth had been spared some of the worst cruelties dealt to him. That he had remembered the who's and hows of Dream of the Endless.. Not all. 

"I wish you did not… I am so very sorry" He whispered mournfully. "For you to be burdened with such monstrous memories… I would like you to have met the dreamers afresh, with benevolence and hope. Not already tainted by my own experiences." 

Dream shook his head emphatically. "It is not your fault. It is not theirs either."

Night stared at him in wonder. Oh my darling boy, how did one such as you come from such brutal beginnings? 

"If you ever need… " He started. 

"I shall call for you." Dream assured him. "I swear it!"

Night took Dream's face in hands, running his thumbs lovingly over his cheeks. Eyes of blue and green bled to matching swathes of night. Bright stars flaring within both at recognition of the other. 

"Do not grow proud." Night attempted to sound stern in warning. But his voice was hoarse, and the tender concern in his words won out. "Take heed of Lucienne's wise counsel. Trust Matthew in all things, he will never abandon you. Do not fear calling on the Corinthian's aid, for there is little he would not do for you if you asked it of him." 

Dream nodded, gentle tears slipping from his eyes, which Night swept away without comment. Leaning forward, he placed a  kiss, full of devotion upon the Dream's forehead, whispering into place his lips had marked with urgency." Remember your duty is not all you are Daniel." 

Dream's breath hitched, and he clutched at Night's coat with an unrelenting grip. Time stepped forward, running a hand affectionately through the youths white locks, stopping to cradle the back of his head. Dream looked at him, eyes gleaming. 

"Visit Hippolyta Hall." Time instructed gravely. "Let her know you are safe and whole. Continue to do so from time to time, even if all it brings you is discomfort and her misery. Do not leave her to suffer a parents greif. Pomsie me, Dream."

Dream glanced at Time, then Night, with a great, sorrowful look of understanding."I will, I promise."

They withdrew from him, Time knocking a gentle knuckle against his cheek as they did. "Stay hearty and hale for me." He whispered, pleadingly. "Do nothing reckless."  

At Dream's shoulder, Matthew puffed out his small feathered chest. "I've got this. I'll take care of the kid. Don't you worry!" 

Night smiled at the raven, caressing his head with a gentle finger. "You must take care of each other."

A heavy, awkward silence fell over them and Dream looked forlornly to the floor. He scrubbed childishly at his eyes, valiantly attempting to regain his composure, sniffing intermittently. Finally he straightened his posture and bowed low at the waist, the perfect picture of decorum save for his still hitching breath. "Farewell then, your Excellencies." 

Night dipped his head courteously in response, eyes bright. Time gave a curt nod, eyes downcast. He hooked an arm around Night who sagged into his side, looking briefly to the raven on the young man's shoulder. "I'll leave the window open for you Matthew, don't be a stranger." Then with a despondent sigh, he turned them and they began their way slowly towards the ornate entrance way. 

"Wait!"

They had barely reached the doors of the grand chamber, before Dream raced after them. He threw himself at Night, causing  Dusk and Matthew to take to the air in a flurry of feathers. Hooking his arms tightly about Night's neck and tucking his head determinedly under his chin, Dream snuggled into Night's collar bone as if someone would try and wrench him away. "Goodbye Mother," Dream whispered intimately into Night's skin. 

Night wove his arms about him, hugging back with equal fervour. Tears welled in his eyes as he clutched Dream's curls, "My sweet boy… My sweet child." They stayed there for a while, swaying slightly against each other. Then Night pulled back, unlatching Dream's arms just enough to shrug off his coat and drape it over the light, white tunic that covered Dream's shoulders. It swamped his smaller form, bottom trailing across the floor. But as the  lining of infinite night skies swaddled Dream's body, Night felt the youth's essence wrapped securely within his own and let out an overjoyed breath. "Wear it when you venture forth." He insisted. "So that I may know you are safe." Placing another impassioned kiss to the young man's head. 

Already, the leather was fading from midnight black, to storm cloud grey to a brilliant starshine white. The trailing ends, curving and rippling into soft, rolling vapours of cloud and mist. Dream pushed his arms through the sleeves, and Night laughed wetly as the now bleached cuffs hung ridiculously low over his fingers. 

Time gave an amused huff, "You'll grow into it."

Dream looked questioningly to Time then, who opened his arms wide, a vibrant grin across his face as Dream flung himself into his embrace. A matching beam spread across his lips. "Father." 

Time clutched him to his chest with all his might. As he did so, sand drew from the stone floor beneath them, swirling lazily about them. "We share the sands of Time and creation. Remember, I will be there, in every grain! " He swore resolutely. "Trust it to protect you, to defend you, as I would."

Dream nodded into his shoulder as Time rocked him one last time, then released him. The sand slunk back to the floor, remelding back into the stone. 

Dream looked to both of them beseechingly as Matthew returned to rest upon his shoulder once more. "Visit as much as you are able!" 

"You couldn't keep us away." Time insisted, as Dusk settled carefully upon Night's forearm, mindful of his now bare flesh. 

Dream pulled them to him again, one last time. And stood, nestled happily between them. Behind them, the stained glass windows rippled, before settling peacefully into place. To the left, Night. Resplendent in a gradient gown of dusk to dawn, profile framed in shining moonbeams. From a raised hand, stardust swirled artfully. 

To the right, Time clothed in vibratant robes of nature's rich bounty. Behind him, a sun flared like a golden halo. From an hourglass held proudly aloft, sand flowed in bold sweeps. 

Finally in the centre, stood Dream of the Endless, white and gleaming, head crowned with an intricate circlet of stars. About him, star dust and sand coiled and entwined in a protective embrace. 

……………….. 

Time shouldered the door of the New Inn open with a relieved grunt, ushering Night and Dusk, still perched upon his forearm, through into the dim light of the empty bar.

Behind the counter, Henry, seasoned barkeep and unofficial leader of his motley crew of staff, gave a surprised grunt. His hands still leafing through the day's takings, a flip file, full of neatly recorded figures, open at his side. 

"Rob! I was just closing up. We wondered where you'd dissappeared off to? Not like you to take off without leaving word." He sent Night a friendly smile, giving an interested, yet unsurprised glance at Dusk. "And Morpheus, always good to see you lad."

Night returned a warm, tired smile. Leaning into Time's side with a pleased exhale. Time gave an embarrassed huff, tugging at his ear which immediately had Peter's interest fixed on him. All the power of existence and he still hadn't lost that telling habit. 

" I'm sorry Henry." He apologised sincerely. 

"It was a last minute thing." He gave Night a conspiratorial grin, before declaring with an awkward beam . "We may.. have gotten married."

