#The clouds have more detail than anything else and might look odd?

[dappled-canopy]

Lighthouse 🔦☁️

[sailtomarina]

In Absence of Towels and Rules

Hermione had always been more of a shower person.

The idea of filling a gigantic basin full of water only to dirty it up, empty it, and fill it once more to rinse and soak seemed extraordinarily wasteful. There were droughts out there, for goodness sake! People dying of thirst, crops drying up, and perhaps even most mind-boggling of all, the entire endeavor taking entirely far too much time—all of it was unacceptable.

She’d heard of the Prefect’s bathroom even as a firstie, of course. Rumors abounded around legendary ladykillers like Bill Weasley and Thorfinn Rowle. When Harry got his first taste of the bath and described the experience to her in detail, she thought it sounded far too elaborate. Who needed so many types of soap bubbles? She certainly didn’t fancy the idea of a mermaid watching her scrub away the day.

So when doing her rounds as Head Girl late one night she noticed a trail of footprints heading towards the notorious 5th-floor room, Hermione assumed what anyone else would have assumed. Students were obviously hooking up.

This was one of the parts of being Head Girl that she hated most. Catching students out of bed after hours was a given—she shooed snogging couples away from the castle’s nooks and crannies all the time. Usually, she didn’t have to deal with anything more explicit than that. Most students had the common sense to conduct their more extensive explorations in complete privacy. In the rare case that she actually did catch sight of more—she’d never look at Blaise and Luna the same again—she felt like every bit the intruder that she was. Why couldn’t they just do the sensible thing and shag behind doors, preferably with iron-clad locking and silencing spells?

Like this person. The footprints marked a clear path to the closed door and, given the nature of them, were fresh. There was an oddly sweet scent in the air, but she attributed it to spillover from the bathroom.

Readying her wand, she strode up and was just about to knock and announce herself, when a loud moan froze her solid.

“Mmmmmmmmfffffffff.”

Did they not even have the decency to cast a silencio? Whoever was in there should be caught and punished for the simple failure to cast the obvious spell.

“Fuck, that feels good.”

Her stomach dropped as she recognized that voice.

Going against the voice screaming in her head to do her duty, Hermione cautiously cast a muffliato on her person and unlocked the door to nudge it open just far enough to peek inside. It was hard to see past the steam that filled her view, but she could make out what looked to be one figure in the water.

Well, she’d already come this far. She might as well go all the way.

One disillusionment spell later, Hermione slid through the doorway and along the wall of the bathroom. She wasn’t going to stay long; she just needed to confirm the student was who she thought it was.

Peeking over the cubbies and squinting past the fragrant clouds, she could still only see one body. 

Odd. Where was the other student?

She arched up onto her toes to look at the water’s edge closest to her, partially hidden by the very cabinet she stood behind. Hermione didn’t account for the shadow she cast on the wall.

How the student could see through the steam when she could not would later bother her. As she leaned over to look along the pool for any hint of another body, that same voice cried out before she could react.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

The spell hit with deadly accuracy, and Hermione found herself toppling to the side with a resounding thunk onto the tiles. The sound of someone emerging from the water and walking over to stand above her only compounded the shame that burned deep in her gut. Not only had she been found out, but she now looked like some kind of voyeur.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Granger.”

To her surprise, she felt the spell release and she scrambled to her feet to confront her attacker.

Draco Malfoy stood before her in all his sodden glory, platinum hair slicked back, water dripping down his broad chest—several scars marring the otherwise smooth surface—and a fluffy white towel wrapped around his torso.

She tried not to let her eyes linger on the lower half of his body, but she couldn’t help staring at the rest of him. By the time she got a hold of herself and snapped her eyes back up to his, a knowing smirk graced his face.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of the Head Girl’s presence?” His drawl lacked any concern, as if it was only obvious that he’d bathe at such a late hour.

“Where are they, Malfoy?”

The crease that formed in his brow was too natural to be an act. “Where is who?”

“Whoever you brought in here with you!”

“We’re the only two people in here, Granger, unless there’s someone else sneaking a peek. Theo gave me the password to wash off the muck from our potion.”

While his stance remained relaxed, he did glance around in curiosity. Hermione could feel the claws of mortification creeping up her neck, threatening to betray itself in a brilliant shade of red across her face if she didn’t get out of here soon.

“I’m sure you’re aware, but it’s late. You can’t be here after curfew.”

His attention swung back her way, and the upward curl of his lip returned, eyes scanning her from head to foot in a manner that had her shuffling in discomfort. She wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but it couldn’t be anything good.

“You’re here.”

“I’m on my last rounds. I’d be in my room by now if I hadn’t noticed the trail you left behind.”

Stepping closer, he continued to hold her gaze, his smile only growing wider as she fought every instinct to bolt for the door.

“There’s nothing stopping you from leaving now.” His voice had dropped to an aggravating purr, like a gentle flame licking at the edges of her well-maintained border.

“I can’t just ignore you in here, Malfoy,” Hermione insisted. She had duties, rules to uphold. She was simply following through on the trust the teachers had placed in her. She was absolutely not interested in studying the suds running down his chest, or the slashes from Harry’s sectumsempra.

“Why don’t you join me, then? I’m still covered in soap.”

He chuckled at her gasp, and she tried not to miss his warmth as he stepped back towards the water. Keeping an eye on her, he tossed aside his towel–no, she did not look down–and descended slowly like some kind of water nymph hoping to lure Hermione to her death. He then turned his back to her and waited.

There was no way she could join him.

It wasn’t proper.

She was Head Girl.

She was supposed to send him to bed.

His words kept replaying in her mind. She couldn’t send him to bed still covered in suds, could she?

She might as well supervise him until he was finished then escort him to the dungeons afterward.

The entire time Hermione fought with herself, he maintained his position. Only once she started to remove her clothes did he shift, raising one pale arm to smooth his hair back. She caught sight of the dark mark along the forearm before it vanished beneath the bubbles. Hermione wrapped a towel around her head in hopes of keeping her curls dry.

“I’m coming in.” Her voice trembled, try as hard as she might to sound confident.

“Just tell me when I can turn around.”

To her surprise, the water wasn’t scalding like the hot tubs she’d experienced on family vacations. The bath was a perfect temperature that tugged you into its embrace and loosened your muscles all at once.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, oh!” She squeaked when she realized she had audibly sighed. Well, now his earlier moan made sense.

She spotted Malfoy’s shoulders shaking, and for a moment she was concerned that there was something wrong. It wasn’t until she stepped closer and caught the sharp intake of breath that she realized he was laughing at her.

Her slap on the water sent a wave over his head, ruining the slick tresses. In a flash, he spun around to smack water back her way, and she sputtered at the bubbles that filled her mouth.

“Mmmmmmmf, bloody hell, Malfoy!”

“You started it!”

“You were laughing at me!”

“Yeah, well, did you hear yourself?”

That earned him a whole armful of water, which he avoided by ducking. A second later, Hermione’s eyes widened comically at the hand that grasped her ankle before she was yanked under the surface.

Her hair!

The grip on her leg had disappeared the moment she went under, and she surged upward with a roar of fury.

She was going to kill him.

“Malfoy!”

Hermione didn’t anticipate him standing quite so close, nor did she notice the angle of the floor at the edge of the pool with its upward slope. It was only once she stood above the water that she realized her breasts were not only completely exposed, but level with Malfoy’s very open eyes.

“Ackkkkkk!”

She thrust herself backwards into the safety of the water, submerging herself almost up to her nose. She didn’t know it, but her curls floated around her, giving Malfoy the impression that he was facing an angry tentacle monster intent on strangling him.

“Um. Sorry about that.” He cast his eyes off to the side, his throat bobbing and pale skin flushed pink.

“You saw nothing.” Even her hiss sounded like a sea creature.

He nodded, still not looking at her.

“And you’ll say nothing.”

This time he looked over in exasperation. “Of course I won’t say anything, Granger! Who do you think I am?”

“I don’t know, only the biggest, most boastful prat in existence.”

He rewarded her glare with one of his own, his irises darkening along with his tone. “Look here, Granger, I don’t kiss and tell—”

“We didn’t kiss!”

“—and I certainly don’t share.”

Hermione wanted to die of embarrassment, wrapping her arms defensively around her chest. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he swam forward to crowd her space, “that I don’t want anyone else to see your magnificent tits.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He had to be joking.

“You said you didn’t see anything.”

“No, you said I didn’t see anything.”

She made to shove him for his snark, but he caught her arm in a firm grasp and didn’t let go. Hermione’s eyes traced along the subtle flex of his pectorals, to the tense muscles in his neck, and up to the eyes, still so dark, that held fast to her own. She couldn’t help licking her lips in nervousness, catching her breath when his gaze flitted down to watch the movement. His hold on her arm tightened and he shifted closer.

“Malfoy…”

“Tell me to stop.”

He still stared at her lips, and she realized she didn’t want him to stop. She let them part in an invitation, and he immediately accepted.

Hermione had kissed before. There had been Ron, adrenaline pumping through their veins and pressing them into a kiss that felt like a natural flow from which they found themselves stumbling not long after.

There’d been her neighbor, Shawn, before that, their tentative explorations a series of firsts. Theirs had been a safe curiosity, and fleeting.

There was Viktor, dear Viktor, whom she’d met up with once more after the war. Now both adults, he taught her to not be ashamed of her sexual impulses. They hadn’t gone beyond touches, and their parting brought with it a sense of finality.

Draco’s kiss was like none of the others before it. It consumed her in dueling temperatures of heat and frost. He tasted of peppermint and ice, but the warmth of his tongue gliding along hers and the arms that moved to pull her against him fanned the earlier flames into an inferno. She was simultaneously terrified and exhilarated by the immediate yearning that filled her to capacity.

Fingers tangled in her hair and a palm caressed upward, brushing the underside of her chest. Alarm swept through her.

“Wait!” 

She wasn’t sure why it surprised her as much as it did when he immediately stopped all movement. He remained close, though, breathing heavily into the crook of her neck.

“What are we doing?” she whispered.

Hermione wasn’t an idiot. She knew exactly what they were doing. She wanted to hear his explanation, as if that would make what they were about to do acceptable.

She couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her as he latched his mouth to her neck and left his signature before answering.

“What if I said we’re fulfilling a fantasy I’ve had for a long, long time?”

It took a moment for the words to sink into her muddled mind and for the meaning to make itself clear. She tried to jerk away, but he refused to let her go. He at last looked up at her, the silver in his eyes glinting strangely.

“What, to shag someone in the bath?” she said, afraid of his answer. Here she was, about to become another notch on the bedpost of Draco Malfoy, all of her own volition.

“Yes, and no,” he replied slowly, the tension in his own voice tight.

She tried in vain to yank her arms away once more, but they weren’t going anywhere. She’d likely have bruises to show for it in the morning. “Well, which one is it?”

“Yes, I’ve dreamt about shagging in the bath, and no, not just any witch. Just. You.” He punctuated the last couple of words forcefully, like they hurt him to say.

“Well, thanks, that’s so romantic,” she spat before continuing. “What shall I do next? Bend over the ledge?”

His eyes darkened with each word that sprang from her mouth, but she was too focused on her own hurt feelings to notice.

“Or how about over there, on the bench? We could go through an entire yoga set’s worth of poses–”

His lips crashed down on hers, silencing her tirade. Still in the depths of her indignation, she bit at his lip.

“Fuck! Granger, just stop.”

“I will not let you use me as you like, Malfoy!”

“I’m not trying to use you; I’m trying to get it through your thick skull that I like you!”

She stared up at him, mouth open and finally devoid of any further insults. His confession was the very last thing she had ever expected to hear. It certainly beat hopes she had about Harry and Ron returning to Hogwarts, or of any of the castle elves speaking with her again after her S.P.E.W. campaign.

Hermione knew the wards hadn’t been completely repaired following the Battle of Hogwarts and that apparition was currently possible, though prohibited. 

She might enforce the rules, but she did a piss poor job following them. 

She apparated straight to her dorm in an attempt to escape, not taking into account that Malfoy still held her arms, that they were both stark naked, and that they were completely wet. They dropped heavily onto the couch, instantly soaking through the cushions.

“What the bloody hell, Granger!” Malfoy bellowed at the top of his lungs.

“Why didn’t you let go of me?” she screamed back.

“You can’t just panic apparate! We could have been splinched!”

“You basically splinched my fucking head!”

“Uh, guys?”

The sound of a third voice snapped their attention around so quickly, it was a miracle their heads were still attached. Theo Nott lounged in his armchair next to the fireplace, legs crossed and wearing an expression of distinct amusement.

As Head Girl, Hermione shared a private dorm with the Head Boy, who just so happened to be the same Theo who had given Malfoy the password to the Prefect’s bathroom. In the time it took for the naked duo to process his presence and place blame at his feet, they came to the same terrifying conclusion.

“Wait, what are you doing? Stop it! Stay back!”

Hands still joined, they ran at the terrified brunette and grabbed onto him with their free hands.

“Your go, Malfoy.”

“With pleasure.”

Theo’s scream sounded high and long as they disapparated and reappeared in the air above the same bath from which they’d just escaped. The trio fell with a splash that drowned out his cries. Hermione knew just how much time her roommate spent on his immaculate curls that made her own best efforts look like the perfect imitation of a bird’s nest.

As the three students screamed and laughed, sending waves of water towards one another in a storm of steam and hot bubbles, the mermaid in the nearby portrait yawned and went back to sleep. She’d seen far more ridiculous things in her years on the bathroom wall, and as pretty as she thought Draco, she preferred gingers like that de-li-cious Charlie Weasley.

Hermione could keep the Malfoy boy, and perhaps that Nott one, as well. They’d do well together, if only they could get out of the bathtub.

Cross-posted on AO3

WC 2899

DHRMonth Prompt: Week 1 - Hogwarts, September 5 - Prefect Baths

I actually had so much fun with this prompt, even though I ended up having to bend the rules a bit regarding apparition on Hogwarts grounds, but Hermione wouldn't mind some rule breaking, right?

I snuck in a hint of TheoxHermionexDraco - I can't help it!

Smut almost happened, but I yanked it back from the precipice because I want to give everyone blue balls, myself included.

[cerebrumrott]

Obey Me! Shall we Date?

Brothers and Newly Dateables x MC

Synopsis: Where their pact marks would be and how they would appear...

Lucifer

His mark would appear on your throat. Below the chin and Above the adams apple is where the sigil lies but the patterns and runes that circle it seem to trickle down your throat to your collar bones. Some even tracing up along the under side of your jaw.

You would know the mark appeared here because its his favorite part of you. He would often hide his face into your neck after a stressful day kissing along your jaw, and breathing in your scent.

It's also where his hand would most often lay, whether he be mindlessly tracing patterns into your skin, tipping your face up to his for a kiss, or holding you in place for him.

The mark is gorgeous and intricate. In direct light it appears to be a plain black though every so often it will catch the light just so to reveal the color beneath. A dazzling and heavenly blue.

When your pact mark appears he can barely keep his hands to himself. Most often when passing one another is RAD he will stop you just to take a moment to admire the mark before ushering you on your way smirking as he warns you not to be late.

Mammon

His mark will appear on the back of the neck where the skull meets the spine. Its a small and tight circle almost barely noticeable with it being faded into your hair line.

He is furious at first demanding to know why his mark is so small compared to the others and why its in such a hard to see place. He proceeds to pout to himself muttering about why it couldnt be somewhere obvious like your eyes or better yet in the middle of your forehead!

Once that was out of his system he began to truly appreciate the pact mark. He was the closest to your mind because he knew what you were really thinking sometimes without you even needing to say it. He often finds his hand coming to subconsciously rest on the back of your neck petting and massaging the mark as it also soothed him. Sometimes when he is thinking too hard he will start aggressively petting your head. It was funny the first time but the look your teacher gave you when Mammon accidentally started petting you in the middle of class was less so.

Whenever you wear hoodies or scarves he doesn't hesitate to walk up behind you and pull your hood down saying its disrespectful to cover up his pact mark and that you should be displaying it to the world. One time you shaved out a little triangle at the base of your hair line to fully expose the mark and with your hair tied up high. Mammon was just beaming with pride and joy following behind you like a love sick puppy just to stare at his mark.

Leviathan

When you made a pact with Levi you actually couldnt find it for weeks. You had cheeked every inch of your skin for a mark big or small but couldn't find anything.

That was until one day while hanging out with Levi you burnt the roof of your mouth so bad you thought the skin was peeling off. Levi worried used the flashlight on his phone to look in your mouth and let out of yelp of surprise at what he found. You also panicked thinking your mouth was now beyond saving from an all too hot bite of noodles.

No instead he had found where his pact mark lied. On the roof of your mouth was a relatively large and well detailed sigil and its surrounding runes. Interwoven between these runes were two serpents. The heads of each snake ending by your front canines the tails vanishing where your wisdom teeth should be.

It took you both weeks just to find the mark and even more so discussing why it would ever appear in such an odd place. It was one night during a TSL binge that it hit you. Levi hates touching but he loves talking with you. So of course his mark would have something to do with your mouth and since a mark can't be broken it couldnt go on your lips or near them.

At this Levi brings up the point of why not the tongue then? To that you counter its because he is a shut in and never sees the light of day. You had meant it as a joke but the dawning look on his face made you realize that is exactly why it was on the roof of your mouth.

When he kisses you he likes to drag his tongue over the mark the sensation sending sparks through his body.

Satan

His mark would appear on your outer thigh. This is where his hand would always fall when you both read together in the afternoons, or when you would sit at the table beside each other.

The mark itself is made up of sharp and bold lines that take up a majority of your leg reaching down to your knee and all the way up to your hip. The center of the mark is a deep forest green that fades away into a black. Similar to Lucifer's it too has a duo chrome effect where in certain lighting a vivid green can be seen glittering through the patterns and runes of the mark.

Satan will often find himself staring at you legs throughout the day envisioning the mark beneath connecting the two of you together. Many days he doesn't even attempt to hide his blatant stares as he longs to run his hands over the mark unhindered by cloth. Perhaps later when the two of you are back at home...

Asmodeus

His mark lies above your sternum and your heart. Asmodeus often jokes that it means you are hopelessly in love with him but the truth is that he is the one hopelessly in love. The many nights before you had made your pact where he would just dream of you. His love was not that of lust but of true and honest emotion the likes he had never felt before.

His mark is small, tightly packed in the space on the chest with the most minuscule and delicate details. The shapes and runes take on an appearance akin to that of a rose bush. Beautiful blossoms encased in a myriad of thorns protecting and guarding what lies beneath.

The thorns and vines interlaced with Asmodeus' pact mark when looked at from afar takes the shape of a heart matching the marks on his own skin.

Every time he sees the petals of his mark peeking out from a shirt of yours he can't help the way his heart fills and nearly weeps in happiness. While others may try to claim he is just oogling at your chest you both know its much more than that. Its much deeper than any of that.

Beelzebub

His pact mark is on your dominant hand. He had laughed at the time when it appeared saying it was because he couldn't think of anywhere else to place it but you both knew that demons don't choose where a pact forms. It appears in a place of significance to the both of them.

It took a week before you made the connections as to why it was your dominant hand that it appeared on. Everytime you took a drink or ate you would catch a glimpse of Beels large and chunky pact mark curling over the back of your hand and over your knuckles almost trickling down your fingers. You couldn't help but laugh almost choking on your food at the time as everyone at the table looked to you like you were mad.

Beel was all smiles as you told him about your discovery his cheeks flustered red as he too realized that was indeed a great reason as to why it might appear there. In all honesty he had been truly as clueless as you as to why it was your hand but now. Now it made perfect sense and he loved it so so much.

Beel loves his pact mark with you so much he will often just take your hand in his and press a soft kiss to your knuckles, or when he is feeling mischievous he will take your hand and drag a long lick up your arm before commenting on how delicious you are.

Belphegor

Belphegors mark forms on your non-dominant hand parallel to his twins. Though rather than drift down over the knuckles it instead crawls up the arm towards the elbow. Thin and curling lines make out the shapes of clouds that encircle the runes and sigil of his pact.

You both knew why his mark appeared here and it wasn't simply to mirror his twin much to Belphie's embarrassment. He always held your hand when he napped. It got to the point he couldnt sleep if you weren't holding his hand or petting his hair.

With your mark now on full display he doesn't even attempt to hide his need to hold your hand just walking up to you and taking it into his own even when not looking for a quick nap.

Long after you have gone to bed at night he will crack an eye open making sure you really are out for the night before carefully sitting up to take your hand into his and trace over the patterns there. You most likely would never notice but when his mark hit the moonlight just so. Brilliant white speckles like stars could be seen mixed among the markings.

Interlacing your fingers together Belphegor brings your knuckles to his lips falling asleep with your hand cradled to his face hoping to wake up still holding you.

Bonus:

Diavolo

His mark is the biggest out of all the demons. Shocker. The sigil and runes sit between your shoulder blades and the massive and intricate detailing the sprout outwards from that trails upwards and over yours shoulders and down your sides like a hug from behind. In the light it has a golden shimmer to it giving it a regal apperance.

If you have a pact with Barbatos it connects to his encircling your entire back and upper legs.

The mark appears where it does because that's where his hand is just drawn to rest on you. When he hugs you it presses there to draw you in closer, When guiding you around the castle he places it there when leading you through a door way and into another, even when just standing beside you his hand drifts to settle there.

When the pact mark appears it becomes his favorite place to kiss. Often walking up behind you and leaning down to press a quick kiss to the space regardless of the clothing in the way before smiling at you happily.

Barbatos

His mark appears on your lower back. The sigil and the runes themselves and small and concentrated into your lower back. Though the curling and spiraling patterns that extend outwards from it cover most of your lower back trailing up your spine. It even extends out and down the back of your thighs only stopping when it reaches the back of your knees.

The mark appears pure black to the naked eye but to those with magical capabilities it is a sparkling mixture of metallic blacks and sparkling blues.

If you have a pact with Diavolo the two pacts seem to blend together creating a dazzling shimmering affect of the gold and the blue/black.

He often takes the time just to appreciate the beauty of your pact mark. Asking in a soft voice before pushing up the back of your shirt to run a gloved hand carefully over the lines that trail along your spine and to your lower back.

When it is just the two of you he will place his hand on your lower back and rub small circles against the place where the mark lies reassuringly.

[yesimwriting]

The Promise of Rain, blurb 2

The Promise of Rain (part 2?? technically) 

A/n I was not originally planning a second part for this but some people wanted it and this idea came to me and it works better with the context of ‘The Promise of Rain’ but it can technically be read as a stand alone :))

Anyways this might turn into a small series of kinda connected blurbs that are all kind of canon with each other but aren’t necessarily connected except for the reader’s background (the reader is a very sunshine-y person and knows Kaz bc she’s a runaway princess that he was hired to bring back home but she managed to convince him to let her work for him instead)

--

The night air had left me with a chill that made me want nothing more than to have my covers draped over me as I read. I’m normally more sociable after a job, especially after such a simple and safe ending, but a lot of tonight had left me wanting to be alone. 

Well, not truly alone. The company of my books is always welcomed, but tonight I can’t seem to find much comfort within the pages. After almost every paragraph, I find myself distracted by gusts of wind and thoughts of the heavy, silver clouds that seem to make up tonight. A part of me longs for the rain. I know it’s ridiculous to expect rain each time I desire some sense of comfort, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want it. Especially when the sky so clearly implies it. 

“This must be the fifth time I’ve come here and you’ve been reading.” Kaz’s sudden appearance is almost enough to shake away my lingering somberness. 

