#They are also a VERY proud blade and desperately want to be given to a worthy wielder like Wynn or “Evil Teara”

[lynns-art-blog]

Repostober Day 19 I don't think I ever posted this on here, but I had an idea and finalized something I've been mulling around in my brain for years now. Every night Teara goes to bed she dreams of a sword. A sword that hovers just out of reach above her bed. A sword that has been passed down from mother to daughter in her family for generations. A blade she has despised since she was very young, and never wanted to own. A sentient blade that knows its wielder hates them, and in turn feels that very hatred for her. A blade made with the blood of oni, and the soul of ancestors long since gone; forged in a time of pain, and suffering, and death.

A blade simple known as The Demon's Tooth

[kckt88]

Drowning Inside You - Aemon & Ryn

Summary:

All his life, Aemon believed he was going to be an Alpha like his father, but he presents as an Omega and his life falls apart.

Unable to comprehend his presentation, Aemon lives in despair, until his younger sister Ryn becomes an Alpha and Aemon's world changes again.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

Warning(s): Self loathing, Despair, Anger, Mention of Self Harm, Eventual Acceptance.

Word Count: 2200

Author Note: An Alpha/Omega Story.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Aemon smiled as he ran his fingers over the fresh mating mark that graced his neck.

Yesterday he’d married his Alpha sister Ryn and now they were mated for life.

But this wasn’t always what he’d envisioned for himself.

Before his presentation he was convinced that he was going to be an Alpha.

Just like his father, he’d dedicated himself to his education and training with the sword.

He spent hours poring over books and scrolls in the library.

He lingered in the training yard far longer than his older brother.

Vhalarr was the heir to Driftmark, and he was a second son in line to inherit nothing, but he accepted his position in life and vowed to make both of his parents proud.

His Alpha father was a skilled swordsman, and people from all over the seven kingdoms would travel to Driftmark just for the chance to challenge the great Aemond Targaryen.

His father remained undefeated, not even the Rogue Prince and his blade Dark Sister could dent his father’s victories.

Which frustrated his 'step grandfather' very much.

Aemon wanted to be just like his Alpha father, the rider of the mighty Vhagar, Queen of the sky.

Yet the day he presented as an Omega, all his hopes for the future came crashing down.

No, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Aemon writhed in agony on his bed as his organs rearranged themselves and the blood from his new womb ran down his thighs.

His Omega mother tried her best to comfort him, but he didn’t want to know.

I’m nothing. I’m weak. I’m a failure.

I should be an Alpha. Not an Omega.

Why have the gods cursed me?

Aemon couldn’t even face his father.

He became convinced that his father would be ashamed of him.

He spent weeks holed up in his chambers, refusing to see anyone.

How am I supposed to live my life now?

I wanted to travel to Essos. To fly with Vhagon over the ruins of Old Valyria.

Now I’ve been reduced to nothing but a prize to be sold off and used for my Valyrian blood.

I would rather die than submit to some fat lord who only sees me as a broodmare.

No. I will run away. I will take my dragon and never come back.

Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, he experienced his first heat, as he was newly presented it only lasted two days, but it was horrible.

That voice inside him yearning desperately for relief.

Clawing and screaming inside his head as he buried his face into his pillows and cried.

Make it stop. Please. I don't know how.

Eventually the Omega inside him quietened down and the longing stopped.

Heats were something he would have to endure alone for the foreseeable future as he didn't want an Alpha.

Mayhaps he should slit his own throat and be done with it.

But he couldn't willingly subject his mother to the pain of a losing a child.

Even if he hated what he'd become, he still loved his mother.

When Aemon did eventually emerge from his chambers, it was with sheer reluctance on his part, but his father had threatened to drag him out by his ears if necessary.

He knew that his mother had just given birth to another pup; a girl named Corla in honour of their great grandsire.

Aemon also knew better than to disobey his Alpha father, and he was rather fond of his ears being attached to his head, so he made the decision to go and see his mother.

She was safe. She was understanding. She would care.

As he entered his parents shared chambers, the scent of fresh milk lingered in the air.

After weeks of self-seclusion, the sight of his Omega mother holding a tiny snivelling pup to her chest was truly something to behold.

As soon as he locked eyes with his mother, he folded to his knees bedside the bed and cried.

“Oh, my sweet boy”

“I-I don’t know how to stop feeling like this” sobbed Aemon.

“It’ll be ok son” whispered Aemond as he knelt down and wrapped his arms around his crying son and held him tight.

“I don’t want to be a disappointment” muttered Aemon.

“You listen to me. Never ever think that. You’re never going to be a disappointment to me or to your mother” replied Aemond.

“Listen to your father sweet boy. We love you more than anything in this world”.

“I know I just-“

“I will admit that you presenting as an Omega was a surprise, but it doesn’t have to mean what you think it does” said Aemond.

“It-it doesn’t?” asked Aemon.

“No. You don’t have to change who you are or what you do. Carry on training with the sword, fly with Vhagon as far as he’ll take you. Just be yourself” replied Aemond.

“What about when I’m older and-“

“If you do not wish to marry, then we shall not force you. It will be entirely your own choice. We just want you to be happy” urged Valaera as she took Aemon’s hand and squeezed it.

“I would be happier if I was an Alpha” mumbled Aemon.

“Do you think me weak?” asked Valaera.

“N-No mother. Never”

“Well, there you go. I am proof enough that an Omega can rise beyond their presentation”.

“Whilst your mother may indeed birth my pups, she also sits the Driftwood throne and is Lady of Driftmark” said Aemond.

“You are Aemon Targaryen, rider of Vhagon and you are everything” exclaimed Valaera as she gently rocked Corla in his arms.

The sound of his mother's soft voice was soothing, it made him feel calm.

“On the morrow you will report to the training yard at first light. You’ve missed many weeks of training, and I shall see it corrected” said Aemond firmly.

“Yes father” replied Aemon.

“Don’t for one second think that I will go easy on you. Because I won’t” retorted Aemond.

I will be like mother, I will do my best and rise beyond my presentation.

Aemon smiled as he felt his father pat him on the back affectionately.

Maybe things were going to be ok after all. 

So, Aemon resumed his training with the sword and after a few weeks, it was like he’d never been away.

If anything, his presentation as an Omega pushed him even further than before and he soon defeated every knight on Driftmark.

Yet his father still reigned as champion. But Aemon was determined, and he vowed that one day he would defeat his father.

Aside from training with the sword, Aemon would spend his days with Vhagon.