He felt the steady, slow thrum of the old man's life force blast into a concerto, as Henry laughed disbelieving. Rounding the bar in a flash, he delivered a firm slap to Time's arm, which Time noted, felt like an insect had accidentally collided with him. Before he grabbed Night's hand and shook it vigorously. "Robert you old dog!! Congratulations, congratulations! And you didn't tell a soul?!" 

Time shared a flustered look with Night before shrugging. "It was kind of a shotgun situation."

Henry laughed riotously at that. Giving Time's arm another firm slap. "Oh I bet it was, I bet. Trust you Robbie. I'd ask, are you going to carry your husband over the threshold, but you both look dead on your feet." He looked towards the kitchens, then gave them a kind smile, gesturing towards their regular table. "How about I get the kettle on before I go? And I think there's some of Martha's cheesecake left in the back."

Time all but collapsed into his chair. Giving an exhausted grumble as he dragged a chair from the nearest table across to sit at their side. Night gently manoeuvred Dusk onto its top rail. Before gracefully taking his usual seat. 

" That would be heavenly Henry. Thank you!"

Time glanced at Night, taking in his worn out, but contented expression. His dark hair spilled over his shoulder, the slightest glimmer of something more than a natural reflective sheen, trailing down it in the low light. Pulling a hand through his own locks, he checked covertly, still auburn. Good. He was using more energy than he wished in his drained state to keep his appearance fixed. But it was worth it to be back. 

Henry bustled out from the kitchen, arms loaded with plates and cups the way only a practised waiter could. "There we are." He placed mugs full of steaming tea infront if Time and Night. Then followed it with three plates of delectable looking cake. One for each of them. And one placed proudly down in front of Dusk. Who gave it an indifferent stare. "And some for this beauty. I remember Matthew always liked his own portion. Where is the little blighter then?" 

Night sat his tea down regally into its saucer. Before responding, "My son has just taken up his own residence. I left Matthew with him so they may look after each other." 

"Uni is it?" Henry asked, not waiting for any sign of confirmation as he pushed a plate of now broken up crumbs and cream eagerly towards Dusk. "I remember when it was my Tom. The wife cried buckets. They grow up so fast ey?" 

Night nodded in solemn agreement. "Indeed. It was only mere days ago he was a toddler."

Time smirked into his teacup as Henry, having given up trying to convince Dusk to eat, gave Night a consoling pat on the shoulder. "Oh ay, I know that feeling well."

He righted a few of the chairs and tables around them. Before giving Night a mischievous grin. "But you're pulling my leg. You're not old enough to have a boy closing in on twenty."

Night returned his smirk with an equally playful quirk of his mouth. "You would be surprised, Henry."

Chortling, Henry returned to the bar, packing up the last of the day's business. "Well, time has been very kind to you then. You lucky bugger!"

At that, Night fixed Time with an adoring look. "Oh, far kinder than I often deserved Henry." 

Time reached out his hand across the table, resting it gently, palm up on the table. Night, sent him a small, loving smile before placing his own hand down upon it delicately, fingers twining about each other's wrists. 

The sound of a few doors slamming shut echoed about the room, then Henry emerged again, shrugging on his jacket, making his way towards the door. He gave the couple a tender look, before motioning to the exit. "Well, now that you're both settled in. I'll let myself out. Robbie, and ofcourse our new Mr Gadling. It's good to have you home." He raised a hand in farewell, then left, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

Time leant back in his chair, exhaling in satisfaction. He closed his eyes, listening to the quiet thrum of existence from the furniture, the walls, the streets and city beyond, as their life force slowly turned ever forward. If he concentrated, he could feel the rotations of the Earth beneath his feet. Somewhere beyond, he gave her a gentle spin, trailing his finger through her oceans. 

Home. 

…………….. 

Sol peeked his head inquisitively over the horizon. His first rays spilled down the streets of London, rippled upon the waves of the Thames, their soft glows illuminating through window curiously, searching for his new master. Fluttering gaily between his beams, an ethereal feminine figure, twirling in robes of white, blue and pink, tapped at each plane of glass and laughed joyfully. At one window, she peaked, giggled mischievously, then disappeared in a flurry of bird song and dew. 

On the little window box that sat in front, an owl, pale and opalescent as the morning haze, eyes gleaming and golden as the sunrise, landed gracefully beside their darker twin. Dawn chirruped to her sister in joyful greeting. Before snuggling into her side and joining her in a peaceful slumber as the sky lightened. 

Within the room, two figures knelt on the bed, one astride the other, slim pale back pressed against a broad furred chest, sheets twined about their legs. 

Night cracked his eyes open and watched his handmaid's antics with disinterest. A second later, sols rays streamed into the room, setting their bodies aglow with triumph. Scrunching his eyes, Night tipped back his head, letting it rest upon his husband's shoulder. Be gone Sol! He felt the rays soften in apology, their heat trailing across his skin in pardon, before the beams departed, the sun continuing on its journey. 

He felt Time quicken his lazy thrusts, force intensifying, aim sharpening and let out a pleased, drawn moan. Trailing his hands up his husbands thighs, he rested them at his hips, feeling the surge of each upward rock. Tightening his own hips, he clenched down on Time's length, drawing up, hold taut before dropping back vigour. Infinitely smug when he heard a pleasured groan by his ear and the seconds of the digital clock before him leap back and forth erratically. 

"Be careful my love, remember where you are." 

Time brought a binding arm about his waist and snapped his hips up as he locked him in place. Night let out a shriek as flames roared through his nerves. 

In the pale blue skies above, Venus blinked confusedly back into sight. Searching in bewilderment for the source of her summons, before twinkling good humouredly, blazing one last time in salutation. Then subtly disappearing from the rising morn again.

Time smiled amused into Night's nape. "You remember." Then adjusting his hold, he twisted them both with ease, bringing Night with a forceful slam to support himself with frantic hands against the bedhead. Resting his own palms upon the wall directly behind, Time began to pound into Night with an unforgiving pace. Leaving him able to do nothing but writhe desperately, screeching in pleasure with each powerful thrust. 

"That's right" Time panted hotly. "My Morpheus, my beautiful darkness, my nightingale. Sing for me!"

If anyone was by the riverfront that early morning. They may have seen the waves of the great Themesis rise in a sudden, inexplicable swell. The current escalating in a rapid, powerful flow, rocking the tour boats moored along its banks violently. Then, with a sudden great surge, it settled. 

Below, Martha Lewis, the keys to the New Inn still swinging idly from her fingers, looked to the ceiling, shook her head with an amused chuckle. Then set about readying the ovens for the morning ahead. 

In their little flat above, Night and Time laid entwined together on the bed, letting the vibrations of awakening life around them sweep over them. Time trailed a finger idly across Night's side. "I have been thinking, love. I would rather like us to stay... Here on Earth." He said haltingly. "For a while." 