I roll my eyes slightly, turning my attention back to the page in front of me. “That observation is just a testament to how often you come in here.” 

His glare is half hearted, a look I’d find endearing if I was less annoyed. “Where else am I going to find a reminder that good people exist in Ketterdam?” 

I think he may have a sixth sense that warns him when I’m treading the line between being annoyed and displeased. Everytime I find myself mad at him in a way that makes me want to avoid him instead of yell at him, Kaz makes some ridiculously heart-melting comment. He steps further into the room. I don’t miss the way he eyes my stretched out legs. Ever since the conversation we had after he woke up after an injury, we’ve fallen into the unmentioned habit of silently inviting the other to stay by moving to make room for them. 

It had started the day after the conversation in which Kaz had admitted that he wanted me to stay with him. He had been sitting on the small couch while discussing the details of a job. Shortly after I walked in he made a point of shifting so that he was clearly on one side of the couch. I didn’t think much about sitting down, but Inej and Jesper exchanged a look. 

Now, though, I keep my legs stretched out on the bed. He eyes my position on the bed, something grim crossing his features. 

“It might rain tonight.” 

He knows me so damn well. I hate it. “I hope so.”

I turn my head, analyzing the way the world seems to be on the cusp of something. I stare at the silver clouds until I feel something hard tap my leg. The tap is firm but not painful. I’m quick to look at Kaz as he lowers his cane. The mention of rain had been a distraction. 

“You distracted me on purpose.” 

“The first rule of the Barrel is to always be prepared.” There’s a slight uptilt to his lips, something I’ve learned to interpret as a sign of teasing. 

How is he so easy to be around one second and so cold the next? I resist a smile. “I’ll take notes.” 

Kaz ignores my passive aggressive tone. His focus seems to be on my legs that have still not moved to offer him a place next to me. “You wear your emotions too openly.” Great, he’s going to make us talk about it. “What reason could you possibly have to be mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you.” It’s a partial truth. 

His expression harshens. “Don’t lie.” 

“I’m not thrilled with you, but I don’t think that’s the same as being mad.” 

Kaz lets out a partial sigh. “No, they’re not the same.” Such an early concession feels like a trap. “With you, the first option is worse.” I don’t have anything to say to that. “Is this because of what I said to Jesper?” 

My posture straightens on instinct. “He wants your validation more than he’d ever admit and I understand that expressing praise isn’t exactly something you do, but would it kill you to not actively insult him?” 

“I didn’t say anything that was wrong. He thinks he’s a gambler but he’s just someone born for losses.” The look I give him must mean something to him, because Kaz is quick to tact on, “That doesn’t make him less valuable of an asset or less relatively dependable.” 

I eye him cautiously, the slightest bit of vulnerability playing at his features. “Don’t look at me like that--and don’t tell me that. Jesper’s the one who could use the occasional reminder from you that you hold him to any regard with positive connotations.” His lips press together like he’s thinking about scolding me for scolding him. “It’s only because I know you care more about Jesper than you’d ever let on.” 

“Jesper’s esteem can handle the blow.” The curtness of his voice is a blow in its own sense. “And he didn’t exactly deserve to be in my good graces after what he did tonight.” 

My sigh is not weighted enough to match Kaz’s newfound fountain of emotion. “We were successful--”

“He left you.” I didn’t know Kaz’s voice was capable of such harshness. “I paired him with you, and he left you--and you almost didn’t make it.” I let the weight of his words take up all the available space in the room, keeping the silence that follows them until some of the heaviness has dissipated. “He could have cost me one of my best people.”

Oh. His harshness, his unwarranted coldness, had been a manifestation of his concern. For me. Guilt knots my stomach. Potential words that may offer Kaz some sort of support raise and die back down in my throat. Kaz turns towards the door. 

“Kaz.” He pauses. There’s a long moment in which I think he won’t turn around, but finally, he does. I tuck my legs beneath me, forcing myself to sit up a little straighter. “I told Jesper to leave because I knew the job would have failed if he had been trapped in that room with me.” I drop my gaze towards the window. “I was right, the job was successful, and I got out in time so it was worth it.”

“You risked your safety?” The harsh facet of his being is making its return in full force. 

“For the job,” I’m careful to keep my words factual, “It’s what we’re supposed to do.”

Kaz’s jaw locks. “When I said that keeping you near me would ruin you this is what I meant.” 

Is it really this big of a deal? I made it out. “Kaz.”

“This wasn’t my best idea.” His words are leached of anything. “You’re going back home. Tomorrow I’ll arrange the voyage myse--” 

“Kaz Brekker you may get to live your life doing anything you want but you don’t get to control mine.” My chin raises an inch, an instinctual act of subtle rebellion. “I am not going back there, even if I’m technically indebted to you because you didn’t return me to my father but that does not mean I’ll--”

“I’m not trying to control you.” His words are sharp, boarding on a yell. “A job like that one wasn’t worth you.” 

From Kaz, I know those words are heavy. There’s a lot of things I could say to that. I could tell him that I wanted to do something for him. I could say that I appreciate him telling me that. I could even say that in his own way, Kaz giving Jesper a hard time because he left me, is kind of cute in a misguided way. The thing is I think all of these responses will make things worse. 

“Kaz,” I keep my voice as steady as possible, “I’m fine, you’re fine, it all worked out.” Scratching the back of my arm, I exhale gently. “I’ll be more careful next time, I promise.” 

I watch him carefully, there’s a slight slump to his shoulders as he exhales. Is the fight leaving him so easily? He walks further into the room. “You better.” He sits down in the space I provided for him slowly. “If you’re not you’ll have worse things to worry about than anything that can happen to you on a job.” He moves his cane forward easily, tapping my knee in a swift motion. 

I roll my eyes at the mock threat. “They do say that there’s nothing to fear in the Barrel like the Dirtyhands.” 

“Remember that.” Any edge in his voice is forced. I fight against a smile that seems to always want to break across my face whenever I think I see something resembling lightness in Kaz. 

“I don’t think I could forget anything about you.” 

He turns his head slightly. “You should.” 

“Too bad.” 

Kaz leans his back against the wall, untensing slightly. “I think you just like disagreeing with me.” 

There’s no point in lying about it. “Only because when you argue with me you give me this really particular look.” 

“A look?” 

Adding insult to injury, I smile. “Sometimes you look like you’re too focused on being angry, like you’re compensating for something.” 

Kaz lets out a bitter sigh. “Maybe if you were less of a puppy I wouldn’t have to--”

The laugh that escapes is most definitely a mistake. “Did you just call me a puppy?” I don’t give him a chance to reply, laughter taking over again. “I mean this in the least argumentative way possible--but you’re so weird sometimes.” 

He rolls his eyes, tensing. “I’m leaving.”

I stifle the rest of my laughter. “No. I was--I was kidding!” I keep my eyes on Kaz, expecting some type of annoyed glare, but his expression is a lot more weighted than that. Odd. “Kaz?” 

“You need to be more careful.” I understand Kaz’s pause as something he does before saying something outside of his nature. “I’m not asking you this as a Crow or a Dreg.” 

On instinct, my posture straightens. “I promised and I meant it.” 

“Sometimes I wish I could believe in Saints,” his voice has taken off a distant quality, almost fragile, “That way I could believe something existed to help what matters.” 

Oh. “You never fail, even if I didn’t believe in Saints I’d believe in you.” 

“You’re wasting your faith.” The sound of lightning cracking is almost enough to make me jump. The rain finally came. 

I know I’ll never convince him that that’s not true. “I don’t think so, but that’s why it’s called faith.” 

“I have faith in some things.” His expression is far off. 

“Like what?” 

Kaz’s eyes find the window. “People that find meaning in the rain.” 

Something in my chest swells. “You’re like the rain.”

We sit there in silence, watching raindrops glide down the window. “What were you reading?” 

The question has me dropping my gaze to the forgotten book on my lap. “I stole this book from the palace before I left. It was my mom’s favorite, she’s read it so much the spine’s completely cracked and the cover is practically falling off.” 

“Hm…” He mumbles. “Read some, the books read in a palace must be worthwhile.” 

A part of me wants to tell him that elitism has no place in literature, but his request leaves me frozen. I nod once, turning to the first page of the book. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife--” 

“Your upbringing makes sense--” 

“You can’t judge it off the first sentence,” he’s insufferable, “It’s setting up irony, and if you’re going to complain--” 

He lets out a conceding sigh. “I’m listening, I’m not interrupting.” 

I keep my eyes on him for a second longer than I should. “Okay.” Dropping my gaze back to the book, I adjust my grip on the worn paperback, “Good.” 

And then I keep reading. 

--

@theincredibledeadlyviper @grishaverse7 @lonelystarship @mentally-in-northern-italy @uhanddreag 

[fridayfirefly]

All For The Investigation

Read All For The Investigation on AO3

Masterlist

By Tim’s calculations, there was an 87% certain that Marinette Dupain-Cheng was the Parisian former hero Ladybug. However, 87% was not 100%, so Bruce required further investigation. Damian was stuck with the job.

Except, Damian knew that stuck wasn't exactly the right word. Stuck implied that he was displeased with the situation. Damian wasn't displeased. Marinette Dupain-Cheng was the most pleasant person in all of Gotham Academy. If Damian had to choose anyone to be forced to spend time with, he would choose Marinette. Though he grumbled about being forced to spend time with plebeians (for the benefit of his brothers, who would mercilessly tease Damian if they even suspected that he had a crush), Damian was quite pleased by the assignment.

Given that Marinette was in his history class, it was quite easy to arrange a situation in which they were forced to be in each others' proximities. When their teacher announced that there would be an upcoming group project with randomly assigned partnerships, it was simple for Damian to break into her office and switch around some of the names. When the partnerships were announced and Marinette and Damian were paired together, Damian made his move.

"Dupain-Cheng, if you would like to work on the project over the weekend, we can do so at my house."

"Sounds good, Wayne, but you know, you can just call me Marinette," said Marinette with a smile.

Damian felt flustered, which was a very bad sign. He never felt anything less than perfectly composed. "Then you may call me Damian."

Marinette's smile got even bigger. There was a feeling in his chest that, had it been caused by anyone else, Damian would have suspected it to be a complication of the broken ribs from Joker's last attack. "Let me give you my number, and we can plan a meeting this weekend. Would Saturday work for you?"

Damian nodded as he handed Marinette his phone. "My schedule is free on Saturday."

"Great!" chirped Marinette. She plugged in her number, then posed for a picture, explaining that it was, "For the contact photo."

And if in the privacy of his bedroom, Damian stared at that contact photo for twenty-minutes straight, it was just for research purposes. Just to compare Marinette's facial structure to that of Ladybug. Completely normal investigative business.

The next morning, Damian found his way to the bedroom of his most tolerable brother. "Grayson. Can I confide in you without any of the information getting to anyone else?"

Richard glanced up from his laptop. "Sure thing, Baby Bird." He patted a spot on the bed next to him,

"Don't call me that. I despise nicknames," grumbled Damian. He took a seat, staring at the wall in front of him, still weighing the risk versus reward of talking to Richard. If his brother had some technique for extinguishing romantic interest it would solve Damian's problem. However, if either Drake or Todd got word of Damian's crush there was no doubt in Damian's mind that they would never let him hear the end of it.

"So what's on your mind?"

"It pertains to the girl in my who Drake suspects to be Ladybug, Marinette Dupain-Cheng. She has become difficult to investigate. I have found myself unable to observe her objectively."

Richard frowned. "I'm not sure I know what you mean. Is it something that she did that's bothering you?"

Damian searched for the right words to explain the situation. He was not usually so tongue-tied, but the proper words seemed to escape him at every turn. "Dupain-Cheng is not what I expected. I assumed that it would be a simple task, to observe her and determine whether she has any connection to the Parisian superhero. However, I have found it difficult to concentrate on my mission when I am around her."

"You find it difficult to concentrate when you're around her. How so?"

Damian gritted his teeth. He didn't want to spell out his crush so obviously, but Richard seemed incapable of looking between the lines. "I have found myself preoccupied with trivial things like getting to know her personality, rather than investigating her background. She makes me feel... flustered."

Damian could see the moment that Richard made the connection. His brother's face lit up as he exclaimed, "You have a crush on her?!"

"Quiet!" snapped Damian. "This does not leave this room. I need to learn how to get rid of it, so I can get back to completing the mission."

Richard was grinning ear to ear. "That's not how crushes work. You can't just snap your fingers and have them disappear. The only thing that can get rid of a crush is time. Or sometimes if they get a haircut that kills the feeling. But mostly it just takes time."

"I cannot afford to wait for these feelings to fade. I'll look into scheduling her a haircut." Damian stood up, resolved to get rid of his crush before Marinette came over later that day to work on their project.

"No wait," Richard grabbed Damian's arm. "I doubt that your attraction to her is so shallow that a haircut would destroy the feelings you have for her. This is something that you'll have to talk to her about."

Damian frowned. "Perhaps I should give the mission to someone else. Jon could transfer to Gotham Academy for the semester. His detective skills are lacking but his judgment would be less clouded than mine. If I ignore her for long enough I'm sure that I can evade talking about my feelings."

"Why don't you just ignore the mission for a few weeks while you get to know her."

Damian fixed Richard with a death glare. "I cannot ignore this mission. Father gave it to me personally."

"How about twenty-four hours? You spend the next twenty-four hours in getting-to-know-her mode rather than background-check mode and at the end of it, we can regroup and decide what to do next. If you actually get to know her, you'll better understand the depths of your feelings. Once you have that understanding, you'll be able to see if waiting out your crush is a viable option or if you need to pass on the responsibilities to someone else."

It wasn't the perfect solution, but it was better than anything Damian had come up with. Anything that could potentially alleviate Damian's inability to focus on the investigation was worth trying. "Fine," Damian replied curtly. "Thank you for your assistance."

"No problem," said Richard. "You know, I would love to get to meet Marinette sometime."

"Don't push your luck," grumbled Damian, ignoring Richard's laughter as he stood up and left the room. There would be no way to hide the fact that Marinette was coming over to the Manor from his family. There was also no way that his family wouldn't intrude upon Damian and Marinette as they worked. However, if he explained everything beforehand and phrased everything in precisely the right way, he might be able to pass off his odd behavior towards Marinette as a part of his investigation. Damian pulled out his phone and composed a text to send to the family groupchat.

Damian: Dupain-Cheng is coming to the Manor at approximately 22:00 to work on a history project. I will be covertly conducting my investigation. From what I have gathered, she would respond better to subtle questioning, rather than a straightforward interrogation.

Tim: wait does subtle interrogation mean that you'll be flirting with her???

Jason: I need to see this

Steph: I'm willing to bet money that his flirting offends Marinette so much she storms out of the Manor before Damian can finish the mission

Dick: No way. I'll bet 20 dollars that his flirting works too well

Steph: done

Damian huffed, half tempted to call off his meeting with Marinette. His siblings were insufferable.

Damian: Please refrain from intervening. Confirming that Dupain-Cheng is Ladybug is a vital first step in determining whether the Justice League needs to interfere in the affairs of the Order of the Miraculous.

Bruce: Damian is correct. No one will bother him while he is working with Marinette.

Damian smirked as he turned his phone off. His plan wasn't foolproof, of course, but a direct order from Bruce to not interfere would force his siblings to be more subtle about spying on him and Marinette. The chance of him being interrupted was significantly decreased.

Damian got everything set up in the den, which was only ever used on family movie night. It was perfectly situated for the task at hand - a room small enough to be classed as cozy but big enough to not feel cramped. It was out of the way, surrounded by other equally unused rooms, so his siblings would have no excuse for lurking in the hallway outside. Damian brought in snacks, chargers, and a few books from the Wayne Manor library on Renaissance Art, the topic of their project.

Marinette arrived promptly at 2 in the afternoon, holding a Tupperware container full of gingerbread cookies, with a smile on her face. "Hi, Damian. I brought cookies."

None of his planning accounted for this moment, for first laying eyes on Marinette. Damian froze up, desperate to put the right words in the right order. "Welcome to Wayne Manor, Marinette. I have everything set up in the den if you'll just follow me."

"Sure." Marinette toed off her black boots and arranged them on the shoe tray next to the door. She was left in sage green cat-print socks that matched the rest of her outfit, a pine green sweater and black jeans. Damian couldn't help but wonder if she knit the sweater herself - Marinette's talent for designing was well-known throughout Gotham Academy, as it was what got her accepted into the prestigious high school in the first place.

Marinette followed Damian through the Manor, complimenting little details that Damian had never noticed before - the pattern of the curtains, the bay window in a sitting room that Damian had never bothered to enter, the family pictures that lined the wall in the hallway. Marinette made it seem so obvious to pay attention to those little details. Damian wished that he could see the Manor for the first time through her eyes and feel the same amazement that she felt as she oohed and awed over the decadence that Damian had considered banal.

Damian was so captivated by Marinette that he almost missed the fact that Drake and Brown were lurking in the study across the hall from the den. A text to his father about the gravity of his mission would be enough to get them sent away on some inconsequential but time-consuming task. Damian would have to find an inconspicuous time to pull out his phone during their work on the project to let his father know about their intrusion.

"Now I know why you call it Wayne Manor. This place is huge." Marinette shrugged off her backpack and set it down on the coffee table next to her container of cookies.

"Its size is entirely unnecessary for ordinary life," agreed Damian. "However, it makes for very challenging games of hide-and-seek."

Marinette giggled. "That sounds like fun. You'll have to invite me next time you play."

"I'll make sure of it." Damian smiled, surprised to find that his happiness wasn't forced. He rarely engaged in childish behavior, and even more rarely did he find any enjoyment in it. Yet the mental image of playing a child's game with Marinette was pleasant to him. The feelings he had for her were deeper than Damian anticipated.

The pair got to work on their project. Damian sent out the text to his father as soon as he opened his laptop, leaving Marinette under the impression that he was researching sources. A series of irritable texts in the family groupchat confirmed the fact that Drake and Brown had been removed from their hiding spot.

"Do you want to try a cookie?" asked Marinette, pushing the Tupperware towards Damian.

"Thank you." Damian took one, just to be polite. Growing up in the League of Assassins, he never really had a taste for sweets. Alfred's baking was the extent of what he would tolerate. He took a bite - small, to back up his claim that he already ate if it turned out to be inedible. Surprisingly, it was nearly as good as Alfred's gingerbread cookies, and those were tailer made to Damian's taste. The cookies were heavy on the ginger and cloves, just as Damian liked. "These are delicious," Damian professed.

Marinette blushed. "Thanks. I know they taste a little different than store-bought gingerbread. My parents make them with a lot of ginger."

"These are much superior to store-bought cookies."

"Thanks. You know, you're a lot nicer outside of school. You always seemed kind of grumpy in class."

"I'm not a fan of the state-mandated curriculum."

Marinette nodded. "I get what you mean. I barely have any room in my schedule for my design classes, with all the mandatory classes that Gotham Academy makes us take. I'm lucky that I have my internship, otherwise, I think I would go crazy, taking so many classes that I don't care about."

"Your internship is with Audrey Bourgeoise, isn't it?"

Marinette nodded. "I was friends with her daughter, back in Paris. Originally it was going to be a four-year internship in New York City, but I renegotiated some of the terms so that I could do the first two years in Paris, then the last two in Gotham, while she established the new branch of her company."

"You renegotiated the terms of a prestigious internship at the age of fourteen? Weren't you afraid of losing it if you pushed too hard?"

Marinette shrugged, nonchalant as if it were normal for an intern to make such a bold move. "I didn't want to leave Paris. My whole life was there. I wasn't ready to just pick up and move to a new country."

"What changed that you were able to come to Gotham?"

"There were a lot of reasons. Hawkmoth was the biggest one. I felt nervous about leaving my family and friends behind when he was terrorizing the city. After he was defeated I felt a lot more comfortable leaving."

That aligned with the theory that Marinette was Ladybug. "What were the other reasons?"

"My age was one. I didn't feel ready to leave home at fourteen and my parents didn't like the idea of me leaving home that young either. Another big one was the fact that I didn't have a good handle on my personal style. I was worried that designing full-time in Audrey Bourgeoise's office would cause me to lose my originality. The worst thing I could imagine was watering down my designs to appeal to the rest of the fashion industry."

"Your conviction is impressive. Most in your position would not worry about selling out to obtain such a highly coveted position."

"Audrey said the same thing, though when she said it, she spoke it with annoyance, not admiration. I've never been highly motivated by wide-spread success. I don't need to be a household name to feel content with life. I just want to design clothes that I'm proud of."

The fluttering feeling in Damian's chest returned with full force, alongside a tendril of anger at the unfairness of the situation. Here was the most perfect person Damian had ever laid his eyes on, and he was forced to pick her apart piece by piece to figure out her deepest darkest secrets. Damian didn't know much about relationships, but this didn't seem like the way they were supposed to go.

"You look upset," Marinette's observation was tinged by the worry in her voice.

"I'm not upset," he assured her. "I was just wondering how I never noticed how interesting you are."

Marinette flushed, her cheeks turning pink. "What does that mean?"

Damian shrugged. While his nonchalant attitude was all a bluff, his admiration of her accomplishments was all real. "Most of our classmates feel accomplished with the most conventional of achievements. Yet you secured an internship at the side of one of the most renowned fashion critics in the world and you still stay humble about it. You weren't blind-sighted by the incredible opportunity. You fought to maintain your values, no matter if it meant losing something priceless."

Marinette's blush deepened. "That's just who I am. It's not special, it's me."

"It is you," agreed Damian. "And it is special."

Marinette gave him a wide-eyed look, shocked by the emotion in his words. "We should get back to work," she said, self-consciously rubbing one cheek with the sleeve of her green wool sweater.

"Of course," Damian amicably agreed. He had pushed far enough for intel and had managed to get to know her a little better in the process. His flirting wasn't as blatant as it could have been, but it got the job done. Richard had said that once he knew the depths of his feelings he would know what to do. Richard was right. Damian's feelings were seemingly endless, a maze of all the things he liked about Marinette, in which every corner he turned was a new quirk that he couldn't un-notice. Yet Damian didn't want to pass on the responsibility of investigating Marinette to anyone else. He wanted a reason to spend time with her.

It wasn't the best situation. Damian wished that he could get to know her organically. However, Damian wasn't the type to dwell on the could-have-been. He had an opportunity to get to know Marinette right in front of him and he wasn't going to let it go.

Hours later, after Marinette went home, Richard stopped him in the hallway. "So what did you learn?"

"My investigation has proven inconclusive. I need to further get to know Marinette Dupain-Cheng if I want to uncover her identity. For research purposes, of course."

Richard laughed. "Of course."

[robininthelabyrinth]

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 23 - ao3 -

Lan Qiren woke with a start at the sound of something slamming to the point of cracking – a door thrown too hard, perhaps, or the shattering of a piece of furniture under the strength of a powerful cultivator.

Dazed at having been woken so abruptly at such a late hour, he at first thought that the sound was an aberration of some sort, someone making too much noise by mistake, even some cultivation maniac doing exercises in the middle of the night that had briefly lost control, but then the sounds continued, crashing and slamming and even indistinct shouting.

Indistinct, and unfamiliar, but still recognizable – that was Wen Ruohan’s voice.

Lan Qiren had never heard him shout before.

He stood up, instinctively checking over his clothing and fixing his forehead ribbon, and padded out towards the door to the hallway. The array used to create enough silence to let him sleep was glowing faintly, doing its work against overwhelming odds, but Lan Qiren didn’t hesitate to dismiss it and pull open the door, poking his head out to see what was going on.