Admittedly he did still struggle with the notion that he was indeed an Omega, but his parents and sibling were a constant support and he felt very lucky to have such a family that loved him unconditionally.

Once he thought he’d come to terms with being an Omega, things changed again.

The day his younger sister Ryn presented as an Alpha.

He never gave much thought to his sisters scent before.

But after her presentation, she’d walked past him in the corridor and that’s when he smelled her. It was a combination of the sea and fresh fruit. Entirely unique to Ryn.

It plagued him, every waking second of the day.

When he thought about her, he would feel an odd fluttering sensation in his stomach and his heart would beat faster whenever she was near him.

The pair had been close before either of them presented, but now Aemon was driving himself to madness at the thought of his sister.

One night, he’d caught sight of her emerging from the bath in her chambers and he felt a wet feeling in his small clothes. He realised that what he experienced was arousal and according to a book he found in the library, it was completely normal.

It was shameful. It was indecent. It was depraved.

But Aemon couldn’t stop thinking of how Ryn’s body had looked and how her long wavy brown hair cascaded down her back.

He began touching himself at the thought of Ryn.

He would put his fingers inside himself and imagine that it was her, he would bring himself to peak every time with her name on his lips.

But eventually he became frustrated, being an Omega was hard enough, but now he was having improper thoughts about his sister.

Surely their father would go crazy if he found out.

Aemond Targaryen was widely known to be very protective over his pups. Especially his daughters.

Yet here was his own son, lusting like some unchecked whore over Ryn.

Even worse when he went into heat and Ryn was all he could think about as he writhed around on his bed.

He felt empty and his inner Omega was screaming inside his head.

The need for Ryn was almost unbearable. He cried, screamed and raged for relief.

But it never came, and afterwards he felt so ashamed of himself that he figured it was for the best that he avoided spending time with Ryn.

He declined her invites to go dragon riding, he refused her requests to train, and he most certainly ignored her when she would ask him to go the library with her.

She would stare at him with those big eyes and he would simply shoo her away.

He felt awful, as he knew it was hurting Ryn’s feelings, but he just couldn’t be around her anymore.

Until one day she cornered him outside his room and demanded to know why he was avoiding her.

He couldn’t speak. He just stood there not moving or breathing as she clutched at his leather doublet.

She’s too close. Much too close. I can’t have her near me. She smells so good.

Then she surged forward and kissed him.

It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before.

Her lips were soft and sweet against his.

Growing more confident, Aemon pressed Ryn against the wall and slid his tongue against hers.

Ryn slid her hands in Aemon’s long silver hair and scrapped her nails against his scalp.

“Ryn” moaned Aemon quietly.

“I’ve been wondering what it was like to kiss you” exclaimed Ryn sweetly.

“Y-You have?” asked Aemon.

“Yes, ever since my presentation, your all I can think about. Your scent is driving me crazy”.

"M-My scent?" asked Aemon.

"Sweet like freshly baked lemon cake. I crave you every minute of the day" muttered Ryn.

“I feel the same way about you” muttered Aemon blushing.

“If it’s ok with you. I would like to explore what’s happening between us, We'll go slow and take it one day at a time” said Ryn.

“I would like that” whispered Aemon surprising himself with his rapid agreement.

“I just want you to know that I would never try to change you. I think your prefect, just the way you are” exclaimed Ryn.

She thinks I’m perfect just the way I am. She accepts me. She wants me.

Over the next year, Aemon and Ryn spent as much time together as they possibly could.

Training, reading in the library, flying with Vhagon and Silver and stealing kisses when no one was watching.

Ryn was true to her word, she accepted him for who he was, and in a way, she saved him.

Omega’s were supposed to be soft and submissive, yet Aemon was defiant and strong willed.

Ryn seemed to like that about him.

He fell deeply in love with her and knew there was never going to be another for him.

Aemon never thought he would want to get married, not after his presentation as an Omega, the thought of some Alpha sticking their knot in him made him feel sick to his stomach.

But now, he wanted Ryn to be his Alpha and the thought of her knot, made him happy.

I want to marry her. I want her to mark me. I want to be with her forever.

So, he worked up the courage and asked their father for his permission to marry Ryn.

Which he readily granted. As it turns out their secret relationship wasn’t so secret after all, and their parents had known all along.

“We knew you’d find your way to one another” exclaimed Valaera happily.

With their parents approval, the wedding preparations were well underway.

But Aemon couldn’t shake his anxiety at the thought about consummating the marriage.

He’d never had any experience with sex, and Ryn was his first ever kiss.

So, he decided that he wanted to go to bed with Ryn before they were wed.

It was his choice and whilst it might be considered improper, he didn’t really care.

He loved Ryn and she loved him, and it was because of that love that Aemon had finally accepted who he was.

His parents had tried, but ultimately it was Ryn, and she would have his heart forever.

He’d even suffered through a rather embarrassing conversation with his mother about Alpha coupling’s with male Omega’s, but it was worth it.

When he asked Ryn to take him to bed, she was a little hesitant as she didn’t want to sully his virtue but when he assured her that it was truly what he wanted, she nodded and took him to bed.

He was nervous, but his sister was gentle and patient.

It did hurt a little bit when she first entered him, but the pain soon gave way to pleasure.

The feeling of Ryn inside him was something he would never forget.

She moved slowly savouring their coupling, stroking his pale skin, and placing gentle kisses along his neck.

She was patient and understanding. Taking her time.

The knot hurt, but the feeling of his Alpha pumping full of seed sent him over the edge too.

Being locked together with Ryn was a revelation.

He’d never again be this close to anyone in his life, and he wanted to do it again.

He soon found himself becoming insatiable, they would sneak into each other’s chambers at night and spend most of the night locked together by Ryn’s knot.

She even managed to help him through his heats and what a difference it made.

Before when he'd had his heats, he felt empty and everything hurt, but now he was happy and fulfilled.

If anything it made him fall even more in love with Ryn.

Unfortunately, their secret was soon discovered when their father happened across them when they were in the middle of harassing one of Driftmark's Maester’s for moontea.

Their father actually took it better than they thought he would. Of course, it helped that despite his protective nature, he was weak for his daughters.

Aemon did have to stifle his snigger at his Alpha father's crumbling resolve when Ryn gave him the 'look'.

It was the same look mother would often give him whenever she wanted something.

And it always worked.

The greatest swordsman in the realm reduced to mush by one look from one of the women in his life.

It was truly something to behold, until of course his father made him swear never to repeat to anyone what he'd just witnessed.

Their wedding was almost upon them, but Aemon was in a panic.

His monthly bleeding hadn’t come and now he felt sick.