Night smiled at him sweetly, sweeping in to place a tender kiss upon his lips. "Of course my love. If it brings you peace we can stay until the horsemen ride. If that is what you wish. It is but the blink of an eye for us after all."

Time gave a satisfied hum, pulling Night  to him to lay upon his chest. "Together forever," He declared with serene ecstasy. 

Night gave a fond smile, stoking down Time's chest hair with relish. Trailing his fingers lightly down its path, teasing as it thinned over lower stomach, then grew abundant again at the base of his husband's flagging manhood. He dug his hands into the public curls, massaging. Watching as Time's cock perk once more at the attention. "No one has forever my love, not truly. A life with no end, even for those such as we, is implausible." 

Time's hips began to rock and Night took him in hand, pumping languidly. They shared a sultry kiss, Time drawing back, giving Night a challenging, entertained leer." Wanna bet?" 

Night huffed, eyes darkening in arousal before tightening his grip about his husband. "Care to prove me wrong, my love?" 

Time arched, slapping hungrily at the pert swell of his husband's arse. Kneading his fingers into the pale flesh with a playful grin. "Always!" 

Night gave a warm chuckle. "If anyone can will true eternal life into existence." He whispered huskily. "It shall be you Hob Gadling." He then placed an adoring peck to Time's chin, then collar bone, then rib cage. Trailing his way slowly downwards before giving a final impish nip to the skin just below Time's belly button. Sending his husband a sensual, promising glance as he slunk down with predatory grace to claim his prize. 

The unusual activity that beset the city of London that day was written off, quietly and conveniently, in the most British of fashions, as being 'A bit strange.' In the Threshold, Desire kicked their heels and purred in bliss, as their realm puslated with raw power around them. 

…………….. 

Three Months Later 

"You're absolutely sure this is what you want, duck?" 

Night looked to Time, nodding with conviction, before turning his attention back to the ruined structure before him. At his shoulder, Dawn gazed, intrigued at the decrepit building, just about able to keep itself standing. Her pale feathers glistened in the afternoon sun, beautifully contrasting Night's attire of deep blues and blacks. 

Time clapped his hands together with finality, giving the small woman by his side an excited grin." Right, well. Consider it a deal then, Mrs Crowther. Thank you for being open to our request." 

Mrs Crowther, a tiny woman, with hair pristinely gelled into place and a prim badge at her breast, declaring her name and position within the local council, sagged with relief. 

"Oh it's our pleasure really Mr Gadling. With our budget reduced as it is, renovation was completely out of the question. And what with the countless petitions we've had fighting its demolition. Well, it would have just continued to sit here. You did us a favour taking it off our hands."

She gave them an intrigued glance, obviously fighting her own curiosity before asking," May I enquire what your plans are?" 

Time looked to the building, hands waving expressively, as if trying to draw out an invisible portrait for her." Reconstruction, as much as possible! There's so much history in the place you know! It'd be a shame to lose it. Then a private house. Lots of room for the family to visit and plenty of space to run the business."

Mrs Crowther instantly perked at that. "Oh, what are you in?" 

"Clocks." Time said with all the believability of a lying child, caught mid transgression. "Morpheus is an astrophysicist." Mrs Crowther shot an openly questioning look in Night's direction. Lingering with a raised eyebrow on the owl perched at his shoulder and the opulent clasp, adorned with stars, holding his hair in a loose half ponytail. She probably thought they were some kind of criminal elite, Time surmised. Ah well, at least it would help to keep away unwanted attention. 

She gave them a strained, if polite smile. "Oh, lovely." Then looked to her car wistfully, before turning back to them with an overly enthusiastic demeanour. "Well I'll leave you two to it shall I? I'll get the paperwork sent across this afternoon Mr Gadling." She shook Time's hand once more before striding away as quickly as civility allowed. 

With an enthused leap, Time bound to the doorway, placing his hand upon the frame, feeling the wood begin to strengthen under his palm. "I'll breathe some life back into the old girl. Restoring her just wasn't possible before. But now, if I give her just enough of a boost." He turned giddily to Night, who sauntered towards him with a pleased smile. "I'll get the team that covers wear and tear at the New Inn for the rest. Good lads. And there'll be no questions asked about  how it miraculously sprang back to life that way."

He turned in a circle, taking in the railing, closing off the property with interest. "We can put up a perimeter wall, for a bit of privacy. And gardens running all the way down to the river!" His growing excitement caused bunches of dandelions to surge optimistically in clumps  around the land site. 

Bounding back to the building, Time gave the wall a hearty slap. Dawn ruffled her feathers at the hail of dust it caused to rain down on them. 

"The downstairs, a reception hall, dining room, throne room. She'll break more laws of physics then the inside of the tardis when I'm done!  And upstairs, a private area for the family. A grand library for you love. And a master and seven suits for the family." 

"Eight my lord." Dawn interrupted in a polite yet chipper tone.

Time stilled, before turning to the owl with a dazed expression. "What was that Dawn?" 

Dawn preened Night's hair, as Time watched his beloved's eyes glance anywhere but him. 

"Young sire shall be requiring eight rooms for the children, not seven." Dawn proclaimed with merry assurity. 

Time moved not an inch for a minute before tenderly taking Night's hands in his own. A look of disbelieving awe in his eyes as he tried desperately to fight his growing elation.

"Night, my Darkness?" 

Night's eyes rose to meet his, comets shooting a blazing trail within, leaving vibrant paths of gleaming dust in their wake. "Eight." He admitted, with a blissful smile. Time's answering beam shone like the very spark of creation itself. 

"Do you know their name yet?" 

Night gave a slight smirk, stepping into Time's arms and whispering to his lips, 

"It appears you have proved me wrong yet again, husband mine. They shall be… Eternity."

Behind them, within the husk of the White Horse, the ancient hearth roared to life.

(Yup... They're starting their own little brood of cosmic munshkins, and moving to the next letter of the alphabet. 😆 For anyone interested, Dusk and Dawn are based very heavily of European Eagle Owls. They're a large species of owl who are crepuscularx, meaning they hunt at dusk and dawn when the light has not fully set or come out. It seemed apt.

Well that's it! My very first full length fanfic is complete! I did it!! (Insert a high pitched squeee!) A huge thank you to everyone who took a chance on this random headcanon of a fic. And massive outpourings of love for all your fabulous comments, likes and reblogs. And a humongous thanks once again to @ibrithir-was-here @kat-wick and @mashumaru for your phenomenonal artwork. I think I'm going to go lay down now. 😅)

[theplumsoldier]

aftermath [3]

summary: you feel yourself becoming less tense with joel

pairing: joel miller x reader

warnings: drugs (smoking weed), vulgar language

word count: 1403

series: aftermath

Joel hadn't realized he had fallen asleep until he woke, the exhaustion having taken over almost immediately after you had left him.