“ – what use are you?” Wen Ruohan was shouting, some distance down the hall. “Good-for-nothing bitch! What do you think I got you for in the first place?”

He was standing outside his wife’s door.

Lan Qiren had not seen Madame Wen on this visit, other than in passing. He’d been relieved to discover that he had heard accurately and that she had not suffered on account of what she had done, except perhaps as a result of her husband making clear that he would give her exactly what he had promised her out of their marriage and nothing more. Despite that, every time she saw him, she generally had an expression that resembled smelling something bad, and he didn’t especially want to deal with her irrational jealousy. 

(Lan Qiren could understand and even appreciate the truth that she had shown him, but it didn’t mean he appreciated the reasoning behind her actions - just as Wen Ruohan might appreciate the cunning and ambition demonstrated by her actions, and begrudgingly acknowledge that the real fault for their divide was his own actions, but not feel any more inclined to her as a result.)

Lan Qiren thought he might have to deal with her more, particularly on the few times he had visited little Wen Xu, who was already a size or two larger than he’d started out – it was simply shocking in terms of how much time had passed since he’d had his argument with Wen Ruohan – but he found that the child was largely being watched by servants, not the Madame, who was busy ruling the social scene of the Nightless City. Whether that was true or merely an excuse, by now it was clear that they were in mutual agreement that they did not want to spend any time in each other’s presence.

She was also, very clearly, refusing to let Wen Ruohan into her bedroom.

Lan Qiren couldn’t blame her: he’d never seen Wen Ruohan in a state like this. His clothing was mussed up, his hands clenched, his face red, his aura frighteningly strong and overwhelming, his monstrously powerful qi roiling the air in the hallway into an incipient storm – and even from the distance he was standing, Lan Qiren could smell the distinct odor of strong liquor, suggesting that Wen Ruohan had overindulged in alcohol at some point after Lan Qiren had gone to sleep. Based on casual mentions in prior conversation, Lan Qiren knew that Wen Ruohan’s cultivation level was so high as to render him largely unaffected even by significant drinking, but the fact that he had bothered to try to seek solace in the wine jar suggested that there was something incredibly wrong with his mental state. 

It wasn’t a qi deviation - the violent emanations were unsettled, but not distorted - but it wasn’t good, either.

Wisdom would counsel that Lan Qiren keep back and not get in Wen Ruohan’s way.

Righteousness, on the other hand…

Anyway, Wen Ruohan was his sworn brother. What sort of brother would Lan Qiren be if he took only the good and not the bad?

“Da-ge?” he called, stepping out into the hallway. “Da-ge, come away from there.”

Wen Ruohan turned to him, and his expression was frightening. “Fine. You’ll do,” he growled, and it was only because Lan Qiren had grown wiser and stronger that he realized what was about to happen and dodged before Wen Ruohan could grab him, darting back into his room.

Wen Ruohan followed him in.

“What happened?” Lan Qiren asked, still backing away. “You were fine at dinner – what happened since then?”

For some reason, that set Wen Ruohan off again, turning his attention away from Lan Qiren, and he grabbed the table and threw it into the wall, smashing it all to pieces. 

“That fucker,” he snarled, his eyes blank and distant. He wasn’t angry at Lan Qiren, that much was clear, but he was filled with ceaseless rage, and he was taking it out on everything around him. “That fucker got married! He’s got a son!”

Lan Qiren blinked. “…what?”

Smash went the cabinet, and all the various things on it. At least Wen Ruohan hadn’t started in on the paintings, which were the only aspect of the room Lan Qiren actually cared or worried about.

“Who got married and had a son?” Lan Qiren asked, even though he knew it would only inflame Wen Ruohan further. At this point, it was clear that Wen Ruohan’s had gotten stuck in his chest, like black blood that needed to be coughed; he needed to vent his anger or else it would curdle within him and he would suffer. “Normally that’s a good thing, a cause for celebration. Why is it bad here?”

“Because it’s Lao Nie!” Wen Ruohan burst out, and Lan Qiren rocked back on his heels in shock.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t known that Lao Nie had been unusually distracted these past few months, even most of a year – the way he’d ignored or disregarded Lan Qiren’s letters about the situation with He Kexin, the breezy and almost manic tone of his replies to Lan Qiren’s brother, which Lan Qiren had seen, it all spoke of distraction and carelessness, all typical of Lao Nie, albeit of far greater severity than usual.

Nor was it truly a surprise that none of them had been informed: the Qinghe Nie had always been idiosyncratic about their personal details, unusually secretive and fiercely proud of it. They did not share their birth date or even year, other than for arranging a marriage. If Lan Qiren had thought about it, he wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find out that Lao Nie would have married and had a child all without having shared any information on the subject until afterwards.

Only…

“But aren’t you – with him?” he asked, and knew immediately that he had asked the wrong question.

Wen Ruohan roared and smashed yet another thing, sending a palm strike through a dresser and denting the stone wall with the power of it. “He’s mine,” he spat. His eyes were even redder than usual, the sclera becoming red alongside the iris; it made him look almost possessed, almost as if he really were having some sort of qi deviation. “He’s mine, damn it! Who is he to give himself to another? And he didn’t even tell me…!”

They were definitely in a relationship, Lan Qiren confirmed to himself. His guess had been right. There could be no doubt about it. And yet, despite it all, Lao Nie had –

No, he couldn’t even express surprise. Lan Qiren knew Lao Nie, knew what he valued and how he valued it: Lao Nie had always been passionate and powerful, strong and superior, friendly and often kind, and yet at his core he was ruthless, careless, and selfish, just like Wen Ruohan was so often selfish. He did not concern himself overmuch with questions of righteousness, other than to the degree necessary to win glory to his sect as one on the righteous path. After his sect, which he valued most of all, he was an indolent pleasure-seeker, with terrible taste in partners, the more dangerous the better; Lan Qiren had seen him flirting with people left and right long after he’d concluded that he’d entered into a relationship with Wen Ruohan.

In the past, Wen Ruohan hadn’t seemed to mind. If anything, he’d even encouraged him, looking smug and amused by the flirtations, taking the other man’s victories as his own; during one incident that Lan Qiren could recall, he’d all but applauded when Lao Nie had successfully wooed some rogue cultivator and taken her back to his bed, turning instead to his own separate amusements after.

Then again, that wasn’t a marriage.

(Of course, Wen Ruohan himself had also gotten married…)

“How dare he,” Wen Ruohan said, panting a little from his own exertion, clearly more moved by the feelings raging within him than any type of physical exhaustion. “How dare he – does he think I’m desperate? Pathetic? Does he think I’d run after him, begging and humiliating myself..? I don’t need him at all!”

He turned once more, and this time his gaze focused on Lan Qiren.

“I have something of my own already,” he murmured, and this time Lan Qiren wasn’t fast enough to stop him as he caught him up in his arms, slamming his back against the wall.

Lan Qiren tensed, suddenly for a moment back in his rooms in the Cloud Recesses, looking up at a different brother who wanted to hurt him – but no, Wen Ruohan wasn’t the same, Wen Ruohan liked him. He was acting out of fury, not malice; there was no He Kexin here to goad him on, nothing like that.

Even the force of being pushed against the wall hadn’t actually hurt – Wen Ruohan had been careful even in his mindless rage, making sure that any impact was cushioned by his own arms rather than Lan Qiren’s back; Lan Qiren hadn’t even had the breath knocked out of him.

“Da-ge…!”

Wen Ruohan didn’t want to hear him. He put his hand on Lan Qiren’s mouth and pressed down, cutting off speech at once. They were pressed together so closely that the movement inadvertently dragged his sleeve onto Lan Qiren’s throat, almost making him gag, and he instinctively tried futilely to kick his way out – it didn’t work, of course.

Wen Ruohan pressed up against him, the front of his body burning like flame against Lan Qiren.

“You’re mine,” he said, reaching in to nuzzle the side of Lan Qiren’s head with his cheek. “My blood brother, bound by oath and blood; my shining pearl, untouched by the world. All good things should belong to me.”

Lan Qiren reached up to try to push away the hand at this mouth, wanting to speak even though he did not know what he would say, and at first he thought he’d done it. But then suddenly he was in motion, his back landing hard on the bed he’d been given, the impact softened by the blanket Wen Ruohan had wrapped around him when he’d brought him back to the Nightless City from the Cloud Recesses. Shocked by the unexpectedness of the abrupt movement, he gasped, a wordless inhale rather than any coherent words.

Less than a heartbeat, and Wen Ruohan was on top of him, pressing him down. His body seemed even hotter than usual, as if his whole spirit were aflame, his qi boiling in the air around them until Lan Qiren had the impression as though he ought to be able to see steam; his hands were hot where they pressed down on Lan Qiren’s shoulders, his lips burning as they pressed against his collarbone, and between his legs there was something hot pressing against him, too.

And still, Lan Qiren – was not afraid.

He wasn’t sure why. He’d been terrified when it had been his brother who had stood against him, disgusted when it had been He Kexin pawing at him in ways he did not and had never wanted, but Wen Ruohan, who was bound to him through nothing but a tricked oath…

“Da-ge,” he whispered. “Please stop.”

Wen Ruohan stilled. He didn’t get up or pull away, but he didn’t make any further movements.

“Please let me go.”

Wen Ruohan’s breathing was harsh in his ear. “You, too, little Lan?” he asked. “Just like him, making me think – don’t you like me?”

“I do,” Lan Qiren admitted. He might be stupid when it came to social interactions, might be slow and miss things that were obvious, but even he could figure out what Wen Ruohan meant, with his confession of how Lan Qiren lingered in his thoughts and in pressing him down on the bed like this while mourning the loss of Lao Nie, his lover. And maybe sometimes he needed Cangse Sanren to point things out to him, but most of the time he knew himself. This past week had made clear enough that he enjoyed Wen Ruohan’s endless indulgences in a spirit that was more than just pure brotherhood. “I do like you. But I don’t like – this.”

Wen Ruohan was silent for a long moment.

“Not this, with me,” he finally said. “Or not – at all?”

“At all,” Lan Qiren said. He had thought when he was younger that he might change, but he was increasingly sure that he wouldn’t, that this was just what he was like. “I was never like the others my age. Even Yueheng-xiong, who I would’ve thought loved nothing but mathematics and explosions, has found himself distracted by the shape of the one he likes. But not me. I don’t yearn the way they do. I can love a person’s spirit, but I never much cared for the flesh.”

“Love,” Wen Ruohan echoed, his voice oddly uneven. “You speak of - love?”

“…isn’t that what we’re talking about?”

Wen Ruohan laughed, a jagged and choked up thing, and then he pulled away, letting Lan Qiren go, sitting up on the bed and burying his face in his hands. The qi around him was still too-hot, overwhelming, pulsing with his feelings, even as his shoulders shook and he stared blankly at the wall; any other man, and Lan Qiren might think he was crying, but he could see Wen Ruohan’s face through his fingers, and there were no tears there.

Perhaps he’d forgotten how.

Lan Qiren slowly sat up himself.

He could still feel the mild stiffness of old healing injuries, but he ignored them and got up off the bed, going to the one side table that had yet to be destroyed – the one where he’d laid his guqin to rest. It turned out that Wen Ruohan had only destroyed the things he himself had put into the room; he hadn’t touched anything of Lan Qiren’s.

Lan Qiren settled in front of his guqin and began to play.

Out of all the compositions he had created, his favorite was the one he had first created at the Nightless City, that strange hypnotic melody that brought to mind spilled pearls, but unlike some of the others he’d worked on, it had never felt fully completed. The music wrapped itself around the listener, at first intimate and then oppressive, a heavy stone in their chest and pressure on their skull, growing darker and darker, just as he’d written it – but now he played onwards, elaborating on the theme in ways he hadn’t planned or expected, letting the solemn notes brighten, the overwhelming pressure turning from suffocating into safe as it became clear that it would cause no harm, the storm passing by overhead and leaving things clean and clear and better, the lingering euphoria of finding oneself supported, rather than alone.

When his fingers finally stilled, Lan Qiren looked up and saw Wen Ruohan sitting there with his back straight again, hands resting gently in his lap, eyes closed as if in meditation and face calm once more. His qi no longer coiled around him, lashing out; it had settled once more.

“You will,” Wen Ruohan said without opening his eyes, “be an excellent traveling musician, little Lan. People will fight for the right to hear you, and you will never go without an audience.”

Lan Qiren hesitated, not sure what to make of such a compliment, or what Wen Ruohan meant by it. He’d only intended to play something to help him settle his qi and soothe his rage, which he’d clearly accomplished. He hadn’t even meant to play that particular song, other than in the way that he tended to default to it when he had nothing else specific in mind. It had always been unsatisfying, like an itch, but now it finally felt complete.

“Da-ge –” he started to say, not knowing what he would say next, but at any rate he never had the chance to continue.

“When you do finally go to fulfill your dreams, leaving the dust of the world behind you, I hope that you visit the Nightless City often,” Wen Ruohan said. His tone was still calm, settled, but not, Lan Qiren observed, peaceful: there were all sorts of seething emotions underneath it. “But for the moment, I think it is better if you return to the Cloud Recesses.”

Lan Qiren hesitated once again, this time feeling a little hurt. “You don’t want me here?”

“I do,” Wen Ruohan said, and his lips curved into something that was not a smile; it seemed almost painful a shape to contort into, and his eyes reflected no humor at all when he opened them. “Very much. Ah, little Lan, if only you knew…despite that, I would still have you go. Having made my views on you clear to your brother, it should be safe, and I do not want you to see what beast I make of myself when I am denied.”

Lan Qiren bowed his head a little. “About Lao Nie…”

“I know what he’s like,” Wen Ruohan said. “I’ve always known, from the start. If you had asked me a few days ago, I would have said that I did not have any illusions…”

He smiled bitterly.

“It seems that I misjudged myself.”

“I’ll go,” Lan Qiren said. He didn’t especially want to, but Wen Ruohan wasn’t in a rage, nor lashing out unthinkingly. To refuse him would be to deny him, to treat him as if he could not make his own decisions, and that, he thought, would be worse. “If you want me to, I’ll go, and later, I’ll return.”

Wen Ruohan said nothing, but he watched as Lan Qiren pulled on some more clothing, not caring which one it was, and did his hair back up in the simplest style, favoring speed over substance; he packed away his guqin and his sword and one of the paintings that he had liked best, but took nothing else – after all, it wasn’t as if he were going away for good.

He made it to the door before hesitating, then turned back to look at Wen Ruohan, who was still watching him.

“Is there anything…?” he asked haltingly. “Something I can get you…?”

“Send one of the maids to me,” Wen Ruohan said. “Any of them, it doesn’t matter which. If they’re still hanging around in the family quarters after an eruption like that, it can be seen that their ambition has overcome their good sense, making them a perfect match for me. It would be a shame to deny them the fruits of their victory.”

Lan Qiren didn’t quite understand, but he knew enough to get the gist; he felt his cheeks and ears go hot. Still, he had offered, and it wasn’t something he was willing to do himself, so there was really no basis for refusing to pass along the request. He nodded and slipped out – as Wen Ruohan predicted, there was one of the maids lingering at the far corner, looking around in blatant curiosity. She was pretty enough, Lan Qiren supposed, with an upturned nose and a slightly arrogant air, her clothing carefully arranged to be just a little mussed in a way that Lan Qiren understood most men to find attractive.

“Your sect leader is in my room,” he told her, and she blinked at him. “If you go to him now, he’d probably accept. Up to you, though.”

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. He left, his head held high; when he glanced back anyway, he saw her going into his room, hair patted down and clothing even more carefully arranged – Wen Ruohan hadn’t been wrong when he speculated as to her ambitions. The life of a powerful sect leader, Lan Qiren supposed: desired but never known, as distant from those around him as Lan Qiren but as a consequence of his position rather than his inclination.  

He would definitely return, Lan Qiren decided. Perhaps he would even make the Nightless City the first destination on his travels. After all, why should he not? Was Wen Ruohan not his sworn brother, too?

Yes, Lan Qiren thought. That was right.

Wen Ruohan deserved to have someone possess him as he longed to possess others.

[itswrenly]

Stinger in a Beast’s Den

Quick lil’ short story for the Hallowed Hopes AU because I’m trying to get out of my writer’s block. Might post on AO3 too, idk. Important notes before you read: - Anything italicized (”like this”) is written. This is to differentiate between written words and spoken dialogue. - “- - -” represents Ghost erasing their writing before writing something else to save unnecessary descriptions.

Alright, enjoy!

   Ghost awoke with a start, their eyes taking a moment to adjust to the low light. The usual sense of momentary dissociation one was met with upon waking up hit them hard, and they spent several seconds recalling where they were are why.    The locals had called the hanging cocoon of weaver’s silk and dirt the Beast’s Den. Then again, those locals had knocked them out and kidnapped them, so who knew if anything they said was true. Upon waking up, they’d been able to feel one of the seals nearby, and after some searching, had found the second of the three seals they needed to break; Herrah the Beast, Queen of Deepnest. Gods, they hope they never end up with a title that long.    They’d broken the seal. Or, at least, they were pretty sure they had. They’d done the same as they’d done with Monomon’s seal, and that seemed to have worked pretty well.    They pushed themself into a sitting position on the edge of the stone plinth and surveyed the room, searching for their lantern. The bright ball of encased lumaflies was a few yards away, and they lunged at it from where they sat, picking it up and positioning it awkwardly between they horns before a nearby snort of half-hearted amusement caught their attention. They turned their head back to the plinth only to be met by the trademark red cloak of a creature who’d caused them many troubles staring at them with eyes that seemed clouded by thought. She sat with her needle strewn across her lap, her chin resting in one of her hands. She wasn’t attacking them, which was an odd, but welcome change.     Her lack of aggression stopped Ghost from reaching for their nail. Instead, they met her eyes before wandering back to the plinth and sitting down next to her, noticing when her head tilted away, seemingly in an attempt to avoid their emotionless face.    She sighed. “So you've slain the Beast... and you head towards that fated goal.” Ghost tilted their head. The cloaked figure shook hers and turned a bit to finally face them. “I'd not have obstructed this happening, but it caused me some pain to knowingly stand idle.”    They gave her a look. “Knowingly stand idle?” Would’ve helped a hell of a lot if she’d “knowingly stood idle.”    “...What? You might think me stern but I'm not completely cold,” she added, as though reading their thoughts, the slightest hint of knowing amusement in her voice. “We do not choose our mothers, or the circumstance into which we are born. Despite all the ills of this world, I'm thankful for the life she granted me. It's quite a debt I owed. Only in allowing her to pass, and taking the burden of the future in her stead, can I begin to repay it. Leave me now, ghost. Allow me a moment alone before this bedchamber becomes forever a shrine.”    There… There was a lot to unpack there.    Herrah was… Herrah was her…    Without realizing, and definitely without intending to, Ghost wrapped the cloaked spider (beast?) in their arms tightly as they started shaking in barely perceptible crying. Quirrel had just seemed confused when they broke Monomon’s seal. He’d just seemed tired. But here…    They’d killed her mother. She should hate them. She had every reason to, and it had previously seemed like she already did, but now here she was, mourning like this had just been some sorry news delivered by a medic.    “Ghost, vessel, get off!” she hissed, shoving them back with what felt like more than two arms, not that such a detail was particularly surprising now. The action brought them back to reality, back to the fact that they were breaking down, that she should be trying to kill them, that—    “What are you doing?” there wasn’t a hint of concern in her voice. Her words came out dipped in interest and lathered in a demand for an answer that they couldn’t properly communicate.    In an attempt to get something across, they slid from the plinth and bent down over the dirt floor. Ghost brushed their hand across it in a decently sized area, smoothing the ground before balling up a fist and using their index finger to write down a single word that seemed to do a hell of a good job getting their point across.    “Crying,” they wrote.    They could feel her eyes burning holes in their shell. “Have you always been able to do that?”    They turned to her, searching for elaboration.    “Write? Have you always been able to write? Is… is that not new, I mean?”    Ghost nodded. They always had been, in a very literal sense. They couldn’t remember a time when they couldn’t write. They’d had to develop fine motor skills to hold a writing utensil, sure, but they’d always been able to put words down, it was everything else that was problematic.    “Do you have a name?”    They nodded again, brushing a palm across their previous writing to erase it and then scribbling out a new word; “Ghost.”    “I mean before, not what I’ve called you.”    They faced her and pointed to the word. They’d been called other things, sure, but that was their name, regardless of who had given it to them. They were the Ghost of Hallownest, and there was nothing else to it.    “Do you have a name?” they then wrote out beneath it.    “You never figured it out?”    They shook their head.    “…Hornet. My name is Hornet.”    “How the fuck was I supposed to know that?”    Hornet laughed. “I don’t know, everyone else seems to know it!”    “That’s weird. - - - You’re weird. - - - Your name is weird.”    “Thank you?” she replied, her words drawn out. If Ghost could, they would have smiled. But a thought crossed their mind, a question that needed to be asked, but that they knew would turn the mood sour.    “Can I ask you a question?”    “You can, theoretically. Gods know if I’ll care to answer.”    They erased everything they’d written, and smoothed a larger area of floor, preparing for the potential of this becoming… drawn out.    “Was she your mother?”    And with that, the room became deathly silent.

[ibijau]

The Noble Art of Tree Climbing / On AO3

Since he lost his mother, Lan Xichen hasn't felt anything at all, and his cultivation is starting to suffer. His worried uncle decides to take him to the Unclean Realm for a change of air.

It was not a common gift to see the threads of fate between people, but Lan Xichen’s mother had called it a blessing from the heavens when she’d still been alive. She had said it was a sign fate trusted him to be wise enough to deal with that knowledge, and that he would have to be worthy of it. Lan Xichen had promised that he would try, though he wasn’t always sure what that was even supposed to mean.

At that time, all he had really known was that his mother’s thread went out of the Cloud Recesses, and his father bore no thread at all.

It was only after his mother’s death that it had hit him how odd it was for a marriage to have happened between them in spite of this, and even more so for his brother and him to have been born of such an improbable union. He had been told that dual cultivation was necessary for children to be born, and that it could only be practiced with one’s true love. His teachers couldn’t have lied, so clearly his parents had to have been in love, even without a red thread of fate, right?

It often threw Lan Xichen into a pensive state whenever he looked at the thread attached to one of his fingers, or his brother’s thread. Would that fate be enough to make them happy? It clearly hadn’t been enough for their mother, who’d had that melancholy air about her, especially in her last few months, as if even visits from her sons weren’t enough to lift her spirits anymore. But maybe it was just that she had never had the chance of meeting that person at the other end of that thread. Or else, since she didn’t have Lan Xichen’s gift, she hadn’t known that person’s true value, and had gotten roped into another match that did not suit her. Unless it was for that person’s sake that she had committed the crime that Lan Xichen wasn’t supposed to know about, the murder that had caused him and his brother to be born even when they shouldn’t have.

Lan Xichen thought about his mother a lot in the weeks after she passed away. He was not as demonstrative as Lan Wangji about missing her, but the pain was still there and he didn’t know how to deal with it at all. It paralysed him sometimes, and he would spend half a day staring at the red thread on his hand, wondering how different things could have been for his mother, if she had only known better, if she’d gone to that other person, if Wangji and him had never been born. Maybe she would have been happy. Maybe she wouldn’t have died.

Maybe it would have been better for everyone, if Lan Xichen had never existed at all.