But I took the tea. 

Didn't I?

He’d seen his mother pupped enough times to know what his symptoms meant but it didn’t stop him from being in denial until he ended up confessing to his mother on the day of his wedding no less.

His mother was understanding and very helpful, especially when it came to discussions of the consummation.

After they’d left the celebrations and retired to their shared chambers for the night, there was a sense of relief in the air.

After tonight they would be a mated pair.

They would give each other the bite and be bound together forever.

Their wedding night was filled with passion and love.

When Ryn sunk her teeth into his mating gland as she knotted him, he could feel her become part of his heart and soul.

Then Ryn offered her neck to him and as the bond snapped into place, he could see the realisation in her eyes.

“Y-Your with child” exclaimed Ryn.

Aemon smiled nodded. He hoped his Alpha wasn’t angry with him for keeping it a secret, but through the bond he knew she was happy, and his Omega purred for the first time.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms, content with the knowledge of their pup’s existence.

Ryn had even placed her hand on his stomach and smiled widely.

Alpha is pleased that I carry her pup.

“I love you” whispered Ryn.

“I love you too my sweet wife” replied Aemon.

Once it hard been hard to ever imagine that he would find himself with child.

Willingly anyway.

But here he was, carrying his Alpha’s first pup.

In the months after the wedding, his stomach began to swell and it suddenly became very real, that he was going to be a mother.

He prayed nightly that he would be just like his sweet mother.

She supported him through the pregnancy and answered every question and worry that he had.

Ryn of course had developed a possessive streak and wouldn’t let anyone within reaching distance of Aemon, especially after an incident that involved his uncle Aegon trying to touch his stomach.

Ryn went berserk and it took two Alpha’s to even hold her back.

All through the pregnancy Ryn was convinced their pup was a boy, but Aemon thought the pup was a girl.

Turns out that Aemon was right and on one stormy night, he gave birth to a girl named Adelynn, who had inherited his mismatched eyes.

As he held his daughter in his arms, Aemon made his peace with the gods and thanked them for allowing his presentation as an Omega.

This was always meant to be.  

[vacantgodling]

#14: Lady Illiana Aegos

Proud, you hold your head high; as though a crown was already set upon it. You will not disappoint your blood, but most importantly you will not disappoint yourself. You will become the best at every task you set yourself to, and you will win the love you rightfully deserve; the accolades and admiration only the icing to the cake of your accomplishments. Yet… why is it so… lonely? So horribly lonely being so perfect. What could you have done wrong? Grappling with this will bring you to your knees, but they say that the most important of revelations are discovered kneeling.

“illiana” is a derivative of the goddess IIARAN, and can also mean shining brightly. “aegos” is a historical name, which comes from the fallen city of Argos. its believed that those with that name are direct descendants of the former ruling family there; though much of that history aside from what is known of king mitica were lost to time.

35, cis woman (she/her), romance: yes, sex: yes, but only in a committed relationship. due to her upbringing she doesn’t realize that sex is something that can be fun, but certain people definitely change that notion cough. preference: masculine.

illiana is a tall, proud woman. she stands at nearly 6’0” with long elegant legs and arms, regal high cheekbones and beauty marks that dot across her face and neck. she has deep purple eyes and her hair is near the same shade, if not a tad darker, and tumbles down her back reaching just above her natural waist. she usually keeps it loose; the weight of it prevents it from curling much and she tends to add in decorative braids and cuffs to her hair to adorn it. she has a very serious expression, one inherited from her mother, but a surprisingly genuine smile if you’re able to coax one out of her. she keeps her nails long and claw like and painted with polish and dresses in the finest garments the kingdom can offer.

illiana is a noblewoman, and thus isn’t involved with guilds—though this is more due to her mother’s preference versus her actual feelings on the matter. she wouldn’t want to deal with guilds directly, but she certainly doesn’t really enjoy being cooped up in boring meetings of state all day. she is quite good with a sword herself—a long, ornamental blade that was given to her by the late father she never met. she spends more time training with the occasional knight; usually sir keevan if she can get him when he’s not busy but that is very rare, much rarer than she would like.

illiana is a proud and haughty woman but most of it is bravada. don’t call her on it as it will make her even more nasty, but it definitely is a persona she dons to keep her inner emotions and insecurities from leaking into the outside world. acts as though she deserves the world and feels as though she does in some aspects because that’s what she’s been taught… but in the same vein, she also knows that she probably acts higher and mightier than she actually is. that discomfort of knowing or feeling like she isn’t that important makes her lash out at others who can achieve that confidence so easily and readily, and she wishes that she had something that was truly hers. she doesn’t have true friends like kiba does, she doesn’t have the affections of a man she admires like piper does, and she doesn’t have the aloof confidence of her mother. she is a shell of herself on the inside and desperate for love, validation and affection, but she has a hard time breaking those alienating habits that keep others at bay.

illiana has a strained relationship with both her stepfather grand duke aran and his son, lord kiba, who is rumored to be the next in line for the kingship—oracle be damned. the reason their relationship is tense has much in part due to her mother, duchess primrose’s influence, but also because illiana does not feel like they view her as their “real” family. she is at least certain that kiba doesn’t, and hates how he wants nothing to do with her, and so she takes their fundamental distance to a petty level and always seeks to undercut him whenever she can. she thinks the grand duke is a weakling, and while she does not support the whisperings of a coup and does in part feel sorry for him, she has very little respect for him as a father figure. illiana mostly leans on her mother for all her support and the two of them, while being close, also don’t have an affectionate relationship because primrose simply isn’t that kind of person. it’s left illiana quite stunted and she has a harder time relating with and speaking to others, which annoys her to no end. she is “in love” with sir keevan, but mostly views him the way her mother would want for her to—a means to an end. it just helps that he is kind, handsome and charming, so it’s easy to get swept up into the idea of him. she dislikes piper immediately when they meet each other.

3 fun facts about them: if given the opportunity she would make an excellent knight; her horseback riding skills along with her skill with a blade are quite enviable and keevan has told her as such—though she took it more as a flirt than a genuine compliment of her skill. she’s actually not good at a lot of the noblely things that her mother tries to teach her—such as diplomatic relations or finances—but like hell does illiana want to hear that. purple isn’t her favorite color, it’s actually green, but her mother always chided her for clashing her features with colors so she only wears dark clothes now. in a perfect world she’d probably only own green dresses.

[oxventurequotes]

Hi, me again. I was the one that asked the favourite Oxventure series question. Feel free to just call me J (I may be popping back in and out again to ask questions anonymously (anon because just that extra layer of privacy while still being active, y'know?)).