When he woke up it was not morning though. His body had become so accustomed to being alert even when asleep and so when he felt a breath of cold air on his skin, he looked around. Why were you leaving the house in the middle of the night? he wondered.

Ellie was fast asleep, having completely disregarded the blanket that Joel had draped over her at one point. Her snores were even louder now.

Joel stood up, careful not to wake her as he fueled the fire which was mere sparks, feeding it some wood and pinecone to help get the fire going.

After that, he tugged on his jacket and unscathed his revolver before going out to find out where you had gone and why. When he found you no more than a few feet away, smoking, he put away the weapon and furrowed his brows—

Is that pot?

Well, that... explains some things.

Joel had noticed that you had been more talkative earlier. He figured it had been the adrenaline from Ellie stabbing you, but now he thought perhaps it had been the weed making it less awkward.

"Can't sleep?" He broke the silence, making you cough on the smoke, unaware he had followed you.

Regaining your breath, you convinced yourself another drag would help gain a little more confidence. You could already feel it simmering through your body, removing both the tension and the self-doubt.

"Not without a little help," murmured you, eyes still on him. And he just stood there, tall and broad-shouldered, somewhat intimidating. His hands were shoved into his pockets, that permanent crease between his brows shaping his expression into something resembling constant skepticism. He could probably use a little, too. "Want some?"

A soft chuckle fell from his lips, the sound oddly pleasing to you. As he moved closer, you shifted so that he had room to sit beside you, immediately regretting as you only gave enough room for him to sit with his shoulder grazing yours. You tried to brush the touch off your mind, taking another drag, holding it, before handing him the joint.

You knew it was wrong, but when your fingers touched for just the briefest moment, and you noticed his fingers, their length, their girth, as he lifted the joint to his lips, your mind considered what they would feel like as a substitute for your own when you masturbated.

Shuddering, you tore your eyes from him as you felt the heat redden your cheeks and neck.

You hadn't thought of it until now, probably because you had been so adjusted to being alone in the world, but it was then you realized you were 37 years old and a virgin.

Shit.

"'Ere." Joel coughed hoarsely, tearing your attention back to where it should be. As he brought his hand up to cover his mouth, he cleared his throat. "Been a long time since I done tha'."

You tried loosening up a bit, hoping he didn't notice you moving a few inches from him.

"Used to roll 'em with tobacco, but all the cigarettes I found had become stale over the years. Makes 'em a bit more scratchy without it, I guess."

Joel hummed, and you could have sworn his eyes darted to your lips before he sounded a sibilant inhale.

"God, I miss cigarettes," he chuckled to himself and shook his head.

After a couple of moments of silence, between sharing a couple more drags of the joint, you spoke.

"Didn't ever touch one 'til after the outbreak."

It made him wonder about your age. The way you had become so quiet upon him telling you that 20 years had gone by, had been enough to make him believe you really had been on your own all this time.

"How old are ya?" asked Joel, looking at you with such an inquisitive wonder, before mentions of back then made manners catch up to him. "If you don't mind my askin'."

Joel liked the way you chuckled just then at him, figuring you weren't used to manners, especially taking into account you weren't used to people. Really, it was the Texas-dipped drawl that did it for you, the southern accent somewhat refining him and aiding the politeness.

"Was seventeen back then... so if it has really been 20 years as you said, I guess that means I'm 37."

You were surprised by how nice this actually was, having a person to talk to. You remembered that at the beginning of the outbreak, twenty years ago, that you used to talk to yourself a lot. Sometimes you even imagined being a character in a video game, and at one point you had even instinctively looked around to watch for reactions whenever you would trip or do something stupid. You supposed that was the point where you started losing your mind.

"You know, I 'ave a brother your age. He's in a settlement in Jackson," mentioned he, hesitating with the next part. "That's where we're goin'. You could come with us."

Perplexed, you turned to look at him with a slightly doubtful look in your eyes. Why would he ask that? You had forgotten that, sometimes, people were simply kind and good-hearted.

"I'm not very good with people."

Joel understood that. Sometime after meeting Ellie, he noticed how he himself had been so closed off, was still so closed off. He supposed that was part of the reason for having grown to like her so much, she allowed him to become human again. She resembled his own daughter in such a way, he became aware of what he had been missing all these years.

"Isolation does that to people."

You were biting your lip, pondering on whether you should tell him you were happy when the apocalypse happened. It wasn't just that you weren't good with people, it was that you didn't like them. You decided against it, thinking it would make you seem even more... weird.

"You'd never have to fend for yourself again. You could live just like you do here—better, even. Wouldn't 'ave to constantly look over your shoulder," Joel went on, his bottom lip tucked inward.

You felt a warmth spread through your chest, not necessarily because of the thought of living alongside other people, but him giving you the offer, insisting there was room for you, was heartwarming. You liked to be included. It had always been your soft-spot, however, from way back in high school, when you were included, you quickly learned it was to be the victim of a practical joke and that did not sit right with you.

"I like fending for myself," was all you said.

But even to that Joel had the answer.

"You could go on patrols. It'd be like a job."

You'd never have a job before.

With the same doubtful expression, you shook your head, a harsh chuckle leaving you. "People tend not to like me."

"Being the one to protect the community would give them no other choice. Or well, 'f they won't like you, they at least 'ave to respect you."

You chewed on the thought. Respect sounded nice.

"I don't know," mumbled you.

The two of you sat in silence until a harsh light flashed in the sky, a sharp lightning ripping the above in half soon after.

The next second heavy rainfall thumped on the ground.

"Now 'at's not promising," hummed Joel, but he couldn't help but chuckle at the sudden weather change. "Really miss the forecast these days."

Standing up, you chuckled at his comment. Walking towards the door, the sound of his heavy boots told you he was right behind you.

Inside Ellie was snoring loudly, drool catching the light from the fireplace, and you felt a small smile tug your lip upward. Perhaps she was not all that bad, merely a young girl roughened by the world.

You could relate to that.

Joel closed the door behind you, already watching you as you looked in his direction.

There was a faint smile on his own lips as well.

Clearing your throat, you scurried over to your bedroom. Sparing a glance, tired eyes took him in, looked him up and down one last time before you bid him a good night.

[aftermathfanfic]

DnDucks 2

Did this again, this time for Lena, Violet, Della and Magica de Spell! Information is under the Read More thing.

I feel like I should do something with these.

Lena Sabrewing

Floating above you is a duck with a luminescent white and blue costume, her eyes and the tips of her front head-feathers gleaming with magical power.