Those thoughts became so bad that his grief started to impact his cultivation, which was when Lan Qiren decided to intervene, and to find some distractions for Lan Xichen. He took his nephew along to a few conferences, hoping it might cheer him up. Lan Xichen, dutifully, tried to be entertained by all those old people discussing arcane cultivation techniques or chatting about politics, but it was very boring and just gave him more time to think about his mother. 

He could have tried to go play with the children of those other sects, but grown-ups always praised him when he tried to stay with them and to act serious, so he figured playing would have been a bad thing. He was going to be a sect leader someday, anyway, and he had to be serious. If he wasn’t serious enough, then he’d disappoint his sect, as his father had done. Lan Xichen didn’t want to be a disappointment. And anyway, even when he did try to play with others, he was often too sad, so they would leave him behind and continue their games without him. It was better to stay with the grown-ups.

It went on like this for half a year, Lan Xichen withdrawing further and further upon himself, Lan Wangji stubbornly waiting daily in front of their mother’s prison to see her. Lan Qiren appeared to be at his wit’s end, which only made Lan Xichen feel worse. After having lost his mother, he started worrying that his uncle too would leave them, disappointed that his nephews refused to behave themselves. He tried, hard, to act as if things were fine again, as if he didn’t miss his mother at all, but it was all for naught. Even if he could sometimes fool those who only knew him in passing, his cultivation was still suffering greatly from his too intense grief, and so Lan Qiren knew that things still weren’t right.

Out of other options, Lan Qiren decided that a longer change of habit might do his nephews good. Lan Xichen, privately, thought that it showed their uncle really didn’t understand Lan Wangji at times, because his brother thrived on habits and would be upset over any change. At the same time, Lan Qiren was older and knew better, of course. So Lan Xichen kept any remarks he might have had to himself, and nodded along to his uncle’s idea.

The place where Lan Qiren took them was a far away one, too far in fact for him to have taken Lan Xichen there to conferences before. Lan Qiren wasn’t the strongest of flyers, least of all when he had to carry along a boy of nearly ten years old. And yet he managed, with both his nephews riding his sword with him. Lan Xichen figured his uncle had to be really desperate, and he felt awful for causing so much trouble.

That place had an unpleasant name, an unpleasant look, and the disciples of that sect had an unpleasant air to them, grim and a little rough, completely unlike the people Lan Xichen was used to at home.

Privately, and as soon as he laid eyes upon the Unclean Realm, Lan Xichen found himself hoping that Lan Wangji would throw a tantrum and they’d have to go home soon. If he had to be miserable, he’d rather be miserable in a familiar place.

For the time being, they were welcomed at the gate by a very tall woman, taller than Lan Qiren or any of the disciples of her sect. She was Nie-furen, Lan Qiren explained as she guided them inside the Unclean Realm. The warning was appreciated. She really didn’t look much like the few women Lan Xichen had seen in his life, and wore men’s clothes. If he hadn’t been warned, he might have mistaken her for a man, though he would learn in the coming days that nearly all the women in the Unclean Realm dressed in that manner to be more efficient in Night Hunts. They only wore normal dresses for conferences, and only if they felt like it.

Nie-furen took them to a great hall where, seated upon a high and mighty throne, Nie-zongzhu greeted them with rather less effusions than Lan Xichen was used to from sect leaders, although that sober manner seemed to please Lan Qiren rather more than Jiang-zongzhu and Jin-zongzhu’s warmth.

Grown-ups were rather odd, and Lan Xichen didn’t quite have the capacity to reflect on that at the moment, too fascinated by the sight of Nie-zonghu.

Certainly, there was a lot to be fascinated by, when confronted by such a man. Although he was a little shorter than his wife when he eventually stood up, he was at least twice as broad, with hands so large that they could probably have wrapped around Lan Xichen’s shoulders and still have length to spare. None of that really mattered to Lan Xichen though. What really caught his attention was a detail that others wouldn’t have seen.

Nie-zongzhu had two red threads hanging from his hand.

Upon seeing this, Lan Xichen, who had struggled to feel anything for months and months now, was overcome with irrational anger. How unfair was it for that man to have two people fated to him, when his own parents had been denied such a happy fate? Sure, upon looking more closely, Lan Xichen realised that one appeared to have been severed. It had to have been rather recent, since its colour had only started its slow transformation toward the dull white it would become when the worst of the grief was over. Still, that man had had two fated lovers, when Lan Xichen’s mother had never lived with hers, when his father had been forced to accept the shadow of a love that could never be his.

How very unfair. Lan Xichen would have cried from rage if it wouldn’t have been disgraceful for his sect.

“And how long do you want to stay here then?” Nie-zongzhu asked, continuing a conversation that Lan Xichen hadn’t paid attention to.

“I was thinking a week to start,” Lan Qiren replied. “If it seems to be having positive effects, and if Nie-zongzhu has no objections, I’ll return to the Cloud Recesses and come back in a month or two to get them back.”

Nie zongzhu nodded, as did his wife.

“It’ll be good for our boys as well,” he said. “Huaisang hasn’t been the same either lately… not that I expect your boys to spend much time with him anyway. From what you’ve said about them, I think they’ll get along more with Mingjue, even with the age difference. Which is good too. He needs friends, that child.”

Nie-furen rolled her eyes at these words, and glared at her husband. He glared right back, and though there seemed to be no heat or anger between them, Lan Xichen still shivered at the intensity of emotion displayed there, right in front of outsiders. Things like that just didn’t happen at home, at least not in his experience. But then again, he’d never been in the same room as both his parents, so what did he know?

“Well, I guess that’s settled,” Nie-furen grumbled. “I’ll take those two to the training grounds so you can have a chat about politics. Don’t forget to tell Qiren about that thing that happened the other month at the border, I really didn’t like that.”

Without waiting for an answer, Nie-furen walked to Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji, grabbing both of them by the hand to lead them out of the hall. Lan Wangji tried to pull away, but stopped quickly after one severe look from Nie-furen who probably mistook his disgust for rebellion, the way some teachers did at home. Lan Wangji looked very miserable over being touched that way by a complete stranger, and Lan Xichen knew already that the rest of the day wasn’t going to be a good one for his little brother. He sighed. When Lan Wangji was having a bad day, everyone was having a bad day.

Feeling depressed over this situation, Lan Xichen’s gaze dropped to the ground. After just a few steps, his eyebrows rose high on his forehead as he realised that for some reason, they were following his red thread, something that had never happened before.

After years and years of seeing his own thread go far into the distance, Lan Xichen had stopped paying attention to it. Whenever he’d travelled with his uncle, the thread had always gone in a different direction from the one they were headed. At the venerable age of ten, Lan Xichen had determined that he was never going to meet the person fated for him. Considering his family’s luck with love, and after hearing his uncle’s many complaints on the topic, Lan Xichen usually thought it was for the best.

And yet, in spite of himself, Lan Xichen felt a little excitement start to spike inside his chest the longer they followed his thread. Things had been terrible for so long, but if he could just have one good thing again…

That excitement rose ever higher when Nie-furen called out her sons’ names, and Lan Xichen first laid eyes on Nie Mingjue.

Nie Mingjue was a few years older than him, and a good deal taller too. He had the same hard eyes his mother had, and broad shoulders like his father. Lan Xichen had never really taken the time to wonder what he liked as far as others’ appearance went, but even he could only acknowledge that Nie Mingjue was a very handsome teenager, and one who very obviously already had a golden core. Combined with the things he’d heard here and there people say about Nie gongzi…

To Lan Xichen’s great joy, the red thread on his finger really was going toward Nie Mingjue, which sent his heart racing… until Nie Mingjue was close enough for his hand to be visible, and Lan Xichen realised there was no thread at all attached to the older boy. Instead, his own thread continued going behind Nie Mingjue, and toward another boy who was struggling to run as fast as Nie-gongzi, his round face all red from the effort.

Everything Nie Mingjue was, that boy wasn’t. He was small, a little scrawny, with ears too big for his face and his teeth looked all weird, perhaps because they were a mix of baby teeth, adult ones, and a lot of gaps where the adult teeth hadn’t yet started to grow.

Whatever spark of joy and hope Lan Xichen had felt quickly dissipated upon seeing the person whom fate had chosen for him. He should have known he wouldn’t be so lucky.

“Mingjue, these boys are Lan Huan and Lan Zhan,” Nie-furen announced. “They are the sons of Lan zongzhu, and will be staying here for a little while. I’ll leave them in your care, so be a good host.”

Nie Mingjue nodded nonchalantly, apparently not particularly impressed by his mother’s severe appearance. The same could not be said of the second boy who went very still when Nie-furen turned her attention to him.

“Huaisang, for once, be good as well and don’t cause trouble. Don’t bother them, and don’t create problems when others have decided what game they want to play, or else I’ll deal with you.”

“Yes, mother,” Nie Huaisang mumbled, giving his mother a half hearted bow. “If they’re here, does it mean we don’t have to train today?”

“You lazy boy, of course that’s your only worry!” Nie-furen sighed, trying not to smile. “It will be up to your guest, depending whether they’re interested in a demonstration or not. You’d better put in some real effort if they do.”

Nie Huaisang bowed again, but not quickly enough to hide a grimace. Worse still, when Nie-furen left, Nie Huaisang immediately stuck out his tongue in her direction, which scandalised both Lan boys.

Lan Xichen in particular felt his heart sink. If this was the person who was destined to share his life… it seemed like a fate even worse than his father’s, and it almost made him want to cry. He would have, if not for Nie Mingjue’s presence. He didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of an older boy this accomplished, his pride just wouldn’t survive it.

“Stop being a brat,” Nie Mingjue ordered his brother, lightly slapping the back of Nie Huaisang’s head. This, in turn, made him bite his tongue, hard enough to cry a little.

“Mean! Da-ge is the worst!”

Nie Mingjue shrugged, all of his attention on the Lan brothers. Lan Xichen tried to stand as tall as he could, to make himself look older than he was.

“So, you’re Lan Huan, uh?” Nie Mingjue asked. “My father says he’s seen you at some conferences, and that you’re always very well behaved. He’s always saying we should be more like that. I guess that’s why you’ve been invited here?”

There was something in Nie Mingjue’s tone of voice that seemed to imply that ‘well behaved’ wasn’t a good thing to be. Lan Xichen, who worked so hard to meet all the expectations of his uncle even when he was so constantly sad and empty, felt baffled by the idea. A little embarrassed as well. He so wanted Nie Mingjue to think he was cool too, but apparently he had failed before even having the chance to prove himself.

“Do you know how to fight?” Nie Mingjue asked. “Or are you still too young for that?”

“I’m ten,” Lan Xichen retorted with perhaps a little more annoyance than was really polite. “Of course I know how to fight. But I didn’t bring a sword for a demonstration, and Qinghe Nie uses sabres, so I can’t borrow something to spar with you.”

“As if you’d be good enough to spar with da-ge anyway,” Nie Huaisang claimed, earning himself another light slap on the head from his brother. “What? It’s true! Nobody’s better than you. You can even fight with grown-ups already, and everyone says the Lans are just a bunch of monks that only play music, and…”

“Huaisang, shut up,” Nie Mingjue snapped. “I swear I’ll tell mother if you keep insulting our guests.”

“I’m not insulting… oh. I was rude?”

Nie Mingjue nodded, which made Nie Huaisang look a little awkward.

“Spar with me, Lan Huan” Nie Mingjue decided. “We do have some swords, for training. It’s always good to know how to use more than one weapon. Come with me, we’ll find you something.”

Maybe Lan Qiren had been onto something with his idea of coming to this strange place, because for the first time in ages, Lan Xichen found himself feeling genuinely excited about something. He was going to spar, with an older boy, and one that looked really cool, and who wasn’t even acting like it’d be a chore to practice with someone younger.

It was fun, fighting with Nie Mingjue. The sword Lan Xichen had been given wasn’t great, nothing at all like the one he used at home, but even with an inferior weapon he held his own. Nie Mingjue had the advantage of size, training, and experience, but Lan Xichen’s smaller size could be an advantage too, and he almost landed a few blows, for which Nie Mingjue complimented him.

It had been a long while since a compliment really thrilled him.

They sparred for a long while. Longer perhaps than was quite wise, considering that Lan Xichen hadn’t trained very seriously that past year. Even as he grew tired and started making mistakes, Lan Xichen refused to give up, desperate to absorb every little bit of fun he could while the feeling lasted. He didn’t even mind when Nie Mingjue started pushing him into a corner of the training field, clearly on the verge of winning their friendly fight.

Lan Xichen didn’t mind, but Lan Wangji did.

He was always a bit of an odd child, wary of strangers, protective of family. If Lan Xichen had not been so taken by his match with Nie Mingjue, he would have noticed his brother’s growing distress about the fight, would have seen that Nie Huaisang wasn’t paying attention to Lan Wangji (nor the fight for that matter), that there was no adults around them to check what they were doing. He would have reacted faster when Lan Wangji ran onto the training field, would have deflected Nie Mingjue’s sabre to protect him.

Lan Xichen would have…

He didn’t.

Because it was only a friendly spar, and because Nie Mingjue was so skilled, he managed, just barely, to avoid inflicting any serious injury onto Lan Wangji. Still the little boy now had a bleeding gash on his forearm, spilling blood in a thin but steady flow. 

"I'll take him to the doctor," Nie Mingjue announced, picking up Lan Wangji as if he weighed nothing. It said a lot about Wangji's shock that he didn't try to escape and just kept uselessly pressing his hand on the wound, wailing like a miserable kitten. "Huaisang, stay here with Lan Huan. If someone comes looking for us, tell them what happened."

Nie Huaisang, who'd just trotted toward them when he'd heard shouting, rose on his toes to catch a glimpse of Wangji’s wound. 

"Is he going to die?" he asked. "That's a lot of blood, and mommy says…" 

"Shut up, you're rude again," Nie Mingjue snapped. 

Nie Huaisang flinched and stepped away, falling silent. Nie Mingjue left, all but running away with poor Lan Wangji in his arms while Lan Xichen and Nie Huaisang stood there, watching him disappear. 

When Nie Mingjue was out of view, Nie Huaisang grabbed Lan Xichen's hand and tried to drag him away. 

"Let's go, it's boring here." 

Lan Xichen tried to pull his hand free. He was less difficult than his brother, but they shared a dislike of being touched by strangers, which Nie Huaisang was. Even if they were linked by fate… In fact, because they were linked by fate, because Nie Huaisang had joined their hands that carried that horrible red thread, Lan Xichen was even less inclined than usual to let himself be touched.

“He said to wait here,” he complained, pulling hard to get free, in vain. Nie Huaisang was small and skinny, but he had a strong grip. “We can’t disobey.”

“Yes we can,” Nie Huaisang said. “It’s easy, I disobey all the time. And mother said we had to be good hosts. It’s too boring to stay here, so I’ll take you somewhere more fun. Do you like candies?”

“Sugar is bad for you,” Lan Xichen recited. He did like candies, very much so. His uncle said candies were bad for his health and for his teeth, but his mother always used to give him some anyway.

He hadn’t had any candies since she’d died.

That thought, combined with fear about Lan Wangji’s wound, finished ruining Lan Xichen’s fragile good mood.

“Mommy used to say it’s only bad if you have too much,” Nie Huaisang protested. He pulled again on Lan Xichen’s hand. “Do you like birds?”

The question surprised Lan Xichen. He had never really taken time to wonder if he liked birds or not. Nobody had ever asked before.

“They’re pretty. I guess I like them well enough.”

“I love birds,” Nie Huaisang announced proudly. “Do you want to see a raven’s nest? There’s chicks in it, and they are very ugly, it’s very cute.”

“Things can’t be ugly and cute at the same time.”

“Yes they can. You have to come and see the chicks, and then you’ll understand. Let’s go check on them, please?”

Lan Xichen hesitated. Nie Mingjue had told them to stay where they were, implying that adults would soon come to check on them. After that incident with Wangji, it was almost certain that Lan Qiren would realise his plan was not going to work, and that he would take his nephews back home right away. Lan Xichen wanted to go home. Home was very sad, but it was also very safe, and he didn’t have to feel any big emotions over there.

But if they went home as soon as adults came to fetch them, that meant Lan Xichen would not have a chance to see those raven chicks. It would be upsetting, because then he would spend the rest of his life wondering how any creature could be both ugly and cute.

“Is it very far from here?” Lan Xichen asked.

Nie Huaisang grinned, and pulled again on Lan Xichen’s hand who stopped resisting and followed at last.

“It’s really close,” Nie Huaisang claimed as they walked. “It’s in the gardens by my bedroom. Do you like flowers? We have very nice flowers there. It’s not the best season for it, but dad planted mulberries there for mommy and me. Because of what she called me, you know?”

“You talk a lot,” Lan Xichen mumbled. “Do you need to hold my hand?”

“You could get lost,” Nie Huaisang replied, and then tried to be quiet for a moment.

It was true that Lan Xichen might have gotten lost easily in that place. It felt very different from the Cloud Recesses, with walls and turns everywhere, more a fortress than a place for cultivation. Maybe it was better that Nie Huaisang kept holding his hand. He’d gotten used to it anyway, and already stopped minding. In fact, it was even a little nice. Wangji used to hold his hand a lot when they went places, but his hatred of others’ touch had become too intense in that past year.

“You said it wasn’t very far,” Lan Xichen remarked after a while, growing worried that maybe their escape would be noticed and they’d be punished.

“We’re almost there,” Nie Huaisang insisted. “Just a little further… I had to take a different way than usual so mother wouldn’t see us. This is a secret way she doesn’t know about. You have to promise you won’t tell!”

“You shouldn’t keep secrets from your mother.”

Nie Huaisang shrugged, and kept pulling Lan Xichen forward.

“It’s okay, it’s not actually bad if I keep secrets,” he said. “She’s not my real mother anyway. She’s just dad’s wife.”

“I don’t understand,” Lan Xichen said, which was almost entirely a lie.

He thought he understood, but it couldn’t be that. If it was what he was thinking about, then surely Nie Huaisang wouldn’t speak so freely about it. Things like that… the adults didn’t speak about them, and the children weren’t supposed to know anything at all about them. It was gossip, and gossip was forbidden.

Nobody must have told that to Nie Huaisang, who cheerfully chattered on.

“It’s like this: Mother isn’t my real mother,” he explained. “She married dad when they were both young. Then she had Mingjue, and he’s the real son that matters. But then dad had me with my real mommy, because he met her on a Night Hunt and she was the most beautiful woman in the entire world, and also she called him some very bad words when he acted like an idiot, so he fell in love with her even if he was married. And then… ah, that’s the garden!”

At last, after turning endlessly among grey walls, they had indeed reached a little oasis of green. It was a very pretty little garden, neatly kept and organised around one very tall tree. Lan Xichen guessed the nest had to be somewhere up there.

He badly wanted to see it, now that they had come all that way, but Nie Huaisang was still chatting and it would have been rude to interrupt.

“It was real nice when I lived with mommy and my aunt and uncle,” Nie Huaisang said, walking toward the tree, still pulling Lan Xichen by the hand. “But then a while ago mommy got sick real bad, so dad brought us here because cultivators have better doctors. But then she died anyway, and my uncle didn’t want me back even though I thought he liked me, but actually he didn’t because mom having me when she wasn’t married was real bad? I don’t get it, but it’s what da-ge says must have happened, and da-ge is always right. So dad said I should be taught to be a cultivator, and now I’m stuck here.” 

Nie Huaisang paused for breath and sighed deeply. “I really miss mommy.”

“I miss my mother too,” Lan Xichen said without thinking. “She died last year.”

Nie Huaisang froze, and threw him a terrified look.

“Was I rude again? I didn’t know, or I wouldn’t have talked about mommy.”

Lan Xichen gave the question some consideration before shaking his head.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind. I don’t get to talk about her a lot,” he confessed. “Uncle and her didn’t get along. I think he was very angry at her sometimes, so I don’t want to bother him.”

“Mother is angry at dad about me,” Nie Huaisang said, as if sharing some great wisdom. “Da-ge says mother still likes me, though. But also that I shouldn’t talk too much about my real mommy, and also I shouldn’t call her my real mommy because it hurts mother. Oh! But I’m not angry at your mommy, and you’re not angry at mine. If you want you can tell me about her! And I’ll tell you about mine?”

It was a very tempting offer. Lan Xichen missed his mother so much it hurt every time he thought about her, and he was indeed thinking about her most of the time. He’d always been thinking a lot about her, even before she got sick and died. He’d missed her even when she was alive, he sometimes thought. But he couldn’t have told that to anyone. His father never wanted to see them unless it was important or a holiday, and Lan Qiren really didn’t like hearing anyone talk about his sister-in-law, and Wangji… Wangji still missed her so bad, he still didn’t really understand that she was gone for ever, so Lan Xichen didn’t say anything for fear of making things harder for his brother.

Maybe it was fine to talk to Nie Huaisang.

“She was sick a long time,” Lan Xichen explained, letting his eyes fall to the ground. “But even when she was sick, she would still try to be nice to us. She’d read us stories. Then she got really too sick, and it was me who read stories for her and for Wangji. Then the month after we were told we couldn’t visit her like usual, and I heard people say she’d died.”

“You didn’t live with her?”

“No, of course not,” Lan Xichen said, which earned him a look of horror from Nie Huaisang, as if he’d said his mother had two heads. “Nobody lives with their mother.”

“Yes they do!” Nie Huaisang exclaimed. “I lived with my mommy my whole life until she died! Everyone lives with their mommies. How else is she going to give you a kiss before sleep?”

“She didn’t.”

Nie Huaisang gasped. “But then you’re not protected!”

“Protected against what?”

Nie Huaisang threw Lan Xichen a pitying look, as if that were the saddest thing he’d ever heard.

“Against the nightmares! You have to have a kiss before sleep,” Nie Huaisang explained in a very serious tone, like a teacher giving a lesson, “or else you’re going to have bad dreams. It’s most efficient if it’s your mommy who does it, of course. Dad does it too sometimes, but he’s busy and I don’t like his moustache anyway because it scratches my cheek, and also he doesn’t give as good protection. Now it’s mostly da-ge who gives me a good night kiss. He complains a lot, and he tickles me sometimes, but it’s really good for protecting, almost as good as mommy.”

A little dark ball of cold and hot formed over Lan Xichen’s heart at the idea that in this world, at least one person had had constant access to their own mother, to her hugs, to her kisses, to her soft words. And maybe it wasn’t just Nie Huaisang who’d been that lucky: after all, Nie-furen had welcomed them alongside her husband, she had chatted with Nie Mingjue quite easily, and seemed free to come and go as she pleased even though she was the sect leader’s wife. Maybe it was a Nie thing.

But now that he thought of it, everywhere his uncle had taken him that past year, sect leaders would welcome their guests in person, with their wives at their side if they had one.

Maybe it wasn’t that children living with their mothers was a Nie thing.

Maybe it was Wangji and him not seeing their mother more than once a month that was odd, just as it was odd for their parents to not be linked by fate, the way so many other married people were.

Lan Xichen didn’t know when he started crying. He only realised when Nie Huaisang squeezed his hand, and tried to wipe his face with his sleeve, looking as if he might cry too.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude!” he cried out, scrubbing Lan Xichen’s cheeks a little too hard, unaware of his own strength. “I always say the wrong thing like that. I don’t even understand what I say that’s bad, but people always get angry and say I’m insolent and rude. But I didn’t want to be rude! Can I do something so you’ll stop crying?”

“I miss my mother,” Lan Xichen sobbed.

He’d hoped that talking about her would make it hurt less, but it hadn’t worked. He still missed her as much, but now he also had to deal with the realisation that if his family hadn’t been so strange, he might have seen her a lot more before she died.