This time around I just wanted to ask, if you had to pick one adventure from each of the series that you would consider your favourite, what would it be? (Don't have to answer for Deadlands since that ain't complete yet) Because see for me, it'd probably be Plandemonium from D&D (just loved the utter chaos of planning that went on it that episode), YASP for One-Shot Wonder (again, utter chaos), Dead Man's Worth for Deadlands (twists and turns and Andy's smug face) and The Astor Gambit for BitD (1. Johnny is reason enough. 2. The Wonderful Mechanical Man was there).

hi j!!! you have excellent taste in episodes!!! sorry it’s taken me a while to get around to replying to this, i just moved back into my uni flat so life has been busyyyyyy

as per tradition – the short answer will be up here and the wall of text/explaining under the cut 😊 d&d: heist society and a fishmas carol bitd: first flight of the sparrowhawk osw: dread deadlands: dead man's worth part i

heist society was the first ep of oxventure i ever watched (completely by accident lmao, i was so confused) so it holds a lot of nostalgia for me but i also think it’s one of the stronger episodes of early oxventure? i mean it has everything. red room full of blood. sexy minion outfits. I’VE RUN THE LABS. tinnies. what’s chess? fucking effervescent. everyone seems to have settled into roleplaying and d&d and i love a whodunnit mystery and there’s literally never a dull moment in that episode. a fishmas carol is also a close fave – the adventure pit, SHUT YOUR FILTHY MOUTH CORAZON!, cthuludad, alfred strangetide my beloved, egbert seeing the ninja turtle, IRON! but then again its so hard to pick favourites, especially with oxventure because the thing is about oxboxtra and johnny is that it's kinda impossible to put them in a room together and the outcome not be fucking hilarious. dine hard, also brilliant. ship happens. unreal estate. SECT APPEAL! basically every time i think of my fave i remember a different episode and change my mind.

sparrowhawk is my fave blades episode because it brought us The Aeronaughty Boys aka the best named group in oxventure history. but also because i think kasimir and barnaby/mike and johnny bounce off of each other so well? it’s classically opposites attract and so funny to watch hardened criminal kas be Astounded by barnaby’s scheming. and because i love the way johnny has a very proud expression on their face any time they watch luke dm, it’s so sweet. i also love a crimsnight carol because oh my god the capellenaga family and their snakey snakey hair (did we ever find out if lilith’s dad had snake body hair?) but also starting the adventure with the name evan “the geezer” screws was such a fucking power move and set the silly tone of the whole ep perfectly. also baby edvard my beloved. all iterations of edvard my beloved. andy was given so much space in which to play and play in it he did. other faves of mine are the astor gambit, murder at volisport academy (edvard's reaction to lilith's snake hair is so sweet), AND THE LAMPBLACK WEDDING HOW COULD I FORGET!? jane and ellen are such an underrated combo.

as for one shot wonder, admittedly i haven’t watched enough to really pass comment, as mentioned in the previous ask i struggle with new content/formats/guests and i desperately wish i didn’t. my mind just gets very fixed on something it likes The Way It Is and any change to that is immediately so very difficult to settle in to. autism things. but from what i have watched, the dread episode is fan-fucking-tastic. i wish we’d had time to get more into killian’s character because there was some foreshadowing that didn’t have a chance to go anywhere, madison (as all of ellen’s characters are) was immediately so intriguing, i refuse to believe that brad’s name isn’t actually gregg and, once again, when luke westaway gets his sticky gm paws on a game, you know it’s gonna be good.

deadlands is shaping up to be great, i love love LOVE. the accents and the aesthetic and the vibe of the weird west, it’s such a perfect game for andy to dm and as far as the episodes go, dead man’s worth part one is my favourite. the ending oh my GOD the ending. the first real pc death in oxventure! it’s such a tonal shift from what we’ve previously been given where situations have been perilous but never truly deadly. i was sobbing buckets because 1) somehow in less than two episodes johnny had made nate so very endearing and 2) it was such a tonal shift. andy’s shit-eating grin too oh my god. and luke and jane’s faces.

so again, it’s another essay from me going “i love this but i also love this and this and this”, it’s just so hard to choose favourites because, as i said before, i think it’s impossible for an oxventure to not be incredible. the chemistry between everyone just makes everything they touch turn to ttrpg gold. it’s literally the reason that i started this blog? i kept spamming my best friend with “oh my god _ just said-“ and whilst they welcomed/even encouraged that, consistently spamming them with a lot of d&d shit with no context (and then the subsequent context in a five minute voice note) wasn’t very conducive to me keeping my nearest and dearest near and dear and getting all the brainrot out somewhere. hence my personal corner of tumblr dot com. it’s all my favourite moments, every bit that makes me have to pause and take a stim break bc laughter isn’t enough, every silly line or tongue-in-cheek joke that just makes me incredibly happy. they’re all my favourites!

ty for the ask and apologies for the essay/vague ass answer! i love talking abt oxventure and sometimes i feel like if i don’t i may go a little mad :3

[imaybelactoseintolerant]

Commander Luthal

Chapter Six: Kyber

Word Count: 3510

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Kinda rushed to edit this one this morning because I hadn't done it earlier, and my dog was being extra cute so sorry if I missed anything. :)

The strongest stars have hearts of kyber, and the planets most in tune with the Force itself are often rife with caverns full of it. They weren’t used for much besides lightsabers, but they were incredibly valuable, and not easy to come by. The location that the Jedi Order sourced their kyber crystals from was a closely guarded secret, not shared with outsiders, and told only to initiates when they were finally allowed to make their own lightsabers—real ones. Initiates didn’t even know the planet's name before then.

Arwen had been admitted into the independent studies class, assigned several catch up papers—all of which had topics she was given free choice of—which she had researched thoroughly and written up in every spare moment she had. The first paper had taken Master Kenobi’s advice very seriously; five pages of the importance of Jedi martial arts and how they correlated to Jedi philosophy. She’d chosen Shii-Cho specifically, but she saw a lot of other titles in the archives that related to other forms. Nevertheless, she was more familiar with Shii-Cho than anything else, so it was a safe topic to ease into. She’d gotten good marks, and she’d been proud enough to slip a copy of her paper under Master Kenobi’s door with a thank you note on top.

He mercifully hadn’t told Anakin anything about their encounter, if Anakin’s lack of questions was anything to go by.