Age: 18 (mentally) Alignment: Chaotic Good Class/Level: Sorcerer 6 (arcane bloodline) Ability Scores: STR 10, DEX 15, CON 14, INT 13, WIS 8, CHA 18

Once the unwilling shadowy servant of Magica de Spell, Lena Sabrewing is an accomplished sorceress and one of the most powerful allies of House McDuck. Specifically, her loyalty is to Webby Vanderquack, with whom she is practically an older sister to. She has eschewed most of the formal titles offered to her, content with having a normal life – or as normal as one’s life can be in Duckland.

Unlike the other characters I’ve discussed, Lena is not a duck – technically, she is what is known as a “fetchling”, a being crafted entirely from shadowstuff. As a fetchling, she has slight resistance to cold and electricity, and she can blend into darkness to become harder to see and hit. She can use her innate shadow magic to weave illusory disguises, though she is loathe to use these abilities, preferring to use magic unrelated to shadow.

As a sorcerer, Lena can use her magic much more often than a wizard or cleric at the cost of a much more limited spellbook. She only has a handful of spells in her repertoire, which she uses in creative and efficient ways, such as flying invisibly in the sky, unnoticed until she rains a shower of magic missiles down on her opponents. She also uses her magic to mess with people when she’s bored – causing object to levitate, turning your house keys invisible, that sort of thing.

Violet Sabrewing

This indigo-feathered warrioress points her crossbow at you from afar, her eyes cold, calculating, yet curious.

Age: 16 Alignment: Neutral Class/Level: Ranger 3/Wizard 1 Ability Scores: STR 12, DEX 17, CON 14, INT 14, WIS 14, CHA 8

Another friend of Webby, Violet is one of the Woodchuck rangers of Duckland, tasked with protecting the natural world from monsters, magic, and all manner of unnatural creations. They eschew the divine magics employed by rangers in other parts of the world, instead relying on their weapon skills, traps, and their allies.

That, however, changed for Violet when she discovered an enchanted amulet, once wielded by the shadow witch Magica de Spell. Through that amulet, she discovered a world of untapped power, and she began fervently researching the arcane, the eldritch, and the unknown. She even discovered a talent for arcane spellcasting, studying as a novice wizard alongside training as a ranger.

Crossbows are Violet’s weapon of choice, and she has learned to use them with incredible efficiency. She can shoot, reload, and shoot a crossbow again faster than most people can blink, and she specialises in taking down the undead. Her magical focus, in fact, is the art of necromancy, which she can use to weaken her foes and control wandering undead.

Della Duck

This dishevelled duck wears a blue scarf and a pilot’s outfit, with a pair of goggles resting on her forehead. Her left leg is a metallic, roughshod contraption.

Age: 42 Alignment: Chaotic Good Class/Level: Fighter 8/Artificer 4 Ability Scores: STR 15, DEX 15, CON 13, INT 15, WIS 8, CHA 15

Della Duck is the twin sister of Donald, mother of the Duck triplets, and a ferociously ambitious adventurer. She was thought dead for many years after an experiment gone awry stranded her on the Astral Plane for ten years. She isn’t quite as reckless as she used to be, having learned from her mistakes, but she hasn’t lost her adventurous edge.

Della is primarily a fighter, accustomed to fighting blade to blade. She no longer fights with her magic sword Asteria, which is now in Dewey’s hands, but with a longspear built from a meteoric metal, gifted to her by a friend she met in the stars. She also has a few levels in artificer – stranded in the Astral Sea, she had to build a rocket to get back home herself, with very little help, and she picked up a few tools of the trade in the process.

Della is not afraid to leap head-first into combat. She eschews the shield in favour of two-handing her spear, using it to knock aside enemy blows and skewer her foes. Her artificer magic allows her to quickly construct magic items or enhance her gear with power, making her a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield.

Magica de Spell

Cackling above you, this mad witch sports a midnight black dress and has sickly green feathers. In her hands is a black sceptre, with a glowing violet gem at its tip.

Age: ??? Alignment: Chaotic Evil Class/Level: Sorcerer 18 (shadow bloodline) Ability Scores: STR 8, DEX 14, CON 14, INT 14, WIS 10, CHA 20

One of the most feared enemies of House McDuck, Magica de Spell is an accomplished and deadly sorceress whose speciality is in shadow magic. She can bring shadows to life, conjure impenetrable darkness, step into one shadow and reappear from another… her powers are almost limitless. And there is rumour that she now tries to push the limits of her magic even further, in an attempt to cheat death itself.

Like most arcane spellcasters, Magica relies heavily on her magical abilities to get through combat. She has no martial prowess to speak of, but neither does she need it – few have the opportunity to get close to her before being blasted by shadowy lightning, accosted by shadow monsters, or just simply disintegrated by her magics. Her arrogance is almost always her downfall, underestimating her enemies or lacking the foresight to come up with escape plans beyond just teleporting away.

Her retinue of servants consists primarily of shadowy undead that sap the strength from their victims. Very rarely does she enlist the help of more intelligent or powerful servants, and she never makes an alliance with a fellow sorcerer. She knows full well that, like herself, her peers rarely honour sworn oaths when limitless power is on the line.

[multi-fandom-simp]

Chapter 1

Best friend's Brother!AU, Mafia!AU

Pairings: Helaena x reader(Main), Aemond x reader(platonic)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters. I do not claim any of them as my own. This work is purely fictional.

Summary: After a mission goes slightly off plan, you return to the Targaryen estate battered and bruised. Helaena offers her help, and that's when things begin to take a turn.

TW: This series will be❗️+18❗️at times. Mentions of blood, description of injury, stitches, mentions of violence, suggestive thoughts, suggestive actions, mentions of religious corruption

Word Count: 1,355

(A/N: Hello, here is Chapter 1! I apologize for how long it took, college was rough this week. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy! This has some tension to get the ball rolling, but there is more yet to come! I appreciate any criticism or feedback, so feel free to comment your thoughts! I would love to hear them! I also do not have a tag list started for this series yet, but if you would like to be on it, let me know!)

You were friends with Aemond before you could even form a coherent thought. Well, you were his protector first, but that changed as soon as Aemond was born. The two of you shared the same emotional range and soft spot for his siblings. Helaena in particular. Aemond has always felt the need to shelter his sweet, naive, older sister from the woes of the world. You, on the other hand, felt drawn to Helaena in a way you couldn’t explain. At first, the feelings were easy to hide. You would disguise the want of being near her as the need for feminine comfort. As teens, Aemond never questioned when you wanted Helaena to braid your hair for training rather than him or when you’d choose to snuggle up next to her on movie nights. In his eyes, you were using his older sister to fill the lack of womanly presence in your own life. Little did he know that you were just feeding your urges. Urges that got worse as you grew. The innocent feeling of Helaena tugging your hair into place soon began to sprout thoughts of your own hands doing the same to hers, but in a different manner. Cuddling with the blonde during movie nights became challenging as well. Every wave of warmth that radiated from her touches sent a tingle down your spine. You felt a need to constantly touch her, to feel her soft skin beneath your hands. It didn’t help that her body had begun to mature when yours did either. Making it almost damn near impossible to keep the perverted thoughts at bay inside your mind. Which is exactly why you had distanced yourself into the position you held now. You were simply Aemond’s best friend, and that was it. 