“Oh. Then I guess it’s okay to cry,” Nie Huaisang said, giving up on drying Lan Xichen’s face and instead squeezing his hand again. “I cry a lot too about mommy. Everyone says I shouldn’t, because it was long ago and because boys shouldn’t cry. But da-ge lets me cry and he doesn’t tell anyone. I won’t tell either, I promise!”

Lan Xichen tried to thank Nie Huaisang, but only ended up sobbing harder. His face was awash with tears and snot, his eyes and throat hurt from crying so hard, but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop. Except for the day he’d heard his mother had died, and a little at the funeral too, he hadn’t really cried in all that time. He’d just felt numb and cold. He’d felt as if nothing really mattered, not in a world where his mother wasn’t there to smile at him anymore.

After such a long time feeling so little, there was a twisted joy in giving in to his sorrow, in crying until there were no tears left in him, until he couldn’t even stand anymore and Nie Huaisang had to help him sit under that big tree.

The whole time Lan Xichen cried, Nie Huaisang stayed silent. He shed a few tears of his own, either out of sympathy or because he’d been reminded that his mother too was gone for good, but didn’t say a word.

He also didn’t let go of Lan Xichen’s hand, not even one moment, even though there was no risk of getting lost now. Lan Xichen was grateful for that. In the midst of the immense sorrow that had finally overcome him, it was nice to know he wasn’t alone.

After a long, long while, Lan Xichen calmed down at last. He was hiccuping a little, and felt a little bit of headache on his forehead, but other than that he felt better than he had in a long while. Not good, not yet, but better.

“It was a good big cry,” Nie Huaisang said when it was over. “Sometimes, you need a good big cry, da-ge says. Do you want to go back now?”

Lan Xichen wiped his face clean, or as close to clean as it was ever going to be without some fresh water to help.

It was already late, he figured, and by then people had to have noticed they had disobeyed Nie Mingjue’s order to stay put. They were going to be punished for that. Lan Xichen didn’t like being punished, but he also felt that since it was going to happen anyway, he might as well try to make it worth the future discomfort.

“I think I’d like to see those baby ravens now,” he told Nie Huaisang, who grinned as if he’d been given all his favourite candies at once.

“Yes! But we’ll have to climb up the tree. Do you know how?”

Lan Xichen shook his head. Tree climbing wasn’t part of the official curriculum of Gusu Lan.

“It’s fine, I’ll teach you,” Nie Huaisang offered. “I’m very good at it, because da-ge taught me how.”

“He seems like a good da-ge,” Lan Xichen remarked as he stood up.

“There’s no better da-ge in the whole entire world,” Nie Huaisang agreed. “He is always grumpy, but he gives me hugs and also he lets me have all his mushrooms and sometimes he shares his desserts with me. If you want, I can share him with you. But he’s my da-ge first, so don’t forget!”

“Don’t worry, I won’t steal him,” Lan Xichen promised, though he would have dearly liked a hug, and also maybe some dessert.

For the time being, Lan Xichen contented himself with Nie Huaisang’s explanation on how to climb a tree. It turned out that it wasn’t too hard, especially not for someone with martial art training, so Lan Xichen quickly got the hang of it and followed Nie Huaisang high up that tree.

The raven chicks really were extremely ugly, but Lan Xichen had to admit that they were also strangely cute. Nie Huaisang and him were laughing together about it when Nie-Furen and Lan Qiren found them. They’d been sitting on a branch for so long that it was very nearly night, and they had to be rescued. Nie Huaisang might have been very good at climbing trees, but it turned out that he still hadn’t learned how to get back down except by falling, or by having his brother climb up to get him. 

Since Nie Mingjue wasn’t there, it had to be Lan Qiren who went up to grab them. He looked very cross about it, which scared Lan Xichen at first. Then he noticed that Nie Huaisang was struggling not to giggle, and… and it was true that Lan Qiren was making a very funny face as he went up the tree, so Lan Xichen found himself laughing as well.

They were both still laughing when they hopped down from Lan Qiren’s shoulders onto the ground. Surely this insolence, combined with their earlier disobedience of Nie Mingjue’s order, should have gotten them punished. Indeed Nie-furen appeared in favour of that, but Lan Qiren looked at his nephew in a funny way before asking Nie-furen for leniency.

“I haven’t heard him laugh in all that time,” Lan Qiren explained, and immediately Nie-furen’s anger cooled down a little.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad in the Unclean Realm after all, Lan Xichen thought as they all walked away together to go have dinner. And maybe it would be okay that he was apparently linked by fate to someone like Nie Huaisang.

Lan Xichen was glad when his uncle told him that night before bed that since Lan Wangji’s wound was nothing bad at all, that their plan hadn’t changed and they would be staying a little while in the Unclean Realm for a change of air.

After all, Nie Mingjue had just promised Huaisang, Wangji, and him that he’d teach them how to climb down from trees, and that would surely be great fun.

[novelconcepts]

Hi there could you please do #25 for dani and jamie ❤

playfully biting someone

The best part of a new relationship, Jamie reflects, is in all the little details. The strange quirks of a person you might never see until you begin dating them, until the hours spent in their company twist from nine to five to all bets are off. Getting to know someone’s body is grand; getting to know them, the heart of them, the truth of their day-to-day, is better.

She maybe hadn’t realized that, until Dani--but Dani is teaching her with every passing day just how much is waiting beneath the surface. There is, it seems, an endless supply of bizarre details to file away, each wreathing Dani in more charm than the last.

Dani, she’s learned, doesn’t like to drive--she’s tried exactly once, and spent the entire thirty-minute stretch drawn tight as a bowstring--but loves rolling down her window and letting a hand dangle in the breeze. She is great with a map, almost pathological at remembering radio stations, but frequently gets distracted by conversation and forgets to point out a necessary exit ramp. She is untrustworthy when left on snack duty in gas stations, constantly inclined to pick up a coffee or a bottled orange juice over water, but always seems to find the best chocolate in any given state.

Food, in general, proves particularly interesting. Dani thrills at the opportunity to introduce her to terrible fast food (”We have this,” Jamie says pointedly, as they pull into their first McDonald’s; “Not even close,” Dani says gleefully, and proceeds to order her a Happy Meal for the sheer joy of it). She is perhaps too invested in what sort of pizza Jamie considers the right kind (”Dunno,” Jamie says in a helpless tone, unaware that there are options. “The kind with, uh, sauce?”). There is, it appears, a right and wrong answer to crust width, cheese ratio, and toppings; the first time she orders pineapple, Jamie almost can’t bring herself to take a bite, she’s laughing too hard at the intense expression on Dani’s face. 

(“You are,” she proclaims, “ridiculous.”

“It’s good,” Dani insists, and there is no sign of a beast about her smile as she watches Jamie try the pinapple-and-bacon monstrosity and, grudgingly, admit defeat.)

She learns that Dani prefers movies at home to the theater, but makes an exception whenever a new action film comes out. Dani likes dancing, but doesn’t love strangers being able to see her do it; she’s self-conscious about her questionable rhythm, at least until Jamie leans close and murmurs that rhythm hasn’t been a problem yet, from where she’s standing. Dani likes old bookstores, new flea markets, ice cream parlors run by elderly couples who compliment her earrings. Dani likes America, as it turns out, with all its many oddities, and Jamie finds that affection infectious. She is rapidly coming to like America, too--at least, the America she’s offered through Dani’s eyes.

Dani is effervescent by daylight, chatting with strangers, eagerly returning stray footballs that land near her in the park to laughing children. She turns thoughtful when the rain rolls in, always at her moodiest when the sky grows pregnant with clouds that refuse to break open. She feels weird, she says, when the moon is nearly full, and she misses constellations whenever they pull up to a city, and there’s something about Midwestern manners she can’t seem to shake whether they’re in Miami or Detroit. 

She’s fascinating, and she’s complicated, and the good days hold just as many facets as the bad. Jamie is growing to love them all--the way Dani shrieks with laughter when tickled, and the way she grows somber at particular Paul Simon songs for no reason Jamie can understand. She loves the way Dani slips a hand beneath the hem of her shirt and holds on for dear life on long drives, her fingers skimming the edge of Jamie’s jeans. Loves how Dani can’t shower with the door closed, can’t sleep with it open, can never figure out the window latch in any given hotel room.

And she loves how Dani behaves with her alone. Not the sex--though that’s only getting better, Dani finding more confidence each time they come together; Jamie’s started to find herself pressed up against doors with unexpected strength, pushed down onto beds with her head spinning and Dani already getting to work--so much as the intimacy. They’re different, she’s learning. Different tiers of the same cake, maybe. Can’t have one without the other, not if it’s good, not if it’s with Dani. 

Sex comes easily, though it’s taken a little while for Dani to open back up again. When she does, the transition is absolute--no fear, no hesitation, her hands and lips and voice winding together to explain, If it’s just today, if I only have now, I need to be here. She doesn’t want to miss a moment, she says. Doesn’t want to let anything slip by. She wants to experience every inch of Jamie, and every inch of this country they’re exploring, and every inch of time won back from an unfair universe.

The intimacy--the way her hand always seems to find Jamie’s pocket, the way her forehead leans against Jamie’s back, the way she lets her foot press against the side of Jamie’s boot under a restaurant table--comes from the same place. That need to remember. That need to be here. If only for today, if only a little at a time, she can’t resist. 

Which brings her to the part of Dani Jamie thinks she likes best:

Dani’s absolutely unexpected need for attention. 

“Did you just--” She hesitates, wondering if she’s hallucinated. It’s such an odd little thing for Dani to have done, sprawled beside her on a motel bed. Such an odd thing, both of them with books open against bent knees and no conversation between them for half an hour. 

And still, she’s almost certain. More so, when Dani gives a guilty grin. 

“You bit me,” Jamie says, wonder in her voice. “Really?”

Dani doesn’t look particularly apologetic. “Missed you.”

“I’m right here,” Jamie says, unable to restrain the laughter in her voice. “You could, ah, initiate whenever you like.”

“Wasn’t about that.” Dani shrugs, small and clean in a post-shower sleep shirt and very little else. Jamie lays a finger between the pages of her book, closing the cover. 

“Was it a food thing, because I have never seen someone put away a burger that size, but I could always order--”

Dani laughs. “No, I just--wanted to.” She shakes her head, looking as though she’s surprised herself as much as Jamie with the simple act of leaning over and sinking her teeth gently into the curve of Jamie’s shoulder. “Didn’t even think about it. Just...felt like getting your attention.”

“You have it.” She always does, even when Jamie’s reading, or starting to doze off, or thinking about tomorrow’s leg of the journey. Somewhere underneath it all, the reliable heartbeat powering her day, she’s always thinking of Dani. That should frighten her. That should worry her very much--and yet, somehow, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. 

“I won’t do it again,” Dani says, “if you didn’t like it. It was weird, wasn’t it? Weird thing to do.”

“Very weird,” Jamie agrees. “You’re a bit of a weirdo, Dani Clayton. Dunno if I’ve pointed that out.”

Dani jostles her, shoulder to shoulder, and Jamie drops her book onto the nightstand. In truth, she loves that Dani is starting to do weird little things just to see what response she’ll get--loves that Dani doesn’t twist herself into knots, questioning an act, choosing instead to just go for it. It feels like the Dani she held in a hallway, hours before their lives had changed forever. 

“What are you doing?” Dani is giggling already, as Jamie curls against her side, nuzzling into her neck. 

“Returning the favor.”

“That--” Dani draws a sharp breath as Jamie finds a particularly sensitive spot and draws the skin between her teeth. “Um. That’s--not what I--”

She’s melting into the pillows, one hand cupped behind Jamie’s head. Her pulse is quickening, though she’s starting to laugh as Jamie rains tiny bites down the side of her throat, along the slope of one shoulder. The cotton of her t-shirt pulled between even teeth, Jamie leans back slightly, meeting her eyes. 

“Wanted my attention,” she says, the words garbled around shirt. “What d’you want me to do with it?”

“This,” Dani laughs, her eyes fluttering when Jamie releases the shirt and returns her mouth to the soft column of her neck. “This is, um. Working nicely.”

“Figured,” Jamie murmurs, letting one hand toy along the curve of Dani’s thigh. “I like it, you know.”

“This?” Dani’s head is casting back, offering more room to explore; her fingers wrap around Jamie’s, guiding her toward an end to this conversation, the beginning of a different kind of discussion altogether. Jamie smiles. 

“You. Doing weird shit just because. Biting my arm, or singing to me in the shower, or just...bein’ here. I like it. Like you.”

More than, she thinks. More than just like. It’s been true for weeks and weeks, maybe since the morning she’d tried to hold firm against pleading blue eyes in a greenhouse. Maybe. She’s more than liked the way Dani catches her gaze, brushes up against her, seeks out her attention for longer than she even knows what to do with. 

Too early to say so. Too early to scare Dani away. She’s getting brighter, getting more hopeful every day, but she still flinches from words like Christmas, like next year, like in a while. She wouldn’t cope well with Jamie telling her the truth just yet. 

Better to just do this. To learn the little details--the tiny stamp of intimacy on every step of this journey. To accept the just try it of pineapple on pizza, of dancing on moonlit beaches, of Dani’s teeth sinking into her shoulder for no reason at all. It’s better. It’s the best thing she’s ever done. 

There are so many details, with Dani. So many stories to learn, so many quirks to memorize. And there is always, at the end of the day, this: just Dani, in her bed. Just Dani, drawing shallow breaths, pulling her down into a hungry kiss as she urges Jamie to explore with eager hands. Just Dani, who wants her attention merely because it’s Jamie offering it up. 

Bit of a weirdo, she thinks, and thank fuck for that. 

[mashep23]

Blame it on the Rain

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female!Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: Modern!AU. A surprise rainstorm changes the course of your day.

Warnings: Like one cuss word? Pure fluff

A/N: My endless thanks and love to: the incredible @river-soul for her beta work and guidance, and the wonderful @whisperlullaby for her support and feedback. 💖💖💖

Disclaimer: image not mine

Oh no. You groan in dismay. The skies open and fat rain droplets splatter darkly onto your clothes and coat as you dash down the sidewalk. You spot cover ahead and dart directly to the storefront with a blissfully wide awning.

You gracelessly slide under the shelter of the canopy, your haste for cover hindering your ability to slow down. Your flats abruptly catch traction on a patch of dry pavement and you pitch forward. Barely managing to stay upright, you have just a moment to breathe in relief when you're jostled from behind. Stumbling slightly from the jolt, you feel hands on your hips steady you from behind as you hear a man's voice swear quietly.

"Oh shit - er, shoot, sorry - I didn't realize you'd stopped! Are you okay?"

You're both breathless and laughing softly as you step apart. You take a moment to straighten your jacket and hitch your bag higher onto your shoulder, reassuring him before you even turn around.

"Oh gosh, yes I'm fine, thanks. Are you...okay…" Your voice trails off as you turn and face a broad chest, eyes travelling up and up. Good heavens. What were you saying? You blink to focus, your eyes taking in a startlingly handsome face before your brain catches up and you rush to cover your faltering speech.

"H-here let me move underneath a little more so you have some room," you offer as you shift to stand deeper under the awning.

He grins in thanks, following you under the canopy, and stepping further away from the rain dripping overhead from the edge. He looks down to check his clothing, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to smooth it after your sudden, albeit gentle, collision. You follow his gaze down, realizing he's dressed in some kind of uniform under his open coat, and you have to make yourself look away before he notices your stare.

"Sorry for almost causing you to fall, but thanks for catching me," you say after a moment, smiling as you chance a sideways glance at him. He's mid-peek, looking in your direction too and you catch his eyes, a surge of warmth filling you at his sheepish expression.

He clears his throat before replying, "I saw you make a break for it so I followed you. I should have been paying more attention." He gives a self-deprecating huff and shakes his head, shoving both hands into the pockets of his jacket. "I'm the one who needs to apologize for almost knocking you down."

"No need, honest. It’s all good." You deny sweetly, reassuring him.

You're rewarded with a cute half grin and you have to purse your lips to keep your smile small as you look out through the raindrops. You both stand there in a companionable silence, watching the street as the world seems to slow down.

It's soothing, relaxing, and makes you feel peaceful. Soon, you’re taking slow deep inhales of the fresh, clean air and enjoying the experience, feeling the tension ease from your shoulders. You hear a quiet, measured exhale from your companion and you both seem to realize at the same time that you’re doing the same thing. You share a shy grin before quickly looking away.

You spend the next couple minutes surreptitiously exchanging sideways glances with him, trying your best to make it seem like a natural move. You’re feeling ridiculously obvious, constantly biting your lip to contain your smile when you get caught looking. At the same time, however, if you’re getting caught then that means he was looking too...right? You're giddy at the thought and take one last long deep breath as you notice the rainstorm begin to lighten.

When the rain slows to a light misting sprinkle, as much as you’d like to be brave and say something to him - introduce yourself, anything - you lose your nerve. Sighing inwardly at yourself, you start preparing to set out from under the safety of the canopy. Pulling up the collar on your jacket and securing your bag to your shoulder, you smile and bid him farewell.

"Looks like it's letting up - better make the most of the break!" You say chipperly. "Thanks for keeping me company."

You give a small wave before heading down the sidewalk. He returns your wave and gives a small nod, a slight furrow to his brow, but otherwise a friendly expression on his face. As you turn away, you can't help but think maybe you should say something else, something to prompt another smile from him, just once more. Feeling a tiny rush of confidence and holding onto that feeling, you turn suddenly and call back to him.

"I hope you have a great day!" You allow yourself a moment to truly admire and appreciate the stunning smile you get in response. He really is just too pretty.

His lips spread a little wider before he returned the sentiment with a sincere, "Thank you! I hope you do too!"

You knew, just knew, that your answering smile was blinding, but you couldn't have toned it down if you tried. In an attempt to seem less obvious (moot point, really), you give him a quick nod before turning and heading back down the sidewalk.

You can't deny you have a little bit more pep in your step as you make your way to your meeting. As you come up to the company entrance, you pause to look through your bag, checking to make sure your portfolio is still dry. As you shift the bag back onto your shoulder, you feel something snag and pull on your jacket.

Your brow scrunches in a frown as you use your hand to try to correct the fabric, wondering what you could be caught on. Looking down as you pull your bag away from your body, you hear something hit the pavement. What the…?

After a quick glance around your feet and then behind you, you see an identification badge laying on the ground. As you stoop to retrieve it for further inspection, you realize you had inadvertently taken a souvenir from your fellow shelter-seeker under the canopy.

His handsome face looks solemnly back at you from what is obviously his work badge. Stark Technologies emblazoned across the top, S. Rogers under his photograph, SECURITY is in large print along the bottom.

He must have been headed to work! Oh man, he's gonna need this. You check your watch. There's no time. You'll have to return it to him after your meeting. Standing up and stashing the badge safely into your pocket, you enter the beautiful brick building to attend your meeting.

Luckily it's brief, your client wants to peruse the contents of your portfolio with his financial team before contacting you to finalize details. Expecting this, you graciously thank him for his consideration and within a half hour, you've concluded your meeting and are striding toward Stark Technologies. The trek isn't more than a few blocks, so you decide to walk it and enjoy the sun filtering through the clouds, the rainy morning a distant memory.

When you enter The Tower, you have to take a moment to get your bearings. Looking up and around, it's easy to spot the gleaming information desk positioned in the center of the bustling lobby. As you approach, you think of how you're going to phrase your request. Not wanting to get him into trouble for not having his badge, especially as a part of the security staff, you decide to just ask to speak to him.

The pleasant lady behind the desk sends you a sweet smile as she speaks into the phone to relay your request. After a quiet exchange, she directs you to a cozy waiting area situated to the side of the bank of elevators.

You sit stiffly on the edge of a plush couch and admire the décor as you wait. The building interior is predominantly glass, making the whole space appear larger, but also quite bright and open. You've got a silly smile on your face, thinking about the amount of Windex they must go through, when a throat clearing pulls you back to the present.

"Well, hello again."

You startle and stand quickly, flustered as you turn to face him. You watch his eyes flick down to your feet then back up to your face, a pleasant and patient smile in place. You lick your lips, trying to settle your nerves.

"Hi! Uh, so I know it probably seems odd that I'm here but um, I actually have something of yours. Came to return it - figured you might need this." You give him what you hope is a winning smile before reaching into your pocket and withdrawing the lost item. Your eyes stay on the badge in your fingers as you hold it out to him.

"Oh! Hey, thank you!" He takes the badge gently from you, fingertips brushing yours. When you finally lift your gaze, you find him grinning boyishly. He swiftly fastens his ID to his crisp shirt, completing his uniform.

You give him an appreciative once over and murmur a quiet, "You're welcome," as he continues.

"You know, you just saved me from so much paperwork and hoops to jump through to replace this stupid thing. Where did you find it?"

"It was stuck to me," you share with a laugh.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, an open mouthed grin in place. Shaking your head and shrugging one shoulder, you continue.

"It must have happened when we bumped into each other. I wanted to get it back to you as soon as I realized I had it but I had to make my meeting first," you finish apologetically. "I hope you didn't get into trouble."

"No, not at all," he quickly assures you. "I should have noticed I didn't have it. Thank you again for bringing it to me. You didn't have to so I really appreciate it." That heartstopping smile he aimed at you was going to kill you.

You lick your lips again before you reply and notice his eyes drop to track the quick movement before flitting back up. For half a second, you suddenly feel emboldened.

"It was my pleasure, trust me." Unwilling to let the opportunity pass you by yet again, you jerk your chin toward the badge pinned to his chest and ask, "So, what does the 'S' stand for, Rogers?"

"Steve. It stands for Steve." He says, eyes crinkling as his lips spread into a wide grin. You give him your name and can't help but laugh as he holds out his hand. As you shake his hand, you both murmur, "Nice to meet you," and you're certain that you have matching delighted expressions on your faces.

You realize you've taken up a considerable amount of his time while he is on the clock and you give him a regretful smile as you release his hand.

"I'd better let you get back to it. Don't want to get you into real trouble." Quirking a corner of your mouth up, you grip the handle of your bag on your shoulder and tilt your head as you step back.

Steve starts slightly as he looks around, almost as if he'd forgotten where you both are. He looks back at you and nibbles on his lip before taking a small step closer.

"I do have to get going. But before I do...would it be too forward to ask you for your number?" He searched your face earnestly and you could swear he was holding his breath.

"Not at all. I was kinda hoping you would," you admit, beaming up at him as you hold out your hand for his phone. You draw your lip between your teeth in a slow pull, eyes travelling over his face as you wait. The look in his eye and the slow spread of his lips is slightly less boyish and a touch more sinful as he slips his phone from his pocket and hands it to you.

You enter your number into a new text thread and send yourself a simple message before relinquishing his phone back to him. You watch as he eagerly takes it back and saves your contact information. When he looks back up, he has a breathtaking smile on his face, eyes focused on yours. You have to blink a couple times to focus before drawing yourself up a little straighter to bid him goodbye.

"I expect to hear from you soon," you say confidently, smirking and winking as you turn to leave. His surprised but pleased huff of laughter makes you grin just a little bit wider when you peek back over your shoulder.

"Yes ma'am. You will." He's beaming, eyes tracking you as you give one more small wave before pushing through the door.

-------------------------------------------

Tagging my discord family:

@buckyownsmylife @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog

[seriouslysnape]

Ooh yey requests are open 💕 could you write something where reader is the one to propose to severus instead of the traditional way? With a ring and all?

OH STOP THAT’S SO CUTEEEEEEEEE.