Several months later, more than caught up in her independent studies, Arwen was creating an extensive survey for Jedi to fill out, questioning their preferred saber forms, in order of most to least, which saber forms they could actually perform, what age they became initiates, padawans, knights and masters (if applicable), their opinions on reverse grip, Jar’Kai, double bladed, single bladed or dual wielding lightsabers, the colour of their sabers, how many sabers they’d had in their lifetime—and much more. She’d already cooked up a very lengthy research project, and a condition of filling out this survey was that they’d once again have to fill it out in six years, when the independent studies class finished up. She would use the information gathered in this survey for current projects, but she was hoping that because she had so many different questions and so much information that she would be able to write an extensive dissertation required for her final year that her teacher had warned her about, in which half of the information would have been gathered years ago. Not only would it show how serious she was about the topics, but also how good at planning ahead she was.

Not long after that, Arwen still ten years old, Master Rancisis announced they would be travelling in several different groups over the next few weeks to find their kyber crystals and make their own lightsabers—the nine year olds, the ten year olds, and the eleven year olds, as the eldest had made theirs the previous year. Arwen’s heart soared—she’d been waiting for this for so long! Tarrock had made his soon after being made a padawan, and his green saber was brilliant!

After the lesson, Master Rancisis held her back, waiting until the other initiates had left, “Arwen, I’m afraid you’ll be staying behind this time,” he said softly.

Her heart sank, and her voice came out a shaky whisper, “What?”

“You won’t be joining the other initiates this year.”

Her eyes prickled with tears that she quickly blinked away, “Why, Master?” Master Rancisis sighed, watching her for a long time, “What did I do wrong? I’m sorry,” she said desperately. She wanted to go, she’d been waiting to make her own lightsaber for so long! Why could the younger children go, but not her?

“You’re just not ready yet, young one,” his voice sounded tired and weary, like he’d been dreading her reaction.

“But why, Master? What can I do?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid. You’ll just have to wait until next year.”

And there he went, walking away like he’d explained everything to her.

Master Plo was the one who found her in the Room of a Thousand Fountains this time, unable to hide her tears. He seemed to always know when something was wrong with her, “Little warrior? What troubles you?” The gentle tone he used, like she was going to break at a word louder than a whisper, sent her careening over the edge again, unable to stop the sob that escaped her.

“I don’t know what I keep doing wrong, Master! I’m trying, I always try so hard, but it’s never enough. No one wants to be my master, Master Rancisis always looks at me like I’m doing something bad, and now I’m the only one who’s not allowed to make a lightsaber, and I don’t know why!” She cried, “He won’t even tell me why, or what I did wrong! How can I fix it if he won’t tell me?”

She couldn’t bring herself to look at Master Plo. She didn’t want him to see her face. It was bad enough he was here to listen to her yell and cry.

“Master Kenobi said I can only do my best, and that’s all anyone could ask of me, but why isn’t it enough?”

“That is wise counsel he has given you, Arwen,” she felt a hand on her shoulder, and another sob wracked her body, “Your best is all you can give, and it is enough.”

It doesn’t feel like enough.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise, Arwen.”

He meditated with her for hours after that, and left only because he said he had some business with the Council that he’d just thought of. She bowed and thanked him, her eyes puffy and dry, but her mind calm. Master Plo would never lie to her. She had to have faith that he was right.

After several weeks, all her crèche mates had returned with their shiny new lightsabers and she still used a training saber, Master Plo approached her once more, explaining he’d misplaced written copies of her papers for her independent studies. He’d asked for copies of them all once more and Arwen had happily supplied them. She had no idea Master Plo valued them so watch that he’d want copies if he lost them.

His care for her studies inspired her to write a paper about his preferred form, Shien/Djem So. It wasn’t a form she knew much about, so it was primarily a research paper, but she’d proudly handed him a copy of it, and not batted an eye when he asked for a spare—just in case, he said.

After she’d turned eleven, she noticed that Master Rancisis was taking another group of younglings in her clan to make their lightsabers—but he hadn’t asked her. It had taken no small amount of meditation to get through that again, but she was proud she hadn’t cried this time, even if she had needed Master Plo’s help to work through it again.

Leading up to the tournament, they had a guest teacher when Master Rancisis was suddenly needed off-world. The Jedi Knight Ur-Sema Du took the class for the last two lessons before the tournament, and she seemed quite content to simply watch them all, make sure they weren’t wasting time, and assist as needed.

She was Human, calm but stern, with a low voice, brown hair and green eyes, and Arwen decided after seeing Master Du demonstrate a Soresu technique that may help them all in the tournament that she liked her. She’d been begging for months to be allowed to learn Soresu, not only for sparring, but because she had an idea for a research paper that she felt she couldn’t do justice until she actually knew how to perform the basics of Form III.

Arwen practised that single move relentlessly, a defensive technique useful against both lightsabers and blaster bolts, and put it to good use in the tournament. She noted Master Du standing beside Master Plo during the tournament, talking quietly over the sounds of sabers clashing. Perhaps she was reporting to the Council—Master Plo was a member afterall, and she’d been taking the class over from another Council member temporarily.

She pushed the thoughts away quickly. She had to remain focussed at all costs. She was running out of time to be accepted as a padawan.

Her Shii-Cho and Makashi techniques were near perfect, and she outmatched most of her opponents by a landslide, though her last spar was by far the hardest, pitted against one of the initiates in her advanced saber lessons who practised almost as much as she did. It was a hard fought victory, lasting over twenty minutes, and she was forced to rely on her saber skills as he greatly outmatched her in his Force techniques.

When the tournament was over, Arwen stood once more alone, waiting fruitlessly to be approached by a Jedi. When the room was half empty she gave up.

If a Jedi wanted her to be their padawan, they would find her. Standing around waiting wouldn't bring them to her, and walking away just spared her the pain of waiting in an empty hall when everyone else had left.

She instead walked to Master Plo and Master Du, swallowing the emotion she could feel tightening her throat. She wouldn’t run off to meditate this time. She needed to pull it together.

“Master Plo, thank you for watching my spars today. Master Du, thank you for teaching me a Soresu blocking technique,” she gave a bow, and the masters inclined their heads slightly.

“You put it to good use,” Master Du said, “Congratulations on your victory.”

“Yes, Thranta Clan has won for the third year in a row now. You’ve placed first all three times,” Arwen flushed slightly, eyes flickering to Master Du—she was watching Arwen closely.

“My crèche mates and I get competitive—really, without them, it wouldn’t matter if I came first or not,” she said. Her victories before joining the older half of the clan had mattered little—Bear Clan and Heliost Clan had still beat them.

Master Du hummed thoughtfully, “Many victories, but still no master?”