“ Are you even listening to me?” Aemond’s voice cut through your thoughts like glass. Bringing you back to the present where you could feel the torn skin over your ribs burning with every breath. Alongside the uncomfortable crinkle of dry blood on your sleeves that you had become accustomed to over the years. 

“ Yes…you were droning on about how you made the Martell man scream.” You sighed, twirling the dagger that was previously frozen still in your grip. 

“ No, I talked about that in the car. I was asking how his sister managed to land a cut on you.” Aemond snorted.

“ I got momentarily distracted.” You shrugged, wincing as the material of your dress shirt rubbed against the gash. 

“ You were sent in there to distract her, and yet she managed to turn the tables and cloud your mind.” Aemond opened the door to the Targaryen estate as he spoke. The both of you paused to take off your shoes before his mother had a fit over dirt on the marble flooring. Despite the fact that every surface in this house had endured bloodshed at one point or another. 

“ Your mind would be clouded too if a fine dornish woman was trailing her hands along the expanse of your body.” You grumbled, “ It doesn’t matter anymore, you got the information you needed from her brother.”

“ Helaena!” Your gaze trailed over to the small dining hall that Daeron’s voice floated out from. You expected to see the shaggy blonde playing one of his stupid tricks, instead you were met with Helaena’s eyes trailing the side of your figure. A grin stretched itself upon your features as her eyes snapped up to meet yours. 

“Plus, the dornish girl wasn’t really my type anyways.”You murmured, slowly pulling your eyes away from Helaena. 

“ She doesn’t need to be your type to kill you with poison.” Aemond pointed out, nodding to your wound, “seriously, I’d clean that out before something spreads through your system.”

“ Okay, dad.” You mocked. 

“ Shut up.” Aemond scoffed, pushing you away lightly. 

You chuckled to yourself as you trudged up the broad staircase to the first room on the right. It was the only room away from everyone else’s and near the stairs. This made it the perfect room for you. Were someone to attempt to break in and find their way upstairs, they would need to get past you to reach the sleeping Targaryens. It was a simple room really, only housing a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, a tv, and knick knacks that you had acquired from the family. 

“ alright, lets get this done and over with.” You sighed, staring down at the wound. Gingerly, you unfastened the knife harness that was secured around your torso and slid it off. Next came the button up. Unbuttoning it was the easy part, but peeling it away from the raised flesh was tricky. You hissed as the shirt finally came off and fell to the ground. Cleaning it, like Aemond suggested, turned out to be quite easy. A simple splash of Aegon’s leftover vodka and a wet cloth did the trick. Stitching it, however, seem to be the worst part of your night. 

“ Son of a bitc-” You grunted as the needle slipped from your fingers for the millionth time. Here you were, standing in front of the mirror with nothing but dress pants and a bra, with the TV on for white noise, trying to push a pin through your skin. 

“ I could help with that.” Your head snapped up to the soft voice at your door. Helaena stood in your doorway wearing nothing more than oversized sleeping shirt while looking down at your maimed torso. 

“ What?” Your eyebrows furrowed as you took in her both her words and the bareness of her legs.  

“ I said, I can help with that.” She floated closer towards you as she spoke, ”You’ll never be able to stitch it properly from that angle.”

“ Oh, right. Let me just get a chai-” You mumbled, tearing your eyes from the temptation of her skin.

“ No, it’s alright! I can do it best with you standing. I’ll just kneel.” Helaena chirped. 

“You’ll wh-” Any coherent thought or word you had died as Helaena sunk to her knees in front of you. Kneeling before you as she would during her mother’s prayer teachings, like you were her god instead of the seven. Every nerve in your body warmed with fire at the gleam of innocence her eyes held while looking up at you. 

“ Needle please.” Helaena instructed, holding her hand out. You mindlessly passed it her way, still focused on the sight below you. Even as the blonde began to stitch, your gaze remained on her figure. 

“ You remind me of him.” Helaena spoke softly, focused on her task at hand. 

“Hmm?” You hummed in distant confusion. 

“ Kaz.” She nodded her head towards the tv where Shadow and Bone played, “ you remind me of him.”

“Mhm, how so?” You inquired.

“You’re both so serious..and duty driven. Neither of you let yourself fully open up to another person.” Helaena spoke the truth with ease like she always does.

“ I’m quite open with Aemond.” You argue as she finishes knotting the thread. 

“ I mean you don’t let anyone you desire in. Kaz pushes Inej away and you push-” Helaena’s hands stuttered slightly as her words catch.

“ and I push away who? Who is it that I desire so deeply that I push away?” You egg on, scanning her reaction closely. Her head tilts up to meet your stare one more. 

“ I- ” Neither of you said another word as she failed to answer the question. Instead you raise your hand to meet the soft curves of Helaena’s face. Your thumb presses into the pillow of her bottom lip, pulling back just enough to watch it recoil. You can feel the tremble of her fingertips tickling your abdomen. 

“ hmm, c’mon, who is it?” Desire grates the edge of your voice and pools in the depths of your eyes. It draws Helaena in like a sailor to a siren and she doesn’t even realize it. All she can think about is how badly she’s missed the way you used to hold her, or how you looked at her. She wishes to be desired again. Desired by you. 

“Me.”

(A/N: Of course I had to leave it on a cliffhanger. I can't put all the fun in chapter one, now can I? Fear not, chapter two will have a little bit of spice to get the party started!)

[crimescrimson]

"No matter what timeline, good or bad, in every thread of every destined path we've ever crossed or ever will. I will always come back to you."