__

Indecent Proposal

Severus Snape x Fem. Reader

A/N: HAHAHA. This gif doesn’t match this one-shot at all, but I thought it was funny out of context.

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 2,511

“If you wish to ever tell me something, I’m here to listen.”

__

Severus knew the moment that he met you that you were the one. It was a sort of sensation that he couldn’t describe. It was like when he laid eyes on you, the final piece of his puzzle of life fell into place, completing a full picture. He knew that his life was fulfilled with you. It wasn’t until your third or fourth week of dating that he began to think about marriage. He spent several days brainstorming over what kind of ring you might like, or what kind of house you’d want to live in once you were wed.

Severus was never one to just jump right into things. He liked to calculate every aspect of his life, weighing all possible options and considering all scenarios. This was no different. Even though he could have very well gotten down on one knee after just a month of dating, he knew that was far too soon for a marriage proposal. There was no way that either of you were ready or prepared to get married yet. Severus, though, was a patient man when it came to you.

He was willing to wait as long as it took.

Fast forward to a year and a half later, Severus was beginning to feel that proposal itch once more. He knew the time was getting right, and he wouldn’t be able to overlook his heart’s wishes much longer. He was ready to spend the rest of his life with you. He wanted his proposal to be nothing short of exemplary. He had already bought a ring about a week ago, one that you had mentioned in passing that you liked. He made sure to make a note of it, going back and purchasing it when you weren’t with him. He had kept it in the box in his pocket ever since, waiting until he felt like the moment was right.

He wanted nothing to be out of place. He wanted every little detail to be exactly to his liking. All of this would take time to plan out, which was why he was planning to propose to you the following week to make sure he was ready beforehand.

However, you had been acting strangely over the last few days. You were jittery, almost nervous around him. When it was just the two of you, he couldn’t help but notice the way your leg bounced anxiously and you couldn’t keep your attention on him for longer than a few passing moments.

He watched how skittish you were during dinner. You couldn’t sit still for the life of you and you weren’t speaking much. When you did speak, your diction was so fast that he could barely keep up with what you were saying. He could tell you were preoccupied with something.

“Are you alright, [Y/N]?” He asked gently, catching your attention.

You visibly jumped in your seat. Your fork spazzed from your hand and hit your plate with a loud clatter, the sound echoing in your ears. He paused hard and stared at you like you were a mad woman. He furrowed his brows in confusion and curiosity.

“Yep!” You squeaked; “I’m fine, I’m great! Why wouldn’t I be alright?” You rocketed off rapidly.

He set his own utensils down, folding his hands and looking harder into you. You were straight as a board as you sat, your shoulders pushed way further back than normal. He was worried that something was bothering you that you weren’t telling him about.

“Darling, you’re so flushed.” He pointed out, looking at how your face looked quite spectral.

You shook your head vigorously, continuing to dig yourself into a deeper hole with your odd behavior.

“I think it’s just hot in here...is it hot in here? I think it’s a little hot in here.” You rambled.

Now he REALLY knew something was up. You always complained about how cold he kept his Hogwarts’ living space. There wasn’t a fire crackling in the fireplace, so there was no way you were overly warm. He didn’t question it, only smiling kindly and standing from his chair. He approached you, putting his hands on the back of your chair to persuade you to get up.

“Why don’t we get out and get some fresh air, yes? We can finish dinner later.” He suggested, taking your clammy hand into his.

He was afraid that maybe you were coming down with something, but you didn’t look or act sickly. He guided you from your chair, leaving a soft kiss to your forehead. He felt your shoulders relax at the motion. You felt a bit comforted for now, his touch putting you at ease.

“Yeah. That’s a good idea.” You said in a more standard tone.

He linked his arm into yours, sweeping you away and outside into the cool evening. It was a beautiful spring night, for there was not a cloud in the steadily darkening sky. The sun had mostly set below the horizon, just a few minutes needed to go by before it was fully dark. You and Severus strolled alongside each other, making small talk as he tried to gauge what had you so uptight.

He never wanted you to be upset. It absolutely broke his heart anytime something was wrong and draining you of any happiness. However, you didn’t seem unhappy or sad. You were simply just nervous about something, but he couldn’t even begin to think of what it could be. He was stumped.

Your hand fiddled in your pocket. Your fingertips clutched the silver, metal ring that was housed there. The material was smooth against your skin as you refused to let it go. You had been holding on to it for at least two weeks now, and the entire time you had been terrified of losing it.

You knew that a woman proposing to a man wasn’t conventional. It was very traditional for the man to propose to the woman with a stunning ring that is supposed to fit perfectly and they’re supposed to cry at the new chapter of their life that’s been opened. You had been through it all in your head already.

Naturally, you had originally wanted Severus to be the one to ask for your hand in marriage. You had been waiting for him to suddenly get on one knee and pull out a ring and ask you to spend forever with him. But the longer you waited, the more impatient you became. With each passing day, you reminded yourself that you weren’t getting any younger, and you wanted to be with him for as long as possible.

That’s when you got the idea.

You could just as easily plan a proposal. You could go out and buy a ring that you knew he’d like. You knew he’d want something private, quiet, and not in front of a crowd of people. That was a win-win, because at least if you were to be mocked for proposing first, it would be just Severus and not a group of others. You felt a little out of your mind for this, but you knew it could be really sweet and romantic. Either way, it wasn’t really about the proposal.

It was about spending forever with the one you loved the most.

At one point, he stopped walking with you. You were just faintly illuminated by the light of the moon far above your heads. He was taking in how pretty you were. In every moment of every day, you were the most beautiful woman in the world. He had never felt so fortunate to have such a stunning human being in his life. A charming, alluring woman with an even purer heart and soul.

“My beautiful girl,” He said, cupping the side of your face and stroking his cheek with his thumb. Your heart beat began to quicken. You knew this was the moment; “If you wish to ever tell me something, I’m here to listen.”

You were trying to disregard how shaky your breathing was every time you inhaled. You weren’t sure how he’d react to this, but either way you knew he’d say yes. Even then, you still couldn’t shake off the edgy feeling in your gut.

“Yeah, of course.” You said with an encouraging smile.

“If something has you disturbed, then I want to help you if I can. I don’t want you to believe that you have to deal with things on your own. I’m here for you.” He claimed.

This was one of the many reasons you loved him. He was always in your corner, and he never let you forget it. He would walk through fire for you. He’d do anything as long as it meant that you were happy. Your happiness topped anything else in his life. You were all that mattered.

“It’s nothing like that, S. I’ve just had something on my mind lately.” You explained.

As secure as Severus felt in your relationship, he still felt a drop in his chest. After saying that and the way you had been acting, he thought that maybe you were thinking of ending this. His head and heart were both getting ready to fight for you if you were. He couldn’t just let you walk out of his life, despite his internal panic, he remained level headed.

“Do you wish to talk about it?” He asked, bringing one of your hands to his lips and leaving a soft kiss. He brought your hand to his chest, just in case this was the last time he’d ever feel you.

If you had known that’s what he was thinking, you’d probably start crying. Severus was so used to rejection and disappointment in his life, before he met you. He still shrank into his old thinking ways, preparing for the worst every time he thought something was going wrong.

But he didn’t know that his life was about to get even better than it was.

This was it. You knew you could do it. With your other hand, you fished in your pocket for the ring as you replied.

“Well, yes...but there’s something I want to ask you.” You said, successfully retrieving the ring and holding it to where he could see it.

He eyed the silver ring, still holding your other hand to him. His other hand fell from your face as he stared blankly at the handsome piece of jewelry in your palm. He looked to you for an explanation, relieved now that you probably weren’t breaking up with him based on the blinding grin on your face.

“Severus Snape,” You said, almost as a whisper; “Will you marry me?”

His entire nervous system shut down for a millisecond and restarted. He felt a rush of static and something else that even he couldn’t identify.

Now, Severus knew there were a million different ways to react to this. Undoubtedly, the first thought that came to his head when he came to the realization that you were proposing was that you had officially lost your marbles. He had always envisioned himself being the one to ask you to marry him, not the other way around. He wasn’t at all miffed that you had decided to take matters into your own hands. If anything, he felt a little bad that he had taken so long that you felt the need to do it yourself.

Everything clicked in his head. Your nervous behavior was evidently because you had built this up in your mind and were afraid of how it would go. When he looked into your eyes and saw how they were filled with suspense and elation, he knew exactly how to react in the most honest, intentional way.

You half expected him to burst into laughter and make fun of you for doing it yourself. You even thought for a second that he might say no because HE wanted to be the one to do it. Instead, Severus caught you in a kiss so lovingly faultless and personable that it made you weak in the knees. He kissed you for a long time, standing under the gleaming stars and inky black sky. It was such a long kiss, in fact, that you wondered for a split second if he was stalling so he didn’t have to give an answer.

However, when he pulled away, his words were as clear as ever and his voice was as content as it had ever been.

“Oh, my love...my flower...” He remarked gingerly; “I thought you’d never ask.”

You both fell into tensile rounds of laughter, knowing that he was poking a bit of fun at the situation. You had matching smiles on your faces, so wrapped up in love and partiality that it was almost overwhelming. The ring fit well on his left hand, and made his hands look even more manly. It was a foreign feeling to have a ring on his hand, considering he almost never wore them. He’d grow used to it soon enough.

You kissed him over and over, so thrilled that he had said yes that you didn’t know what to do with yourself. You stopped your attack of kisses when he noticed he had pulled something out from his own pocket. You eyed the small red box, your raised brow falling and your eyes widening when he opened it silently to reveal the most breathtaking engagement ring you had ever seen. That’s when you realized it was the same one you had pointed out a while back.

“Sev, is that...?” You trailed off, with a soft giggle.

He nodded with a triumphant grin.

“Yes. I was going to ask you myself next week,” He admitted; “Looks like you beat me to it.”

Your laughter was harder and more chaotic this time, both of you cackling so much that you felt dizzy after a few moments. He slid the ring onto your finger, admiring how it looked so flawless on your hand. He brought you into his arms, your chin resting on his chest as you looked up at him.

“I know this wasn’t traditional, but I just-”

Severus put a slender finger to your lips.

“Shh,” He hushed; “It’s absolutely perfect.”

The two of you stood there in blissful silence, your hearts beating in sync with an inexpressible sense of euphoria. He left kisses in your hair, whispering sweet nothings in your ear every few moments to break the silence. This was far better than any proposal he ever could’ve planned. It was elegant, graceful, and most importantly, memorable.

“I love you.” Your voice rang out, your newly adorned hand brushing some of his hair from his face so you could fully see him.

He smiled once more, kissing the tip of your nose tenderly. He was excited for this new part of his life. He was excited to begin his life that would now be intertwined with yours.

He was unquestionably happy.

“I love you, darling. And now I’ll have forever to do so.”

[zevlors-tail]

Febuwhump Day 8 - “Hey, hey, this is no time to sleep!”

A/N: I can’t believe I just wrote this in one sitting. I know I’m super behind on Febuwhump, yikes...but I think this turned out pretty well! This got longer than I meant it to be, but then, so did most of the prompts in my drafts that I have for this month. This is actually my first time purposefully writing whump so I hope this was okay! Unedited btw, i’ll read it over in the morning.

TW: Burning building, explosions, second degree burns, mentions/descriptions of burn wounds, life or death situation, building collapse, concussed reader.

***

The first thing Hawks notices when he comes to is the foul taste in his mouth. It causes him to gag and cough with his eyes still closed, though that doesn’t help his situation much if at all. The smell of something burning sears the inside of his nostrils and clogs his lungs, and he finds it incredibly hard to breathe as he rolls over onto his side, eyes finally fluttering open.

The second thing he becomes acutely aware of is how hot he is. No...how hot the floor is. Speaking of which, he couldn’t seem to recall what he was doing down there anyways. If only that incessantly annoying ringing in his ears would stop-

Wait. Wait a minute...

An image of you flashes behind his eyelids as he blinks them shut harshly to block out the billowing cloud of smoke filling the room, and it all comes back to him in a whirlwind.

There were villains. High class villains. Not your every day run of the mill villains, but villains who could really pack a punch when fighting back. They had been occupying a small skyscraper at the time as their headquarters, and you and Hawks had partnered up to take them down after months of steak outs and observation. But something had gone wrong...very wrong. Those details were still a bit blurry, but Hawks remembers something akin to an explosion- a loud noise, the building shaking, and a blast that knocked him unconscious.

All of the sudden he’s hyper aware of what’s going on- and he realizes he needs to move fast if he’s going to get out of here alive. He’s at least twenty stories up in the air on unstable structures, his feathers and hair are singed, and his head is foggy after inhaling too much smoke. Luckily he can still move, and it doesn’t look like he’s been burned too severely, at least not yet. But the flames licking at the bottom of the closed door in front of him cause alarm bells to scream out in his head, and he knows he doesn’t have much time to think. He needs to find you so he can grab you and-

Ohhh, shit.

As he rolls over onto his other side, he can make out the outline of a figure lying on the floor, and he’s almost certain it’s you. None of the villains stuck around after blowing the place up anyways, and he can just barely see the dulled colors of your hero suit behind the thick screen of smoke.

“Fuck! Oh god, Y/N.”

You’re lying too still for your own good, and Hawks thinks he can see the beginning of what he can only assume to be fire slowly eating at the wall next to you. He wastes no time and flattens himself on his stomach, army crawling in your general direction to avoid the worst of the putrid air. It doesn’t help much, but it’s better than nothing. He ignores the uncomfortable heat of his body and pushes onward, his movements still a little sluggish from getting knocked out cold. He’s not entirely sure if he can even use his feathers right now while they’re this singed, and furthermore, he hopes his wings aren’t completely out of commission; he’s going to need those if the both of you are going to make it out of this alive.

“Y/N!” he tries to shout, though it ends in a horrible sounding cough that comes from deep in his chest. As he draws nearer, he hears what sounds like creaking coming from above the two of you, and to his utter horror, the support beams under floor above you have burnt to a crisp and look like they’re ready to collapse any second. It had to have been a sheer miracle that the two of you weren’t already engulfed in flames yourselves. “Y/N! Come on, kid, you gotta get up! Move!”

Even as he tries to urgently get your attention his body seems to move on it’s own accord, and before he can stop himself, he sends a few feathers your way out of habit and concern that you might be crushed any second if he doesn’t move you somehow. It hurts like hell, and he’s pretty sure he’s bleeding. This is by far the worst he’s felt when using his feathers, but it does pay off, and you’re lucky that he made the split decision to move you- no sooner had he scrambled back with you had the ceiling collapsed into the floor.

He turns to you while staying low to the ground, shaking you desperately and firmly smacking the side of your face with his hand in hopes of interrupting your forced slumber. It works but just barely, and Hawks watches as you try to take a deep breath but end up choking just as he had. He gives you a once-over while you struggle to breathe, eyes flitting over your form to assess any damage you may have taken- and to his dismay, there seems to be a good amount of it. The entire left side of your hero outfit is singed, bits of the fabric even burnt into your skin in certain places where the heat must have been too strong. You hadn’t been able to move away or protect yourself in your sleep, and the burns on your arm and leg can definitely attest to that. They’re second degree, at least; some of the fire must have actually made contact with your skin.

“Oh, fuck- Hey, look at me. Y/N, focus here!”

He leans over you to look at your eyes, and he doesn’t have to shine a light in them or have you follow his finger to know that you hit your head a little too hard. They’re glossy and unfocused, and you can’t find a single place on his face to fixate on. You just keep looking all over, and Hawks can clearly tell your concussed. 

Fucking great. He’s got to get you both out, and now.

“Hey, kid. Can you hear me?” He nervously awaits an answer with eyes trained on you, and the second you start to talk he lets out a small breath of short-lived relief.

“Hawks...? Wha...” You look so out of it and dazed.

“So that’s a yes, thank god...” Before you try to ask anything else, he stops you in your tracks and shakes his head at you. “Whoa, whoa, whoa- take it easy, alright? No questions, I just need you to listen and keep talking to me. Doesn’t matter what it’s about, I just need to know you’re awake and alive-” He pauses briefly to look around for something, anything he can do to escape.

There’s the door you both came from, the one that’s barely holding back the raging heat behind it- that’s a no-go. No way in hell is he trying to brave that. His wings won’t last five seconds in that, and you don’t have the means to protect yourself while you’re concussed. Another option is to try and escape through the hole in the floor that the ceiling caused...but that’s way too risky for the both of you as is, and it looks like flames are starting to creep in from that way, too. If he is going to take that route, he needs to do it soon. Maybe he can get to a staircase, or find a-

The sound of you moaning in pain cuts through his thoughts and his head whips back in your direction to find you grimacing and trying to move. “Ah ah- Don’t do that. Just keep talking, come on. I know it hurts, but you gotta keep talkin’ to me. I’m gonna get us out of this mess, somehow...”

Panic starts to set in as he realizes his options are limited. Terror grips him in it’s icy stone-cold jaws as he comes to the conclusion that his odds of survival are even worse.

“Hawks...it hur’s...” All you can do is roll your head back and forth and try to move, but your body just won’t cooperate with your mind.

“Fuck. Fuck! I know, I know...” His teeth grit together as he thinks, his thoughts racing a mile a minute. Adrenaline is starting to kick in, and he’s desperate for anything at this point.

He still has no plan in mind when he makes another split second decision to move you from where you’re currently laying. The fire is only spreading up onto the carpeted floor the two of you are on, and the smoke is getting worse by the second; this room is a hot box with no ventilation at this point. He carefully picks you up and cradles you to his chest, his wings wrapping around the both of you to both support your frame and shield you from the onslaught of unbearable heat. It forces him to take a few steps back, and he does his best to navigate through a screen of black without bumping into any furniture. He almost trips several times, but eventually he hits the opposite wall. Or, rather...

A window. Bingo.

“S’ tired...” you mumble. Your eyes are already fluttering, rolling to the back of your head as your limbs grow heavy in his arms.

“Hey, hey, this is no time to sleep! Y/N!? Come on, stay awake!”

“C’n we go...home now?”

He doesn’t like how ragged your breathing sounds.

He almost chuckles at the absurdity of the situation, but his lungs are already full of tainted air to laugh, let alone breathe properly, so he scoffs instead- and instantly regrets it. Between fits of coughs, he presses his shoulder to the glass behind you both to test the temperature, and it’s much hotter than it should be. Part of the glass is already blown out to his right, but there’s not enough space to crawl out without the jagged edges of it tearing up his flesh and wings. But if he could somehow break it...

His feathers. He’ll have to use up more of them, but if he uses the bare minimum necessary to break the glass and saves the majority, he may be able to make it out the window and fly you both to safety. 

“We can’t go home yet,” he chokes out in response to you, finally. “I’m gonna get you out of here, and then you’re on your way to the hospital, yeah? You’re gonna be fine.” 

He knows that to be true, so long as he can actually manage this. He backs up as far as he can go without subjecting either of you to the hot flames now openly invading the room, the entryway having burnt to a crisp already. From where he stands now, he hopes there’s enough distance to create the amount of force needed to shatter that damn glass. After a quick estimate of how many feathers he can get away with using, he readies them, and it all boils down this moment. If he can’t do this, you’ll both die. Both of your lives are at stake, resting on his weary shoulders. He can do this.

He has to.

“Wanna go home...wanna go...” You’re just murmuring to yourself, and it really puts Hawks on edge.

He hears the glass shatter before he sees it. He stumbles forward, wings still securely wrapped around you, and all but falls out of the edge of the window right before the rest of the floor collapses in on itself. He hears the devastation behind him, feels sparks on his back where the holes of his shirt meet the beginnings of his wings. He knows if he had hesitated or stayed any longer, neither of you would be alive right now.

Replacing his hold on you with his arms, he lets his wings drift open and prays he didn’t overdo it with the feathers, begs whatever gods may be listening that the two of you can at least slow the fall somehow. And to his pure joy and bliss, his wings, though bleeding and burnt and painful, are still very much holding up and allowing him to fly.

Now if he can manage to get you to a hospital...you’ll be just fine.

[aminiatureworld]

In My Dreams

Characters: Albedo, fm!reader

Word Count: 3,082

Warnings: Waking dreams, amnesia, visions/hallucinations

Premise: The past is many things. Something to admire, something to learn from, something to hold dear. And yet how unreliable it can be, especially in the hands of ghosts.

In which the reader dreams of the past.

Author’s Note: Translation notes and historical references will come after the fic. Tried to be detailed with warnings, tell me if you want me to tag anything else.

Albedo

When you’d first met Albedo you were in awe of his intellect, his passion for alchemy which he honed to a fine point. He had a way of talking about the world around him and himself in a way that was utterly self-assured. This captivated you, made you wish to develop the same thing in turn; the ability to know oneself was an enviable one.

The old Mondstadt ruins were a perfect sketching place. Filled with an old sense of magic, even centuries after its fall, there was an atmosphere to it absolutely perfect for painting. Or so Albedo said – though you found some joy in intermittent sketching you were no master of the art.

While Albedo set up his easel you went around the edge of your little spot, making sure that the monsters that usually dominated the place were at least far away enough as to not cause any interference. The world around you was one of almost perfect peace, the lazy breeze acting as a buffer for the slight heat, the puffy clouds in the sky shading you from the worst of the sunlight.

“It’s such a beautiful day!” You called out. “It almost makes you forget all your worries.”

“That’s certainly true.” Albedo voice called out in reply. “Truly a wonderful time to paint.”

Turning around to join your partner you suddenly felt heard a familiar cackle. Whirling around you found yourself face to face with a hydro Abyss Mage. Annoyance flashed through your mind as your summoned your catalyst. Though the Abyss was certainly a syndicate to be worried about, you couldn’t help but think of the Mage in front of you as little more than a pest, for surely there couldn’t be anything more annoying than the sudden interruption of your outing.

Calling out Albedo’s name you held out your arms, cursing the fact that your bursts of electro weren’t as effective against the Mage’s shield as you’d like it to be. Thankfully a familiar cry of “be careful!” could be heard, as your partner quickly approached, sword in hand, eyes full of the cold determination which was so familiar to you in battle. The combination of your this with his swings soon had the shield dripping, before it burst apart, falling onto the ground in a puddle of water. Standing over the mage Albedo narrowed his eyes.

“Now this is new.”

Following his gaze you could see what he meant. Emblazoned on the side of the Abyss Mage’s robe was a star, made up of a myriad of silver threads jutting out from a red circle in which sat a crown ringed by indecipherable writing. The symbol made you pause, made you take a shaky step back as your throat began to constrict painfully. That symbol, you knew that symbol, you knew that crown. What was it? What was this Abyss Mage wearing?

Albedo appeared somewhat oblivious of your violent reaction, slashing through the Abyss Mage until they disappeared in a puff of ash. Turning around you could see the same mild mannered smile on his face as always, his expression almost one of soft embarrassment. Taking a deep breath you attempted to relax your features, hoping your partner wouldn’t see the panic that laced through you.

“That was an unpleasant surprise. Let’s go back to the clearing, we deserve a little bit of rest.”

“You’re right; that really was a nasty surprise.” You let out a soft laugh, not looking behind at the spot where the Mage had fallen as you allowed Albedo to guide you back towards his easel and away from that too familiar star.

 -----

The symbol wouldn’t leave you alone however. Though the rest of the day was perfectly pleasant, the art Albedo had managed to begin showing the immense promise it always did, you couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Over and over the star danced behind your eyelids, taunting you with hidden information. You knew that the writing was nothing familiar to Teyvat, Albedo himself admitting he’d never seen such a script before. And yet you had; though the memory eluded you the knowledge remained.