Arwen’s throat tightened again, and she tried to smile at Master Du. She was sure it came out looking more like a grimace, “There’s always next year.”

Likely, there was only next year.

Master Du just hummed again, and Arwen quickly changed the subject, before she felt the need to run off and cry again, “I finished that paper on the Baron Do Sages, if you want a copy?” She asked Master Plo hopefully.

“Of course, little warrior.”

“May I read it as well?” Master Du asked. Arwen gaped for a second, blinking up at the master before she snapped out of it.

“Yes, I, um… yes, of course. I’ll just… do you want a paper copy, or—?”

“Please.”

“Okay, I’ll… I’ll go get them,” she’d already made two copies, as Master Plo had taken to asking for two, but she could get him another one if he wanted. She rushed to her shared room and back to the hall, handing over her papers before the rest of the Jedi had finished filing out, “It’s mostly just compiled research, but Master Plo,” she looked over to him with a thankful smile, “was kind enough to lend me a copy of some original Kel Dor texts about them, so the sources are good,” she looked up at Master Du with an excited smile, and the Human gave a small one back.

“I understand you’ve taken your independent studies class quite seriously—did Master Plo recommend it?”

“No, Master Kenobi did.”

“Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

“Yes, I sometimes spar with his padawan, Anakin.”

Master Du nodded slowly, eyes squinting thoughtfully, “And how good do you think he is—young Skywalker?”

Arwen looked at Master Plo in confusion, but he simply gestured back to Master Du. Wasn’t this a question for Master Kenobi to answer? “He’s really good, and he learns fast. He can’t beat me, but that’s only because I’ve had more training. I think if he’d started learning when I did he could beat me,” she’d said as much to Anakin before—she’d been training since she was a toddler, and Anakin had only had a scant few years to get as good as he had. If he’d come to the temple at six years old, even without previous training like she had, she was sure he’d outmatch her.

Master Du was quiet again, and Arwen shrunk slightly under her piercing gaze. Had she said something wrong? “You’re not worried he’ll best you one day?”

Arwen shook her head, “No, but if he does… Anakin and I have already had an argument about who’s better, and in the end we both learned it's best not to let our pride get in the way. What matters is that we’re always trying our best.”

Master Du’s smile widened slightly, and she knelt down to Arwen’s level. In response, she immediately straightened her posture and raised her chin. She felt like she was being inspected, not unlike Madam Oren used to do during practice drills, checking their posture, the state of their clothes, their grips, their hair.

“Not an easy thing to admit, I’m sure, as I’m told you spend almost all your free time practising,” Master Du gave her a searching look. Arwen tried not to shrink under her gaze. Why did it feel like she was being tested?

Arwen shrugged uneasily, “Losing to Anakin wouldn’t be the worst thing, I guess, but I’d feel the same against anyone. Madam Oren taught me that before I came to the temple. And Master Dooku said that failure is just an opportunity for improvement.”

“And when was your most recent loss?”

“A few weeks ago—it was against my last opponent in the tournament actually. We’re in the same advanced saber lessons class.”

“It was a close match.”

Arwen nodded, a smile pulling at her lips, “He’s got good form, but it's his Force abilities that I struggle against. I’m not very good at them, but sparring against him these past few months has really helped me to find ways around that. Actually, it gave me an idea for a paper—I’ve heard about bounty hunters that are skilled enough to beat Jedi even though they can’t use the Force—”

Arwen snapped her mouth shut as Master Du raised a brow.

“A niche topic.”

Arwen just nodded, keeping her mouth closed. Maybe this was another reason no Jedi wanted her as a padawan; she rambled on about useless topics, dedicating time to research that didn’t really help anyone.

“Interesting, nevertheless. Should you ever write that paper, I’d very much so like to read it.”

Arwen smiled, though she wasn’t sure if Master Du had said so out of genuine interest or to spare Arwen’s feelings.

Master Du hummed again—something of a habit, apparently—before she placed a hand on Arwen’s shoulder, “Chin up, Arwen. You will be a padawan soon enough. A Jedi would be foolish not to see your potential,” Arwen brightened, and bowed to Master Du in thanks, “Now, I’m afraid I must part ways with you both, Arwen, Master Plo. I’ve some business with the Council.”

Arwen watched the Jedi Knight leave, her thoughts optimistic. It was one thing for Master Plo to say such things, he’d known her for many years now, but for a Jedi who didn’t know her to say it? It gave her hope. Maybe she wouldn’t be chosen today, or next week, or a month from now, but she had time. Many initiates were not made padawans until the very last moment and, despite all her hard work, maybe she would be one of them.

She hadn’t expected to see much of Master Du again, but the Jedi Knight had come to see her only a week later as Arwen was leaving the mess hall after breakfast, “Arwen, a moment? I won’t keep you long.”

“Of course, Master Du,” she said, wondering if she’d done something wrong.

Master Du smiled down at her, “I read your paper—excellent work. I’d like a copy of your next one, if you don’t mind.”

Arwen grinned up at her, “Of course! I’m finishing up another this week, I can make you a copy.”

“Thank you, young one, though I’m afraid you’ll have to hold onto it for me for the time being. I’ve come to say a short goodbye—I’ve been given a mission, and I’ll not be back for perhaps two weeks.”

“Oh,” Arwen said, “That’s okay, I’ll keep it in my room until I see you again.”

“Thank you,” Master Du said, and gave a short bow that Arwen quickly returned, “I will see you in a few short weeks.”

“Goodbye, Master Du.”

Master Du did not return for almost two months, and in that time Arwen wrote three more papers that she made copies of to hand to Master Du, should she wish to read them when she returned. It was strange, the excitement she felt, but she had this strange feeling that was impossible to ignore—the Force, for all that it had been mysterious and often hard to grasp to her, was all but singing to her. Something felt so very right, and in a way she had never felt before.

Arwen did not receive visions or premonitions from the Force, nor great feelings that warned her of coming danger or good tidings, not typically. She was told that may change as she grew older and more adept in the Force, but even some younger initiates showed promise in these areas without training. She did not, so this feeling was altogether unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

It peaked one afternoon while she was sparring in a training hall amongst other initiates, her training saber locked with her opponents—the place and situation she felt most comfortable in, where the Force flowed more freely around her. There was a warmth, a distinct softness, in the Force that day, and with each passing minute it rose in volume, in strength. It bloomed in her chest, spreading across her body in slow and steady pulses, until she could feel it in her very fingertips. Gentle and calming, Arwen let it flow through her, let herself bask in the pleasant and unfamiliar feeling as it ebbed and flowed beneath her skin—until all at once it crescendoed, washing over her like a bucket of water had been tipped on her head, so forceful that Arwen’s brain froze for a second, her arms stilling and feet stuck to the floor.