[tworegimesof]

I've been putting off reading getohime fics for so long because I thought there wouldn't be too many, and boy was I proven right, but I came upon your fics on ao3 and was immediately hooked. I haven't read all of them yet, but the ones that I adore the most are your kidfics/ implied preggo fic esp with little Tomie in them. I just finished reading If We Make it Through December and author-chan, Why'd you have to make it hurt so much? 😭 As someone who's not accustomed to an angsty fic without a happy ending, it literally crushed my heart that Geto turned out the way he is in that fic, and his own kid wouldn't even be an exception to his demented vision of the world. But then I read Terrible, No Good, Awful, and even though it's a satosho fic with a side of getohime, I still adore the getohime crumbs here and there and ohhhhh!!! little Tomie is adorable (along with the satosho kiddos). I want to see more of her interactions with Geto in an Au similar to that fic where he's present and all is well... huhu, needless to say, I hope you consider making more getohime kidfic with more Geto and Tomie moments. I'd like to read how their relationship would turn out, given you made Tomie's mannerism similar to Geto's.

and oh, a question if you don't mind. In an AU where getohime is together and all is well, do you plan to give Tomie siblings or is it just gonna be her, their only child. #babieseverafter

When I pictured my life as a child I definitely did not think I'd be writing so many fics for such a specific rare pair but nonetheless, here I am.

Tomie is actually my favorite kid OC that I've written. Her name is from Junji Ito's Tomie, a manga about a girl who is so beautiful, that men become obsessed with owning her and kill her in a jealous rage, only for her to continually come back as a curse (her body regenerates). To me, Tomie is a great namesake because she embodies female rage (Utahime) and has a villainous resistance to a world more sinister than any person (Geto). And yeah, if Geto's own mother isn't an exception to the rule, than his child definitely wouldn't be either. I also think that Junji Ito is a major influence on Gege and the world of JJK, where there is the larger, mysterious and incurable problem of cursed energy that is the ooze from which Sukuna and Kenjaku spring (and is arguably the bigger villain). I know Ito also let Gege use an image from Uzumaki for Geto's Maximum Uzumaki. The only way I can get through this series is telling myself that JJK is Junji Ito shounen magic cage fights lol.

LOL Tomie has such a different dynamic with GetoHime than SatoShoko's kids have with their parents. I feel like Gojo and Shoko are actually very functional co-parents and their kids can rely on them for everything. I think Tomie is more independent. I think she takes her problems to Geto over Utahime because she wants to protect her mom and knows how ridiculous Utahime can be. I've been flirting with more kidfic in the Terrible, No Good, Awful-universe because it has the best set up for it, but I won't make promises, since I've got other stories for other fandoms to write.

Tomie is an only child. Pregnancy is one of the most metal things that the human body can do, and is so rough that I don't think my girl Utahime could do it twice.

Thanks for reading and apologies for the long rant! Clearly, I have a vision lol.

[abbysirlgf]

— WHY IS JOEL SO POPULAR ?

pairing : none, just analysis trigger warning(s) : mentions of race, suicide and child death. word count : 729

Joel’s race and the phenomenon known as “pretty privilege” may be responsible for his attractiveness and overall likeability (and no, I’m not just making this up; it has been shown). Sam, a thirteen-year-old boy who tragically dies after becoming infected, and Henry, his older brother and parental figure, both appear in the first game. Henry is an overprotective and occasionally cold man who ultimately commits suicide. Since Henry and Joel both want to protect the child who has been placed in their care, it is easy to compare the relationships between these two young, black men and Ellie and Joel. Ellie and Sam’s brisk friendship serves as additional evidence of this comparison. It is clear from their comparable personalities and shared interests that the only factor separating these two pairs is race.

In Natalia Gevara’s article ‘Is it pretty privilege or white privilege?’, she details how pretty privilege can be seen as synonymous with white privilege due to the west (and, increasingly, the east) finding the 'white, thin, cisgender and able bodied’ individual the most attractive. Due to this, it can only be considered that someone who complies with the desired qualities of Eurocentric standards is what is meant by “pretty.” She continues by arguing that 'it takes away from these real definitions that are rooted in systemic oppression. Because at the end of the day, privilege is less about whether or not you get free drinks at the bar because the bartender thinks you are pretty, and more about escaping the police with your life because you are white.’ This is demonstrated by how differently Henry and Joel approach protection. Joel is shown turning extremely aggressive in one of the final scenes of “The Last Of Us Part I,” killing anyone who gets in the way of him defending Ellie. Meanwhile, in Henry’s case, we are shown a scene in which he first kills his now-infected brother before turning the gun on himself. He is revealed to be extremely upset by the first act, yet his initial inclination was to continue to carry it out. It’s possible that this is the case because Henry is a person of colour and is more accustomed to living in a world where others come before oneself. Sadly, this does result in him ending his own life after he had realised what had just happened. On the other hand, Joel takes no such repercussion as he is likely used to taking without being judged as 'barbaric’ or 'ill mannered’.

It is nevertheless clear that Joel is significantly more popular than Henry even when both characters are depicted in the HBO series by actors of different ethnic backgrounds. Within the fandom, Pedro Pascal’s character Joel is much more admired and “simped” over. This is probably because of his Eurocentric traits, like his straight hair, doe-like eyes, and smaller lips. In contrast, Lamar Johnson, the African-American actor who played Henry has fuller lips, almond shaped eyes and an afro. Although these qualities are not ugly, owing to Eurocentric beauty standards, the majority do not appreciate them as much, which decreases the popularity of his character among those who have seen the show or played the game.

It may even be argued that the only reason he is not as liked as much as Joel was due to his limited time in the show/ game. However, I do not personally find this argument compelling. This is because, in my opinion, Joel shouldn’t be as well-liked among the community as he is. Joel’s past in the previous game is only truly seen as a dreamlike memory, whereas Henry’s predicament is much more carnal as we see his brother’s (and his own) deaths take place in real time, after their bond has already been developed for the audience. When it comes to personalization, it makes more sense for the empathy to be felt for Henry rather than for Joel. Joel’s narrative does a fantastic job at eliciting sympathy, but empathy is tough to achieve because we originally view events through Sarah’s perspective, even in the 'dream’ she passes away in.

Concluding, even though Joel is an objectively tragic and well-written character, most of his fame, love, and recognition can be attributed to his attractiveness, and consequently, to the fact that he is white and played by a conventionally attractive actor.