You didn’t like to be reminded of your past, of the world that had disappeared before your fingers. It was a world you could barely remember, though surely that was a blessing. Your family had been murdered after all, though you didn’t know why you were sure that they were long dead. Who wants to be the last of anything? Certainly you didn’t want to be. Life was a lonely enough road already; better to focus on the bright future ahead of you than always turning to look back.

And yet the star remained.

You told Albedo that you were simply going out to look for supplies, having noticed no few veins of crystal ore near where the two of you had spent an afternoon. Batting away his questions and his worries you set out with purpose. It wouldn’t take that long, waypointing did most of the job. And you could hardly say that you feared a Ruin Guard or some such thing. You could take care of yourself, and you’d done worse things than take a midnight expedition to an abandoned ruin.

Old Mondstadt looked different in the dark, though perhaps that shouldn’t have surprised you. Old secrets always came out in the night, and the now crumbling city was certainly filled with old secrets. Now they beckoned at you, calling out their siren song, promising an answer to all your questions.

Standing in the middle of one of the stone circles you closed your eyes. Something seemed to be buzzing around you, an energy, a promise. Letting your mind drift you saw the star once more. Reaching out your arm you could almost touch its surface, studded with precious gems, smooth and fragile and a symbol of an old power.

You barely noticed the music at first, so soft was it. And yet somehow you began to move, to dance, following a long forgotten rhythm. Opening your eyes you saw a scene begin to unfold around you, shaping itself out of the dark. You were in a large room now, smooth marble under your feet. Looking up you saw an amber ceiling, You marveled at the intricate design, the flowers which bloomed beneath your feet while golden clouds floated above your head. For a moment you were so entranced by this familiar scene that you took no notice of the people around you, however the moment they entered your vision you could think of nothing else.

They were so familiar, these ghosts of the past. Though you couldn’t make out any of their features, which seemed misty and constantly changing, you felt an immediate sense of recognition. Wandering among these ghosts, you found yourself copying their steps, waltzing with no one but yourself, surrounded by a sea of memory. You felt like you were floated, wrapped in the fabric of the past, so real you could practically feel the fabric of your uniform changing beneath your fingertips, morphing into silk.

Still feeling as if there was more to be seen you looked around, finally finding the answer to your unspoken question at the top of a small group of stairs. Though the specters around you had no discernable features the same could not be said of the people who now gazed down at you, peaceful smiles upon their faces. One of them, a young man who looked to be a little older than you, stepped off the small landing, practically floating as he made his way towards you. There was a familiar star on his uniform, and a comforting smile in his eyes. Bowing softly he took your hand. No words were necessary, you both knew this dance.

The music swelled around you, almost saccharine in tone, coated by the sweetness of a long forgotten nostalgia. You made no attempt to talk to the boy, feeling that words were altogether unnecessary. After all, what could one say to a shadow of the past? There was nothing to muse on, no moments of happiness which you could conjure. There was nothing except familiar company and soothing music; right now that was enough.

Slowly you could feel the world slow down, almost as if the air had grown thicker. A drowsiness washed over you, but you pushed it down. This was a memory of the past after all, something precious to be savored, not something one could simply wake up from. And yet the dance slowed to its end and eventually you were left standing in the middle of the room, looking at the boy who you knew had once been your family.

A look of mischief crossed over his peaceful face, and he leaned in to whisper something to you. “Ferme les yeux sit u veux voir” the words passed over you in blissful familiarity, and you smiled up at this unknown family member, the heaviness around you feeling like a thick blanket. You wanted to know more. You wanted to know your family.

“Hey.”

A familiar voice broke through your reverie, the scene around you tearing apart like tissue paper as Albedo grasped on to your wrist. Whirling around to face him you found your eyes scanning your now gloomy surroundings, as if looking for an opening that might return you to that peaceful room.

“What happened?”

Albedo’s voice was full of gentle concern, and you leaned into his touch as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. And yet you still felt an overwhelming sense of loss, a sadness that pierced through your soul like a dagger.

“I’m sorry.”

“You did nothing wrong. I only wish to know why you were dancing with yourself at midnight.”

“I… I was dreaming.”

“Dreaming?” Albedo raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” you gazed out upon the ruins, “I was dreaming. And yet it was so real, I hardly realized I’d fallen into it.”

“How odd.”

“Yes, I don’t know how it happened. Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Perhaps.”

And yet you knew that wasn’t the end of it. Lying on the bed you shared with Albedo, listening to the familiar sound of soft breathing, you gazed up at the ceiling, conjuring faces on the white stone, you mind ceaselessly dancing to a somehow familiar tune.

 After that you seemed to fall into dreams more and more, stepping into them as easily as one might walk into the sea. It was small at first. Figures at the corner of your eyes, a sign that turned into that now all too familiar symbol, the sense of one more walking on marble. It was easy enough to ignore, after all you were probably just a little burnt out. However within a few weeks these dreams were becoming more and more difficult to ignore.

The first time it happened was when you were gathering berries. Suddenly the ground shifted beneath you and you were once more in that room, once more surrounded by familiar strangers, once more reaching out to your family. You began to recognize them more and more: the lines of worry that painted your mother’s otherwise smiling face, the way your father stroked his beard quickly, putting his arm back down quickly as to keep his ramrod stance; the way your brother stood a little ways away from the rest, and always approached you even when the others held back. You had no way of verifying the truth of any of these dreams, no way of knowing whether or not these were memories of merely fantasies. Yet how real they were, how real and how terribly disorienting.

A blanket of paranoia settled over you as you continued to fall into these dreams again and again. Every waking moment was a moment of chance, when you might suddenly once more disappear into the realm of dreams. Commissions became almost impossible, you teetered your way from one destination to another, sometimes barely able to dodge the attacks of treasure hoarders and Fatui members. It seemed as if these dreams were no longer revealing information to you, but instead holding you hostage. You always managed to fall when dealing with the Abyss.

Eventually you handed in a letter of leave to Katherine, trying to bat off her questions as you explained that you were finding the work overwhelming. It wasn’t like you were lying anyways; the work was overwhelming. How could it not be, when you could never trust yourself? Trudging back to your apartment that afternoon you felt the sting of tears in your eyes. It was so frustrating, it was so frustrating to lose oneself.

You no longer felt sure, no longer felt the self-assurance that you’d once known. Who were you? What in Teyvat, what in the vast universe had happened to you? You’d accepted your lack of memories, accepted the fact that whatever you escaped was something lost to the sands of time. You never wanted the past to be dragged in front of you, thrown at your feet as you stared at it in horrified fascination. And yet you hadn’t learned anything, not really. All you’d managed to do was shatter what little confidence you’d had in who you were.

“You shouldn’t run away from this.”

The voice was that of a stranger, yet filled with a strange familiarity. Raising your head up you saw your brother appear in front of you, a sole figure against a sea of black.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re trying to run away, you’re trying to forget your destiny.”

“And what destiny is that, what could the past of a destroyed land tell me about my future now?”

“Many things, if you’d let it talk.”

“I already know that I have to be careful, that I cannot take things for granted. These visions, they do nothing but harm me.”

“Your frustration should have nothing to do with us and everything to do with them.”

“Them?”

“The people who slaughtered our family. The gods who stood by and said nothing. Did you not wonder why the Abyss Mage should be sporting such a crest? They’re the only answer. If you weren’t so blind you’d be able to see that.”

“The Abyss is full of monsters, they only bring destruction.”

“Destruction?” Your brother snorted, a cruel expression marring his face, its intensity and hatred something you were sure hadn’t existed before. “No more destruction than the gods have caused. At least the Abyss wishes to right a wrong. Should a crime not be avenged?”

“… This isn’t what you were like.” You shook your head violently, something welling up inside you, something threatening to snap. “I no longer recognize you.”

“You don’t remember me. How can you say what I was once like?”

“I can, I simply can. How do we recognize the people destined to be our family? We simply can.”

“You always were such a simpleton; even now you refuse to understand the evils of the world.”

“I refuse to contribute to them.”

“You know nothing of the world.”

“She knows a great deal more than you.” Albedo’s voice rippled through the nothingness of your dream. Appearing besides you the world shimmered around him, your vision tearing at the seams as you returned to the real world.

“And who are you to say that?” Your brother sneered. “You carry enough rage in your heart, if you even have one alchemist.”

“Perhaps I don’t have one.” Albedo’s voice was calm, grounding you as you stepped towards him. “And yet it would be better to have no heart than a rotten one.”

“We’ll see if you hold that same opinion when the Abyss once rises up.” Your brother smiled, gaze once more fixing on you, eyes pinpricks of rage. “I hope you’ll join me someday sister. If you do then you might finally see us all again. And if not, I’ll see you one day on the battlefield.”

You shook slightly, watching mutely as his figured faded into the wall of your apartment. Sinking down on the nearest couch you let out a few shaky breaths, trying to process what had just happened.

“I trust he’ll no longer come to haunt you.” Albedo sat next to you, a glass of water somehow in his hand.

“I hope not.”

“This is what you meant when you said you were dreaming, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It was different this time however. Usually, usually no one else can see them.”

“Perhaps he wanted it to be that way.”

“Perhaps.” You shook your head, staring down at the palms of your hands. “I don’t know.”

“What do you not know?”

“Everything! I… I no longer know who I am. I’d always thought that I knew myself, that you had helped me realize the need to do so. Now however, now I have no clue. My family, if they’re dead so be it. I’d rather it be that way then, well I’m not sure what this is.”

“I think you know who you are.” Albedo’s eyes were earnest as her stared at you. “You have created your own life, your own sense of self. I don’t know what your brother was hoping to do – or what he thinks you should be – but he cannot change who you are. You’re your own being after all.”

You pondered Albedo’s response, the familiar confidence of his tone, the way he seemed to be stating fact rather than opinion. And perhaps he was right, he often was.

“What if the dreams come back?” You whispered.

“Then I’ll find a way to fight them off.” Albedo took your hand. “You shouldn’t have to suffer for the dreams of your brother, of a past you cannot remember. You shouldn’t be made to feel an artificial vengeance.”

It was all the encouragement that needed to be said. Throwing your arms around Albedo you closed your eyes, resting your head against his shoulder.

The past was something still alive, threads and hooks that dug into your skin and pulled you backwards, away from the place you’d made your own. It was a beautiful façade yes, but that didn’t hide its superficiality. A constructed past, one imagined by an unreliable narrator, could never be trusted, could never be learned from. What could be known was what you’d already built, the relationships that defined yourself now.

Perhaps you would never truly know the past. But as long as you knew yourself, that was all that mattered.

-------

The symbol that the reader sees is essentially the badge of the Order of Sainll Catherine. This was a Russian order bestowed upon Grand Duchesses at birth and given to others such as Princesses of the Blood upon special dates or conditions. The only order higher than it was the Order of Saint Andrew, which was reserved for men excepting the Empress. I will link a picture in the reblog. 

The song I used is La berceuse d’Ahtohallan. The lyrics translate roughly to: “Close your eyes if you wish to see.”

The room that I used as reference is a combination of various Winter Palace rooms and the Amber Room, which has actually been lost to time due mainly to destruction during WWII. We don’t actually know exactly where it is/was.

[westmoor]

the ocean still roars

↞ ↞  | main post |  ao3

(2.5k // tw: blood and violence)

When Jaskier left him on that mountain, something had shifted.

Geralt had found excuses for it at first. Told himself it was the sound or lack thereof; songs unsung, no lute strings plucked, no stories told or tangents pursued with details growing grander with each telling. That it was just the lingering smell fading over time, the perfumed oils and musk underneath, the trailing scent of herbs or flowers stooped for and picked on their way. Of dandelions in spring and apples in autumn, of wild berries and clovers at the height of summer.

But Jaskier had left before, too. Taken his voice and his scent and his lute with him, and it was not the same. 

Something in the air had changed, its taste or its weight in his lungs. Colours looked strange to his eyes, like someone had changed their hue and no one else could tell. It was as though the world had tilted slightly on its axis, without proof or reason as to why.

Geralt found meaningful excuses for what he could and pinned his heart as the cause of the rest.

He still does.

But too much has happened since, too many solemn notes making his medallion tremble with the beat of the other’s heart to only blame his own. 

There is a memory of lights in the forest and a woman in green, the taste of blood in his mouth and gentle hands turning his face to the sky, slipping from the grasp of his mind like fevered dreams.

At the bottom of his saddlebag, wrapped in cloth, is a broken silver bell.

He had hoped that the flicker of emotion that crossed the other man's face had been a sign that perhaps it could be fixed - that he’d be allowed near enough to start to chip away the wedge he had driven between them. That maybe, just maybe, his friend would walk back into his life and he’d be afforded a chance to make things right.

Most of that hope had gone down the storm drains by the time he made it back to Hagge.

Ever since waking up in his half-made camp beyond the forest's edge, head fuzzy and the taste of foreign magic on his tongue, news of his former travelling companion had dwindled. Jaskier hadn’t been there. He hadn’t been anywhere. No note or song, not even a rumour, not for weeks.

It seems that now, for the first time since the day a fresh-faced youth approached him in a tavern in a valley of flowers, the position in his life occupied by Jaskier the bard is truly vacant. 

And still, he can’t give up. 

He doesn’t know what Jaskier is, exactly, nor where, but he knows now there are places to look. In caverns and hollows where they first crawled into legend, glades and groves where their roots have grown deep with power and patience. Nooks and crannies where, with luck and circumstance, one can slip from this world into the one below. 

He also knows that for whatever purpose, if they wish to find him, they will.

There are questions.

He doesn’t give a damn about the answers.

--

When it comes, it comes in the form of a guardsman with a debt to pay.

Odd things afoot, the man claims. A diseased harvest, unseasonably sour weather. Livestock acting strange and wildlife even stranger. And an overheard conversation in the next town over - word of a band of lawless men having captured the White Wolf’s companion.

If true, Geralt doubts they know what they have captured. In fairness, neither does he, but he knows this: They have his bard.

Geralt takes the bait.

No veiled pretense. No loosened horseshoes or impish little children, no stolen potions or fox tracks in the dirt. 

He rides north toward the town in question, a hamlet nestled at the mouth of a river valley, along a road flanked by firs. The trees near the road are willowy and young, felled in rotation to keep the villages with firewood and kindling. But above, further up the slope of the mountain, they tower tall and dark against the afternoon sky.

His medallion stirs before they even leave the road. 

He brings Roach as far as he deems safe, until the forest grows too dense to pass through with ease. Too far in and she’ll be more a hindrance than a help. He leaves her at the edge of a deertrodden glade, where the canopy opens enough to retain the light for a few more hours. 

It’s a bit of a hike - needles of spruce and dead branches crunching underfoot, nothing to hear but the rustle of wind and birdsong, present but frantic in a way that sets his teeth on edge, as though they too can feel the thrum of foreboding reining him in - but eventually the trunks space out and give way to what seems to once have been a wide trail.

Years must’ve gone by since the last wagon passed this way, overtaken as it is by bushes and undergrowth. Life claws its way out of the grasp of barren darkness, to stretch its shrubs and saplings towards the sun.

There are no tracks but the ones behind him. He didn’t expect there to be.

--

It had been an outpost once, perched at a height to overlook wide open fields to the east and narrow passes to the north, sheltered from the west by the steep rise of the mountain proper.

Now it’s a derelict ruin, crumbling timber roof cast in shadow by the jagged rock face above. What had been a tidied yard for corralled horses and the loading of carts shrivels by the season as the forest eats its way closer, devouring fertile ground and reaching with many-fingered hands to a weathered tower hunched against the rock from which it once was built.

Standing in front of it, Geralt weighs his options. 

It’s too quiet, too still, as though he stands at the shrine of a god he can’t name. Despite the open air and sinking sun, it feels enclosed. Walled in by trees as tall as city gates - their spiny crowns like battlements - the acrid scent of junipers is even thicker than it ought to be; the sound of the woods too uniform and dull.

On one hand, he has no hint, no proof, no true sign at all that the ramshackle structure hides what he seeks. On the other - 

The hinges have rusted nearly solid, the frame warped by age and moisture, and he has to put the full force of his weight on it to shoulder it open.

His body blocks the light and when his eyes adjust, he is faced with a rough wall and a narrow walkway, moss creeping along the cracks between hewn stone. The air inside is as cold and damp as an earth cellar, except for the sour coniferous tinge prickling like needles at the back of his throat and burning his sinuses. 

He rounds a corner and faces another door - this one slightly agape, tilting at a steep angle from its fastenings. Prying it open and sidling through, he scans another, longer hall, this one winding inwards to the mountain. It slams shut behind him and the world plunges into darkness. 

And then it's blinding.

And then the scream.

Guttural and wild like a dying beast. Geralt is knocked back by the force of it, bile rising in his throat.

People never scream like that. In terror or pain, he never heard a human make a sound like that. 

His heart knows the sound when his mind doesn’t.

There is a boy in a tavern and a man on a mountain and a creature in a clearing, and Jaskier was never human. 

It rises and ricochets too loud in too small a space. Notes bend until they break, echoing and doubling back until he fears his skull might split.

Flashes of light and dark beating at his vision like frenzied wings, too quick to catch and too fast to adjust to. His eyes are burning with it and he screws them shut. Ears still ringing and he can’t see, can’t hear. He needs to get out, but he needs to find Jaskier.

Something scrapes against his shoulder like talons or teeth and he spins around, a lunge for his ankle nearly has him off his feet. When the walls prove too close for swords he pulls his hunting knife instead. 

Fighting deaf and blind and hampered by the pounding in his head, there is still a weapon in his hand. He digs his heels in. Roots himself.

He finds his rhythm soon enough. The practiced ease of combat gives respite from his battered senses as he learns the pattern of his adversary. 

There are noises around him, differing like voices, but melding together to a single mass of sound.

A shift in the order and a change of pace, his space is empty and he thinks his opponent has retreated - then a cry like a call of a name, and he adapts without thought. Rushing air and the warmt of a body provides direction; near-hits become deflections. 

With a twist and a turn his blade hits home, sinking into solid flesh and grating against bone.

If life could give me one blessing - 

Blood wells hot between his fingers and the feel of it, smell of it, is so close and so familiar -

Horror turns his gut.

- it would be to take you off my hands. 

He can hardly hear himself shouting. Jaskier slumps against him.

--

Panic consumes the moment and the next, and he is staggering out into the fading light of day. 

Jaskier's knees fold in the grass and Geralt follows him down, grappling at his shoulders, his clothes, anything to keep him righted and assess the damage he has done.

It’s a decent hit. Certain. Deep enough to stay embedded between his ribs. Had it been a contract - 

He knows he’s talking, feels his mouth curl around Jaskier’s name, swearing, curses, promises he can’t keep - and all he can see is red, and tawny brown, and blue.

Jaskier is staring, silenced for once by shock and the fear rolling off him in waves. But when he is stopped from grabbing at the hilt of the knife to pull at it, he grasps for Geralt like a plea. Like he can save him, in spite of it all.

It can’t be real. He should wake in his camp, clouded and drained and relieved.

Pale silk drenches red, slow and steady, like ripples in a pond.

That fire in his eyes, lighting them like moonlight reflecting in a clear tarn, is burning white-hot, burning out. There’s no grounding but the shaking hands fisted in his shirt. He prays for that grip to stay firm.

He doesn’t know how this works, or if it works at all, but there is no choice but to try.

Geralt gathers him up, one arm below his shoulders and the other under his knees, and he runs.

It seems impossibly far. His own tracks through the grass make an even trail to follow. The forest passes in a blur.

At the sight of Roach, he grinds to a halt and lowers Jaskier to the ground as slowly as he can afford, ignoring the whimper in protest when he goes out of reach.

He ignores, too, the uncertain shift of his horse as he rifles through saddlebags without care for their contents, digging blindly under blankets and supplies for what has weighed on his mind for a month. And there, beyond a scrap of cloth wrapped around a warped piece of silver, his fingers find a bundle of twigs.

Rushing back and cradling his bard in his arms with as much gentleness as he can bear, he nearly hesitates, then. Jaskier is already too pale, life ebbing steadily out of him and this - this is a waste of time.

But the hilt of his own blade moves with each laboured breath and he’s not- he can’t- it can’t end like this. He curls his and around the knife, and braces for the strangled scream and struggle that comes.

Presses the handful of now-dried heather against the wound in Jaskier’s chest as he begs for whatever power, whatever luck or chance has followed them this far to take hold. 

The prickly stems soak quickly, white flowers dyed red, then black, in seconds. 

Willing his voice to some semblance of steadiness he taps a pale cheek, trying not to cringe at the cold creeping in.

“Jaskier.” He shakes the arm beneath his back to keep him waking, and is rewarded with a flicker of attention. “I need you to sing for me, lark. Can you do that?”

A grimace, or possibly a smile, sluggish and wan but he tries - the notes sound roughened in his throat, words garbled, more a mumble than a song but he tries.

The silver pendant between them quivers in response to each rising sound and for a moment, he hopes, maybe - but the heart beneath the press of his touch staggers on, rabbit-quick and panicked. Geralt can’t see his own hands for all that red.

There are lessons to this, ones imprinted in him since childhood, the cost of loving what is mortal. Reasons for tempering your heart, for why Witchers do not feel. None of them matter now. 

In their place is a barrage of moments, fleeting glances, the hand at his elbow by instinct when he comes back weary and injured, half-formed melodies by dying fires hummed to no one in particular. The scent of camomile and lavender and ink, ringing laughter, the rustle of silk. The lightness of a pack with provisions just for one, the deafening silence of a thousand lonely mornings, the chill of a bed too narrow for two.

Jaskier’s voice dwindles and fades and he doesn’t know what to do, he does the only thing he can think of. He pulls him so close he fears his bones might break, and he kisses him.

It’s desperate and too forceful and wet with his own tears and Jaskier gasps for air against his lips, and it’s nothing like the stories. 

And nothing happens.

“Please, Jaskier, I can’t -” he chokes out, and it’s all he can muster against the waves that clog and tear at his chest. “I can’t lose you. Not like this. Fuck, I wish I hadn’t let you go.”

There is a deep, ragged breath shaking the body in his arms. His medallion stills on its chain.

And then another breath. 

And when Geralt forces his eyes open the ones that meet his gaze are wet and dull with pain, but awake and alive, blinking up at him with confusion and something like disbelief.

“Geralt?” 

Something breaks in him, then. A wall or a barricade, something old and rigid, shatters like glass and he crumbles with it. 

“I’m here,” he murmurs into Jaskier’s brow, and for now his world is only that: Hair tickling his nose. The smell of blood, still, but less bitter; tempered by earthy musk and summer flowers. Grass under his knees. Jaskier in his arms.

Breath against his neck, calmer, pained but not panicked. Stutters a few times, stops and starts before the words form softly to his collarbones. “Don’t let me go.”

“Never.” It’s barely a whisper, but he doubles down, makes it a promise. “Never.”

 And the world tilts slightly on its axis.

--------

Tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @elliestormfound @love-more-today-than-yesterday @fontegagrilledcheese @geraskier-trashh

[nicknellie]

Anonymous requested: While on a walk to clear his head, Alex is attacked by Caleb as a warning to him and his friends. Shaken, he refuses to tell the band what happened, but he does tell Willie who is furious and protective. Fluffy ending. (This was edited/simplified just to make it shorter.)

Oooh, this was a really good request! All the details were really helpful too, so thank you for that. I really enjoyed writing it, especially the fluff at the end. I really hope this is the sort of thing you were after. Thank you for requesting it, I hope you like it!