Her sudden and lengthy pause gave her opponent the upper hand, knocking her saber out of her limp hands and clattering to the floor.

Her ears were dull to the sudden and surprised cheers of the initiate across from her, even as he jumped and whooped. Slowly, Arwen turned around, aware of the Force urging her to. It wasn’t like the prompts she got during spars from the Force—it felt nothing like the quick and often sharp warnings that made her limbs retract, feet sidestep, body lean backwards or hold her saber a certain way to deflect a blow—and she struggled to define the way the Force spoke to her at all. Not in words, not in flashes of images or visions, and not a string-pulled marionette that was at the whim of the Force, but feelings. Sometimes weak, brief, a gentle breeze that was gone as quickly as it had arrived. Those feelings had generally been unimportant to her, nothing to linger on. Sometimes all they did was allow her mind to recognise that someone she knew especially well was close by, like Tarrock. Then came the more prominent feelings—quick but strong, sharp in both her mind and her body. They were most often felt during spars, and such a common occurrence that she rarely looked further into them. She heeded the Force and all its warnings, at first blindly, but with years came a quicker mind and a better understanding of how to best benefit from the signals the Force sent her.

And now this. More powerful than anything she’d ever felt. Almost overwhelming, stifling in its strength. She’d never felt the Force urge her to do something so loudly, and all it wanted her to do was turn around. 

Master Du stood in the open doorway, cloaked in her brown Jedi robes, arms folded into her sleeves across her torso. She was looking straight at Arwen, offering a nod of greeting, despite being across the room.

Arwen didn’t even have it in her to feel embarrassed that Master Du must have seen her freeze and be disarmed like she was nothing more than a toddler playing with a stick.

Abandoning her training saber on the floor, she approached Master Du slowly, a hopeful but tentative smile on her face. She stopped a few feet away and bowed to the Jedi Knight and this time Master Du bowed back just as deep.

“Welcome back, Master Du.”

“Thank you, my Padawan.”

[urwelcomeforthis]

Alex’s tattoo shows up the day after she punches Marcus Hinkle.

He had been picking on Kara in the hallway, dangling her math book above her head, taking advantage of his summer growth spurt.

Kara still doesn’t know what possessed Alex – Marcus Hinkle had been a thorn in her side since she had landed on Earth and started school a year ago, but whatever the reason, today was the day Alex couldn’t take anymore.

Eliza had been furious. Jeremiah had been (not so) silently proud.

Kara didn’t know what she had felt, really. Especially not when she asked Alex why, and the older girl had just shrugged and said “You’re my sister. It’s what we do.”

Up until this point being sisters meant fights in the hallway over the bathroom and ignoring each other at the dinner table.

Apparently, things were changing.

Kara is just waking up when she hears Alex’s hushed “What the hell?”

“What is it?” She asks, groggily sitting up and wiping at the sleep in her eyes.

Her sister is holding her forearm up, frantically scrubbing at a spot right in the middle, her eyes frantic.

“I don’t…. I don’t know! It’s like a tattoo but I didn’t get a tattoo! Fuck, Mom is going to kill me.” Alex sounds panicked as she continues scrubbing at the spot, and Kara feels her heartbeat speed up.

“You had a tattoo just appear on your skin?” Kara asks slowly, her mind suddenly far away on a planet that doesn’t exist anymore, in a culture she had been forced to leave behind.

Alex stops scrubbing and looks at Kara with a piercing gaze. “Yeah. It’s some funny symbol too, like the way you used to write before you learned English. Did you do this to me?”

Alex leaps off the bed and crosses the room in two quick strides, arm held out like an accusation.

Kara shrinks in on herself a little but nods. “I think so. I didn’t know it was possible here, but well, on Krypton when your soul mate reveals themselves, a tattoo linking you appears. I should have one too, somewhere, if you do.”

Alex stops dead in her tracks, her eyes wide. “Soul mates? But we’re sisters! That’s so gross!”

Jumping up from the bed, hands held up in surrender Kara hastens to explain further. “No! Not like that, I promise! Back home, people had different kinds of soul mates. Sometimes it was the romantic kind like you talk about here on Earth, but other times it could just be a compatible soul, someone who was meant to be a part of you.”

Alex still looks wary, if not relieved, as she tentatively holds out her arm. “So, what does this mean? What kind of soul mates are we?”

Stepping forward Kara delicately traces the symbols on Alex’s forearm. “It literally means “sister of the soul.” Je shesur. The symbol after it is unique, the way we would know we were linked. If this had happened on Krypton it would mean we were soul sisters. Not from the same parents but family just the same.”

Alex nods. “And here on Earth? What does it mean here?”

“The same thing. At least that’s what it means to me.” Kara refuses to meet Alex’s eyes, not sure she wants to see what waits for her there.

There’s a long minute of silence after Alex takes her arm back. The clearing of her throat brings Kara’s eyes up from their place on the ground.

“Where’s yours?” Alex asks, eyes burning with curiosity.

Kara shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s not on my arms like yours is. It must be hidden. Can you look on my back?”

“Sure.” Alex nods. “Lift up your shirt.”

Kara turns and tugs her shirt up and over her head. It takes a moment, but she hears her sister gasp followed by the feel of fingertips against her left shoulder blade.

“It’s the same as mine.” Alex says reverently, and Kara closes her eyes against the emotion welling up there.

Who would have thought she would get to have this piece of home?

“So, I guess I’m stuck with you. For like, ever, huh?” Alex smiles once Kara has turned back around.

Kara grins back. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Alex shrugs. “Could be worse. But you have to tell Mom about this, because she’ll never believe me, and she is going to be pissed that I have a tattoo.”

“Sure, I can tell Mom.” Kara grins, a piece of her heart settling in place. She hasn’t felt at home on Earth, not really, but at this moment she feels like it isn’t all that bad.

--

The next person to get a tattoo is, interestingly enough, James.

It doesn’t come when they’re dating, or whatever it was that they were doing, no.

It comes after he has revealed himself to be Guardian, and he and Kara have the biggest fight of their friendship.

Kara wakes up the morning after tired, groggy, and more than a little cranky. Its as she’s stripping down to get in the shower that she notices it – the Kryptonese scrawled along the inside of her right bicep.

Throniv Shesur. Protector of the soul.

Kara heaves a deep, deep, sigh and grabs her phone.