[incaensio]

@fatefought ( cont. from this )

katniss listens attentively, more than she has ever at school — because at school, learning about things you had to export from the capitol was not seen as necessary, while learning about coal was paramount. to learn of the things that actually grew around twelve, katniss had to follow her father, read from his book, actually pick at the roots that grow around the meadow and beyond it; they could be useful when you're in a pinch (like bark from trees, dandelions and katniss roots) and they could also be used in food, even in bread, as peeta has showed her, making aromatic loafs with rosemary, basil, dill. if they had oranges — or clementines, as annie explains — peeta could make a pastry just as nice as this one; they already had the honey, and that boy could do marvels with dough. "do you grow them at four, too? do you need special greenhouses for it?" katniss thought only eleven or maybe nine grew fruit, but that's silly, isn't it? even twelve had some wild berries and the mellarks had an apple tree in their backyard. and if four can grow citrics, then so could them; her eyes twinkle with the thought of the possibility, fetching one of the clementine tarts herself.

it is sweet, tooth aching sweet yes, but katniss doesn't mind. she hasn't had the opportunity to have many sweets — especially artificial ones like this — before the games, before having a baker for a neighbor and then husband. she picks another one for peeta, then, concealing it within the napkin. she doesn't linger, though, and despite the (comfortable) company, she plucks another tart, a chocolate one this time, which is always safe because katniss knows she loves chocolate (and the boxes she hoards at the ice box back home would tell). she's gobbled it down when annie speaks next, and maybe it's because she's happy to be munching on sweets, or because annie sounds genuine — in a manner you don't really get much around this city — or because even though the words are subintended, they pair well with what katniss thought, she gives the other victor a nod that is almost too enthused. she has the thought not to snort, however. "oh yeah. that's an understatement. though in here, happy and sad doesn’t have much difference when they dress it all in gold and frills, don't they? as long as it shimmers…" she's said too much, but the distaste for capitol opulence is like a fresh wound that will never heal because she keeps poking at it, because while people at twelve keep taking on tesserae not to starve, people here can have drinks to throw up and eat more. and this, this party, is nothing of consequence, is it? who cares if these tributes will all be dead by next month? katniss' appetite stills for a moment, and she puts the napkin inside her bag.

"oh." her eyes follow annie's, and katniss' heart leaps, as it has become accustomed to doing whenever she's particularly concerned, especially about peeta. she likes having him in sight, feel his warmth to remind her he is all right, but it's a party and they're under orders to get sponsors, and peeta would never come into harm's way under the president's own roof — that would be too obvious. right? right, she tells herself. "it's okay." she decides, though the shrug she offers is not as effective when her body still holds tension. "we have a way of finding each other, even if it takes a little while." this is more reassuring, because it's true. she can't run away from peeta, and she hasn't wanted to for a while now — if anything, she's become rather eager to seek him out, more and more by the day. "and you're better company than juventus sickle." whom she had abandoned, claiming the need to search for peeta (which was true, too) because she missed him so bad (not untrue, either).

the mention of haymitch does bring a furrow to her brows. katniss had never considered not coming to every game because with her being the only female victor of her district, she couldn't just abstain, like others could. and it came without saying that peeta would follow her, and she him. the furrow dies, as she thinks that the president would never allow them to stay away; he needs them to be compliant and love-sick in front of the cameras, always sticking to the script. katniss hopes her features are not as despondent as she feels. "it's not so bad, i guess. at least it's something to do." with the fence wired on, she didn't have much to do at all so the options were to be driven mad by boredom or by seeing her helpless tributes die in front of her — it's not like she has a choice, anyways. she stifles a sigh.

"i think people hopes we will retire haymitch soon, actually." at that, she allows herself a small grimace, half playful, half at the oddity of the thought. haymitch, not a mentor for twelve? impossible. he can share the job with peeta for the rest of their miserable lives — the three of them, side by side in that train every year, just like they do at the village. "i don't think he'd pass on the free booze, though." she snickers. "you're friends? with haymitch? you don't mentor much, though, do you?" she remembers — faintly — the senior lady. and finnick, but katniss supposes his reasons to come to the capitol are not at all involved with the games, even if peeta had told her finnick would mentor this year, too.

[abbysirlwife]

— WHY IS JOEL SO POPULAR ?

pairing : none, just analysis trigger warning : mentions of race, suicide and child death. word count : 729

Joel's race and the phenomenon known as "pretty privilege" may be responsible for his attractiveness and overall likeability (and no, I'm not just making this up; it has been shown). Sam, a thirteen-year-old boy who tragically dies after becoming infected, and Henry, his older brother and parental figure, both appear in the first game. Henry is an overprotective and occasionally cold man who ultimately commits suicide. Since Henry and Joel both want to protect the child who has been placed in their care, it is easy to compare the relationships between these two young, black men and Ellie and Joel. Ellie and Sam's brisk friendship serves as additional evidence of this comparison. It is clear from their comparable personalities and shared interests that the only factor separating these two pairs is race.

In Natalia Gevara's article 'Is it pretty privilege or white privilege?', she details how pretty privilege can be seen as synonymous with white privilege due to the west (and, increasingly, the east) finding the 'white, thin, cisgender and able bodied' individual the most attractive. Due to this, it can only be considered that someone who complies with the desired qualities of Eurocentric standards is what is meant by "pretty." She continues by arguing that 'it takes away from these real definitions that are rooted in systemic oppression. Because at the end of the day, privilege is less about whether or not you get free drinks at the bar because the bartender thinks you are pretty, and more about escaping the police with your life because you are white.' This is demonstrated by how differently Henry and Joel approach protection. Joel is shown turning extremely aggressive in one of the final scenes of "The Last Of Us Part I," killing anyone who gets in the way of him defending Ellie. Meanwhile, in Henry's case, we are shown a scene in which he first kills his now-infected brother before turning the gun on himself. He is revealed to be extremely upset by the first act, yet his initial inclination was to continue to carry it out. It's possible that this is the case because Henry is a person of colour and is more accustomed to living in a world where others come before oneself. Sadly, this does result in him ending his own life after he had realised what had just happened. On the other hand, Joel takes no such repercussion as he is likely used to taking without being judged as 'barbaric' or 'ill mannered'.

It is nevertheless clear that Joel is significantly more popular than Henry even when both characters are depicted in the HBO series by actors of different ethnic backgrounds. Within the fandom, Pedro Pascal's character Joel is much more admired and "simped" over. This is probably because of his Eurocentric traits, like his straight hair, doe-like eyes, and smaller lips. In contrast, Lamar Johnson, the African-American actor who played Henry has fuller lips, almond shaped eyes and an afro. Although these qualities are not ugly, owing to Eurocentric beauty standards, the majority do not appreciate them as much, which decreases the popularity of his character among those who have seen the show or played the game.

It may even be argued that the only reason he is not as liked as much as Joel was due to his limited time in the show/ game. However, I do not personally find this argument compelling. This is because, in my opinion, Joel shouldn't be as well-liked among the community as he is. Joel's past in the previous game is only truly seen as a dreamlike memory, whereas Henry's predicament is much more carnal as we see his brother's (and his own) deaths take place in real time, after their bond has already been developed for the audience. When it comes to personalization, it makes more sense for the empathy to be felt for Henry rather than for Joel. Joel's narrative does a fantastic job at eliciting sympathy, but empathy is tough to achieve because we originally view events through Sarah's perspective, even in the 'dream' she passes away in.

Concluding, even though Joel is an objectively tragic and well-written character, most of his fame, love, and recognition can be attributed to his attractiveness, and consequently, to the fact that he is white and played by a conventionally attractive actor.