TW: injury, blood.

Tripwire

It was safe to say that since Alex and the boys had left the dark room there had been a lot to process. Being dead, for a start. Adjusting to being a ghost had been a whole other ordeal too. Meeting Julie, forming the band, everything that had gone down with Caleb. Willie. Throughout those few months it had been non-stop, one thing after another, and Alex hadn’t had any time to slow down or take a break, not one single moment to really think about what was going on.

Now, somehow, all the difficult stuff was over and done with. Nobody had seen Caleb in weeks, Alex had managed to free Willie from the stamp, and the band had five more gigs lined up, plus a record deal on the horizon. While things were still definitely busy, it wasn’t so constant anymore. Alex finally had the time to just take a breather – or whatever the ghost version of a breather was, seeing as he couldn’t actually breathe. He had settled on his tried and tested method of going for a walk to clear his head to take the time to wrap his mind around it all.

The freedom of teleportation was nice, but it was definitely one of Alex’s least favourite ghost abilities. He couldn’t help but worry he’d somehow end up in the wrong place every time he did it, or that he’d poof out and never reappear anywhere else. It didn’t have the safety of walking through walls or being heard and seen when the band played together. And it might have been freeing, but it wasn’t nearly as freeing as just walking. Walking was slow and repetitive and methodical, rhythmic in a way that was relaxing. When Alex walked he didn’t have to think about where he was going – he could just let his feet take him there while his mind wandered elsewhere.

So that’s what he did. As he walked through the streets of Hollywood, Alex let his mind wander. He thought about everything that had happened since they came back, everything that might have happened in the twenty-five years before that, and everything that could happen in the future. Alex didn’t often think about the future; he didn’t like dwelling on things that were out of his control and the future was certainly that. But as he thought about it then, it didn’t seem quite so daunting – after all, nothing bad had happened in weeks.

As he was nearing the Orpheum, Alex suddenly felt as if something was wrong. It was an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach, a bad feeling that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Dread, maybe. Or perhaps just the intuitive feeling that something was coming and it couldn’t be anything good.

Ahead of him, no more than ten feet away, a mist was gathering, a light lilac cloud spinning faster and faster until it was so thick that Alex couldn’t see through it, growing taller and taller, wider and wider. The cloud spun so fast that Alex could feel wind rush past him from the movement of it, but it was gone as soon as it had come. The cloud dissipated with a soft whoosh, leaving behind a few sparkles drifting on the breeze it had created, and stood where the cloud had been was Caleb Covington.

While he wasn’t happy to see Caleb again after so long, Alex was glad to see he hadn’t lost his flair for the dramatic.

He knew he wouldn’t have time to get away, but he still considered it. Maybe if he ran instead of walking he could get away. He considered poofing out, but his mind had gone completely blank of places to poof to – all he could think of when looking at Caleb was the Hollywood Ghost Club, and going there was nothing short of the worst idea he could ever have had. So he stayed put, staring Caleb down, trying to stop the shaking of his hands and the hammering of his non-existent heart.

“Hello, Alex,” Caleb drawled. His hands were folded atop his cane and he wore a purple suit so dark it almost looked black, his cape wafting ever so slightly in the breeze, his top hat perched neatly on his head. Childishly, Alex wondered if he had the courage to walk up to him and knock the hat off his head. “Long time no see.”

“What do you want?” Alex demanded, trying to sound as if he wasn’t desperate to run away. He was aware that Caleb probably knew just how scared he really was, but if he didn’t show his nerves then he might have been able to convince himself that he wasn’t really frightened.

Caleb tutted. “Come now, is that really how you greet an old friend? I might have expected it from Luke but certainly not from you, Alex. I’m only here to see how you’re getting on without me!”

It felt like a trap, but Alex didn’t know what tripwire he was supposed to avoid.

“We’re doing fine,” he said firmly. “We don’t need you.”

“So you keep telling me,” Caleb replied. He flexed his hands, still grasping his cane. “Tell me, Alex – how did you and your little buddies manage to free yourselves from my stamp, hm?”

“Why should I tell you that?” Alex spat. It was a braver way of saying ‘we have no idea’.

“Oh, I don’t think you should,” Caleb admitted. “If you told me how you did it there would be dire consequences for you and your friends, but it would be extremely helpful to me. If you want to keep this newfound freedom with your silly little band, you shouldn’t tell me how you got the stamp off.”

“Then I’m not telling you,” Alex said.

“But,” Caleb continued, a malicious twinkle in his eyes, “if you want to walk away from this little chat unharmed then I suggest you tell me everything.”

Up until then, Alex thought he had been doing a very good job at standing his ground, maybe even looking a little intimidating. But the threat broke him. He felt himself freeze, his mind halt, and suddenly he was far weaker than the man in front of him.

“Unharmed?” he repeated. “What do you mean ‘unharmed’?”

Caleb cocked his head to the side like he didn’t understand the question. “Isn’t it obvious?” When Alex didn’t say anything, Caleb chuckled darkly. It sent shivers down Alex’s spine and made his stomach twist sickeningly. “Alex, if you refuse to tell me exactly how you got my stamp off, I am going to hurt you. And let me tell you, you’d be surprised just how much you can make someone hurt even after they’re dead and gone.”

Alex’s mind was spinning. There was no good option here, no way out. Caleb had trapped him in yet another impossible situation. He cursed himself for not poofing out while he had the chance.

But it didn’t matter how scared he was now, he would not let his friends suffer just to stave off his own pain. He had to take one for the team, even if he was dreading it. The smirk on Caleb’s face said that he knew he had won this round no matter what, smug and self-satisfied. Alex wanted to slap the smile right off his face, but he refused to give him the satisfaction of a fight.

He steeled himself, set his jaw, tried to look like as much of a threat as he could. “I’m not telling you anything. Nothing you do can make me talk. Do your worst.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow, looking almost amused, but he nodded. “Alright then. You’ve made your decision. I can’t say I’m surprised – you’re not as weak-willed as you look. But you’re still weak. I can still hurt you.”

He tucked his cane under his arm and stalked towards Alex. Too late, Alex wondered if he could have taken that brief opportunity to run away, but he would never know because Caleb grabbed his wrist. It was just like how he’d put the stamp on, a quick touch and a slight sting. When he let go, Alex looked at where his hand had been – there was a blood red mark there, swirling on his skin. Its shape constantly changed, but Alex was sure he picked out a blade before it twisted and morphed into something else.

“What is it?” he asked Caleb.

“You’ll soon see,” he replied, already walking away. He threw the words over his shoulder as he left Alex alone. “Consider this a warning to you and your friends. Willie, too. It isn’t over. There is plenty more I can do to make you suffer. It’s up to you to decide whether you’re willing to put yourselves through all of this just to stay away from me. I’ll see you soon, Alex.”

And he was gone.

For a moment, Alex was confused. This stamp, whatever it was, didn’t seem to be doing anything. It was just moving about on his skin, as fluid as water, like a cool tattoo. He wondered – hoped – if Caleb’s spell hadn’t worked.

But then it hit him. It felt as if he’d been struck by lightning and hit by a bus at the exact same time, unimaginable pain slamming into him and knocking him right off his feet. It was infinitely worse than the pain of the jolts Caleb had inflicted on them before which should have been impossible because those felt like death. And yet there he was, lying on the ground, winded and light-headed, pain surging through his body, unable to move.

Another one. This time it felt like he’d been kicked in the temple and had his face stamped on. He was sure his nose was broken even though that probably shouldn’t have been possible. He lifted a weak, shaking hand to his face and touched his upper lip – when his hand came away, his fingertips were drenched in blood. Alex had been sure that ghosts didn’t have blood, so he wondered whether he’d been wrong or if this was some sort of sick illusion Caleb had created. He decided it didn’t matter, not when he was vulnerable and hurting, in agony worse than dying.

Again, like being stabbed in the gut.

Again, like he’d broken his legs.

Again, like a knife twisted in his back.

It went on and on, attack after attack, pain after searing pain. It hurt too much for him to even scream for help, not that it would have done any good. All around him, lifers walked by without a care in the world, not knowing that he was right there, a snivelling wreck, bloodied and bruised. He curled in on himself and waited for it all to be over.

Eventually, it finished. The last jolt came like a punch to the jaw and when nothing else happened for fifteen minutes, Alex began to come to his senses. He opened his eyes and eased himself up into a sitting position. Even that hurt like hell. He studied his body – his legs, even though they felt like they had been snapped in half, seemed fine; there were a few bruises on his arms, but nothing major; every aching joint was killing him and his head was pounding; again, he touched his upper lip and felt blood crusted there, but none of it was fresh enough to be wet.

He could only imagine how pathetic he looked.

How was he going to explain all this to his friends?

Never mind an explanation – he needed to warn them.

Slowly, he picked himself up off the ground. He regretted it immediately as his head started swimming, he swayed on his feet, almost slumping right back down to the ground. He wouldn’t let himself be beaten by this, he wouldn’t show anymore weakness. His vision blurred (by pain or unshed tears, it was impossible to tell), he focused as much as he could on the studio and forced himself to poof back there.

The feeling of teleportation was uncomfortable at the best of times, but in such a state Alex couldn’t have imagined anything worse. He landed in the studio, his feet hitting the floor with such force that it sent shockwaves up his spine, nothing compared to what he’d just been through but still unbelievably painful. Distantly, he could hear his friends stop talking, muffled and indistinct voices crowding all around him, their faces swimming in front of his eyes.

“Alex,” came a voice. Maybe Julie’s, maybe Luke’s, maybe Reggie’s, maybe none of them. “Alex, buddy, you alright? Come on, speak to us, Alex. What happened? Alex? Alex?”

There was little strength in his arms, but he used it to push them all away and staggered his way to the couch. He collapsed onto it, suddenly feeling weak, somehow more vulnerable than he’d felt lying on the ground as Caleb’s stamp beat him bloody. He checked his wrist now – the stamp was gone.

He came back to himself a little at that; if the stamp was gone, he couldn’t be hurt anymore. He was alright now, he was with his friends, Caleb was nowhere to be seen. But knowing that didn’t stop the tears pooled in his eyes from sliding down his cheeks or his hands from shaking so intensely they might fall off his body. Someone – no, not just someone, it was Julie – crouched down in front of him and gently laid a hand on his knee.

He jerked away from the touch like it burned him.

“Alex,” came Julie’s soft voice. “Alex, please look at me. What happened?”

All he could do in response was shake his head and curl in on himself, body heaving with every sob he was too weak to suppress.

“Alex,” Reggie tried. Alex felt the couch cushions depress next to him as Reggie sat beside him. “It’s alright, man. You’re safe here with us.”

“You’re not alone, Alex,” came Luke’s voice. “Just tell us what happened. Who did this to you?”

But still Alex could only shake his head.

No one said anything for a while. The only sound in the studio was Alex’s laboured breathing and ragged sobs. He’d never felt so pathetic in all his life and death – he could make it through torture without crying like this, and yet just being around his friends after the fact was enough to set him off. He felt useless, he hadn’t even tried to stop Caleb in any way. He’d let this happen, he was the reason he was hurt. This was all his fault.

After a while, he heard the sound of one of the boys poofing out, presumably Luke because Alex could still feel Reggie sat beside him. Only a minute or so later, there was the sound of someone poofing back in, but Luke wasn’t alone now.

“Alex?”

His haggard breathing stopped altogether as Alex opened his eyes to see Willie in front of him, crouched down where Julie had been before. There was a soft smile on their face, reassuring, but Alex wasn’t blind to the tears in their eyes. Alex timidly reached out a hand to him and Willie interlocked their fingers.

“I’m here,” Willie said, his voice wavering. “I’m here for you, hotdog.”

At that, fresh tears began streaming down Alex’s face. He pulled Willie to him, wrapping him in a fierce embrace, holding them so tight that it made his new injuries sear with pain, but he never wanted to let go. The pain was worth every bit of comfort that simply holding Willie provided, every moment, every second, everything.

“We’ll give you guys a minute,” Julie said quietly.

“What?” Luke protested. “No way, I want to find out who hurt Alex and I want to hurt them.”

“Luke,” Julie said, gentle but firm. “That’ll come later. I’m sure we’ll find out everything, but right now we shouldn’t surround him.”

Alex, still holding Willie like his afterlife depended on it, heard the three of them reluctantly leave him and Willie behind. He was grateful for the most part, but a little bit of him still wanted them there. It would have been harder to tell them all what had happened at once, but he would have preferred not to repeat the story.

Willie just held him. They didn’t press for him to talk, didn’t let go before Alex was ready, he just held him in his arms and occasionally whispered, “I love you. You’re safe. I’m here.”

Alex couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have someone like Willie care for him.

Eventually, he pulled away. It hurt to see Willie’s face streaked with tears, especially knowing it was because of him. Alex softly tucked a lock of hair behind their ear.

“I was out for a walk,” he rasped, his voice strained from crying. “Clearing my head. Like the day we first met. Same place and everything. Then there was this weird cloud and Caleb appeared. He said if I didn’t tell him how we got the stamps off then he’d hurt me.”

“Oh, Alex,” Willie breathed. Alex could see their heart breaking.

“I wouldn’t tell him. It’s not like we know anyway. So he… he put this other stamp on me – it was like, red and swirly and it looked like…”

“Death,” Willie finished for him. Alex nodded, looking at the ground, trying to still his breathing again. “It looked like death.”

“It felt like it too,” Alex said dryly. “Or worse.” He choked on his words, remembered it all, broke again.

He fell limply to the side, but Willie caught him, pulled him into a hug as he cried. There were images racing through his mind, one after the other – Caleb’s mirthless laughter and sly smirk, the stamp dripping across his skin, himself lying on the ground covered in his own blood. He still hadn’t figured out if that blood had been real or an illusion, but he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore because right that moment he felt as if he couldn’t breathe and his legs were numb and the walls were closing in and he was losing his grip on reality and losing his grip on Willie and–

“Come back, Alex,” Willie said, his voice cutting through Alex’s hopeless thoughts. “You’re not there anymore. It’s over. You survived. You are in Julie’s garage, I’m holding you, nothing can get to you. Come back, Alex.”

Slowly, Alex dragged himself down from his thoughts. He focused on the feeling on his hands clutching Willie’s hoodie, the tickle of Willie’s hair against his cheek, the warmth of Willie’s hands on his back. He focused on Willie and it brought him back.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t apologise,” Willie told him, sounding almost outraged. He watched as Willie took a moment to collect himself, and when they spoke again their voice was much calmer. “You have nothing to apologise for. None of this was your fault. Please tell me you know that.”

Alex couldn’t have truthfully said so, and he wouldn’t lie to Willie. Bottom lip trembling as he held back yet more tears, he remained silent.

“Alex, this wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known Caleb was going to attack you. You couldn’t have predicted any of this. And it could have happened to any one of us. We all would have done the same thing. You made it through, Alex. This wasn’t your fault and you’re not weak for getting hurt.”

After a moment’s pause, Alex weakly repeated back to them, “This wasn’t my fault.”

Willie pressed a kiss to the top of Alex’s head. “Good. Please remember that. You don’t need to feel guilty about this, alright?”

All he did was nod, closing his eyes and resting his head on Willie’s chest.

“I can explain the stamp if you want,” Willie said, carding his fingers through Alex’s hair. “It has some fancy Latin name that I can’t remember. When Caleb uses it on someone, it takes the most pain they’ve ever been in, and it multiplies it by a thousand. It’s a good thing he can’t use it on lifers because if he did it would kill them with the first jolt.”

“I’m not surprised,” Alex deadpanned.

“The first time he used it on me I thought he was trying to kill me. Again. Or force me to cross over somehow.”

At that, Alex sat up and stared at Willie, wide-eyed. “The first time?”

Gently, Willie pulled Alex back to his lap and laid him down again. “He would use it on me if ever I stepped really out of line. The last time was the day you guys performed at the Orpheum. But I’m free now, so as long as we avoid Caleb it’ll never happen again. If we all avoid him – me, you, Luke, Reggie – then none of us have to get hurt.”

“I don’t think we can avoid whatever he’s got planned,” Alex mumbled.

“Maybe not,” Willie admitted. “But let’s not think about that now. Right, hotdog? I mean, you made it out today. Let’s focus on that. Is there anything you want to do?”

Alex thought for a moment but all he came up with was: “I just want to sleep. And I want you to hold me.”

He could hear Willie’s smile in their voice. “Of course. Whatever you want, Alex.”

Alex felt his eyes drifting closed, sleep catching up with him all at once, the exhaustion being a by-product of the agony. He didn’t mean to say it, but he heard his tired voice breathe, “I love you.”

And just before he fell asleep, he heard Willie whisper back, “I love you too, Alex. Sleep well.”

[imaginejamesandsirius]

Hii, I think Studio Killers's song Jenny (I Wanna Ruin Our Friendship) is great for the guys. It would be pretty awesome to read something like that.

James thought, a lot of the times, that he wanted to ruin his friendship with Sirius. He wanted to ruin it. He wanted to take the beautiful thing they'd built together and tear it apart, piece by piece until there was nothing left.

It was a very destructive way of thinking about it, and when James was in his better moods, he didn't think about it that way. He loved Sirius. He wanted to hug him and spend all his time with him because any time they were apart felt like time wasted. Every time they weren't in the same room, he had a story that he wanted to tell him, and he felt like he got all of the details wrong. He still shared stories with Sirius when Sirius had been there for it, but it was more fun that way. Sharing a story that Sirius hadn't already experienced was like desperately trying to get him back into that little bit of his life that he'd missed.

He loved him in more ways than one. He loved being his best mate. He also loved him like he wanted to pull his pants down and wreck him. And he loved waking up next to him on the odd occasion that they still shared a bed. He wanted to be able to kiss him after that happened, but he never could. It sodding sucked.

So when the time came that he felt completely hopeless in his pining, he wanted to ruin their friendship. He wanted it eviscerated. Not because he thought that Sirius would suddenly jump his bones or summat, but he knew that Sirius thought he was fit. He'd said so himself. If they'd never been friends, they might've hooked up at one of the bars they frequented. Hell, if James was enough of a bastard about something and actually did ruin their friendship, angry sex wasn't off the table.

It wasn't what he wanted. He knew that. Mostly, it was what he thought about when he was lying in bed, feeling lonely and pathetic.

And sometimes he would watch Sirius put on lipstick and he couldn't decide if he wanted to snog him so much that it was smeared all over his face, or if he wanted to steal it.

This latest time, he stole it. It was bright red, and it shone in the light. When Sirius pursed his lips to take a drag from a cigarette, James couldn't think. If he could think of anything at all, it was what he wanted to do to those lips-- or what he wanted those lips to do to him.

He palmed the lipstick tube, then brought it to his room. He took the cap off and twisted it up. There were distinct lines across it in the shape of Sirius, where he'd slid it across his lips.

James had watched him put it on dozens of times; he knew exactly how it looked when he put it on. Sirius flattened his lips wide across his teeth, then swiped from left to right across the bottom, then shifted to the top lip and did right to left. Then he would reverse the way he did it, starting at the top and swiping to the right, then going across the bottom to make sure he covered all of it. He was practically an expert on doing his makeup after so many times. He would rub his lips together then make a little kiss to the mirror with exaggerated pushed out lips. It was to check that he hadn't missed any spots; James knew, because then Sirius would bare his teeth to see that they were still clean. The problem was, if James was around when he got to the 'mwah' part of his routine, Sirius would wink at him. Sometimes he'd run his tongue over his teeth teasingly, like he wanted to get a taste of James and wasn't checking for the chemical taste of the makeup.

All the same, knowing every inch of his routine and the variations to it, James couldn't help but imagine Sirius doing it. He wasn't replaying a memory with it; he was creating something new. A scenario where Sirius put the lipstick on just so James could watch. The idea was mesmerizing in a way that it shouldn't have been. He'd seen Sirius put on his makeup-- and specifically lipstick-- enough times that it shouldn't be something he fantasized about. But he looked at the little lines at the end of the lipstick, and all he could think about was Sirius's mouth.

His tongue darted out, pressing against the tip of it for an instant. The taste was bitter and unpleasant, but it sent a thrill through him; this is what Sirius would taste like if he kissed him.

A hot feeling of shame crept over him, and he rolled the tube back down and put the cap on. He shouldn't have taken this. It was Sirius's, and if he found out about this, he wouldn't appreciate James stealing his things. He got to his feet and walked over to the washroom, tossing the lipstick on the counter so it landed among all the other products Sirius left lying around.

As he walked back to his room, the shame faded. He'd felt it so intensely in the moment, but it evaporated once he got a little distance. He knew that he'd regret it in the morning, but he turned on his heel and went back to the loo. He reached for the lipstick and opened it again. He didn't touch anything else.

He glanced in the mirror, as if he was expecting for Sirius to appear, leaning against the doorframe and asking what he was doing. Expectedly, it was only his own reflection that he saw. He bit his lip, then rolled the tube up. "This is so stupid," he muttered, but he still pursed his lips and started putting the lipstick on.

When he finished, he could better appreciate the ease Sirius did it with. It's not like it was hard, but he could see that he'd buggered it up a bit. If Sirius saw him with it on, he wouldn't care. It wouldn't mean anything to him. It was more upsetting than thinking that he'd be mad at James for wearing it. It wouldn't mean a thing to Sirius. It might be funny to him, since James had never shown any interest in wearing makeup before, and he'd probably wonder why he'd done it on his own instead of asking for Sirius to help him with it-- something he'd offered a few years ago, when he'd bought it all.

He spent the next fifteen minutes rubbing his lips raw, trying to get rid of all traces of red.

That night, he dreamed of Sirius on his motorcycle. In the weird way that dreams worked, it faded seamlessly from Sirius on the bike and James watching, to Sirius kissing him like there was no tomorrow. James woke up hard and aching, and a glance at the time told him that if he wanted to be any good in the morning, he should jerk off.

*

They were at one of the clubs, hanging out. Sirius was dressed up, like he always was. Bright red lipstick and dark eyeshadow. He had a light dusting of pink across his cheeks, but he said that he didn't like to do the full face of makeup because it felt like it was caked on. His hair was pulled back, and he had his leather jacket thrown on because they'd taken the bike here instead of apparating and walking the difference.

James leaned over and put his mouth near Sirius's ear so he could hear him over the loud roar of music. "You want to dance?"

Sirius looked at him, surprised. "You want to dance?"

He nodded. For a minute, he thought that Sirius would say no. There was a long enough pause between asking and Sirius answering that he got worried.

Then, like the sun shining when the clouds parted, Sirius smiled. He grabbed James's hand and pulled him towards the dancefloor.

At first, it was perfectly innocent. They were mates, and they'd danced together plenty of times. Then James shifted so his hand was too low on Sirius's back to be anything other than sexual, and Sirius didn't move away. He moved into it.

They both knew what was happening here, but neither of them said a word about it. They were pretending that it wasn't happening. Or at least, they were pretending up until Sirius pulled him out of the press of bodies and kissed him. The lipstick on his lips tasted better than it had when it was still in the tube. He couldn't get enough of it. He bit down on Sirius's lip, and he was breathless with the way Sirius responded to it, pressing into him helplessly.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," Sirius said. It wasn't quiet and under his breath the way that James had always imagined it happening. They were in a club, and it was loud. Sirius had to speak up in order for James to hear him.

"Me too," James replied.

"You want to go home?"

James nodded, and they practically ran from the club to climb onto the bike and race away. It was loud and messy, and that was them all over. He hadn’t had to ruin their friendship to get here; he hadn’t ruined anything at all.