She meets James at the DEO, both tentative around each other after the yelling match of the day before.

“So. I woke up with a tattoo. Kryptonese. Any idea what that’s about?” James looks smug, like he’s won some kind of battle with Kara and god, at that moment she wishes they were in the training room and she could just punch him.

“Yeah. I did too. It means “protector of the soul.” She crosses her arms against her chest, desperately trying to hold onto her anger from yesterday but the wide grin on James’ face is making it hard.

“I know. I asked Clark first thing since I figured you’re still pissed at me. He was a little surprised, but he translated it for me.”

“Where’s it at?” Kara asks, still pretending to be upset but truthfully it was hard given the glaring message from home telling her that James was meant to be Guardian. That they were meant to protect each other. Protect others together.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” James says with a waggle of his eyebrows and that’s what finally breaks Kara, a laugh ringing out across the room.

It wasn’t who she expected to have a tattoo, not in this way at least, but if it had to be anyone, she’s glad it’s James.

--

Mon-El doesn’t get a tattoo. Kara wishes she were more disappointed.

--

The last person to get a tattoo is someone Kara had desperately hoped both would and would not get a tattoo.

For a long time, she feared what that tattoo would be, if it were to happen. She feared having to explain it, having to explain herself.

She had checked with Clark a few times, when paranoia would get the better of her.

No, he always told her. Lex did not have a tattoo. They were enemies, yes, but it hadn’t been decided by destiny or fate. It just was.

That mollified Kara because she couldn’t stand it if she and Lena were to become Clark and Lex. She would fight against it, fight against fate to keep it from happening.

And then, well. It kind of happens anyways.

They aren’t enemies, not really. Lena just hates Kara and aims a few Kryptonite cannons at her and tries to mind control the entire planet, but really everyone is allowed a brief lapse of their sensibility, right?

And what matters is she came around, in the end.

It did take time, however, for them to build back to what they once had. It was different now, but in the way that things once broken and fixed usually are.

It was better, if anything.

They were back to shared lunches and dinners, quick breakfasts and coffee breaks. They were back to game nights as partners and movie nights as friends, and the occasional sleepovers as best friends.

Things were finally back to normal, so of course Kara had to go and absolutely, irrevocably, mess it up.

It was Alex’s fault, really.

If she hadn’t said anything, if she hadn’t asked Kara what was up between her and Lena lately, Kara probably never would have stopped to think about it.

She never would have stopped to think about the way her heart sped up when Lena entered a room, or the way her palms got sweaty when they hugged, or the way she just could not stop staring at Lena when she laughed at game nights.

But now she had thought of it and had come to the very scary conclusion that she was in love with her best friend.

Her best friend who didn’t have a tattoo.

She would, after all this time, have a tattoo, the tattoo, if they were meant to be together, right?

Kara mulls it over for weeks. It haunts her. She asks Lena about tattoos, and if she has any.

She learns that yes, in fact Lena does have tattoos and boy howdy one of them is on her lower back and it is seared into the back of her eyes now that she has seen it.

But she doesn’t have any kryptonian tattoos, which is really what Kara was aiming for.

Much like it was Alex’s fault that Kara even realized she was in love, it’s also Alex who reminds Kara of one important detail.

“Well I didn’t get my tattoo until after I punched what’s his face. Maybe you have to tell Lena how you feel and then she’ll get the tattoo.”

Kara feels dumb struck, right there on her own couch, because of course, Alex is right.

The tattoos always come after the person has already revealed themselves.

Then of course comes the true fear: what if she tells Lena and she still doesn’t get a tattoo?

That’s the question she’s mulling over the next night as she and Lena sit on her couch watching some documentary that had been put on Netflix.

Lena looks beautiful, face bare of makeup, hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, glasses slipping down her nose.

She’s eating a piece of pizza, a rare treat after a long week of work, and Kara decides that it doesn’t matter if Lena doesn’t get a tattoo.

She’s hopelessly, desperately in love with the woman and she can’t let a tattoo that may or may not come dictate her life.

“I’m in love with you, you know.” Kara blurts out, like this isn’t a life changing moment, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to say. (It is.)

Lena chokes a little on the bite she was swallowing, her hand coming up to her chest as she sets down the slice.

“Excuse me?”

Kara laughs. She’s never felt more free than in this moment. “I’m in love with you. I just thought you should know.”

Lena looks at her, shock written all over her face. “Oh. I guess that’s good.”

“Just good?” Kara nudges Lena’s thigh with her knee.

Lena shakes her head. “I mean it’s more than good, considering I’m in love with you too.”

“Yeah?” Kara could float up to the moon, she thinks.

Lena smiles, nose crinkled. “Yeah.”

It’s the next morning that Lena calls and asks if Kara can stop by. She has this tattoo she didn’t have yesterday, right on her ribcage, and it looks like it’s Kryptonian.

Kara frantically searches her own body, finding the script on her hip, on the left side.

Zhao Shesur. Love of the soul.

It took them five years to get to this point, but Kara knows, this moment was more than worth the wait.

[wri0thesley]

Nat. NAT. I just saw your concept about naoya "training" his wife by just throwing her in the room and just watching her struggle to defend herself... Until she ofc breaks and begs him to protect her🙈 you have a MASSIVE brain, the biggest and horniest brain nat can you please write this concept for the event😭😭 maybe w 45 and any other dark or spicy add ons that you see fit!

traditional discipline - naoya x fem!reader (3.3k)

naoya has had enough of you, and resorts to an unusual method of discipline.

warnings: not sfw/minors dni. DARK CONTENT. unhealthy relationship/marriage. fearplay, dacryphilia, finger-sucking, cock-sucking, punishment, threat of violence and death. dubious consent. afab reader with fem pronouns. 

[a/n: this concept literally wouldn’t leave me alone. i’m sorry to all of the readers who are naoya’s wife i’m always so horrible to them]

The room goes quiet as Naoya hauls you out of it by your upper arm.

It’s an easy mistake, a simple slip-up; accidentally talking over your husband. But it’s one in a slew you’ve been making recently, despite Naoya thinking that you were polite and well-bred and knew your place. He’s sick of it, to be quite frank; he doesn’t have time to be correcting you when you should already know how to behave.

You’ve done accidental, small things since the two of you were married. Denying him when he rolled you onto your back at night. Not standing quite as far behind him as you should. Pouring tea for other people before him. He’s given you swift reprimand with both his words and his hands, but . . . it’s clearly not sinking into your pretty little head, is it?

He warned you about this.

“Next time,” he’d growled to you, when you’d laughed too loud at a joke that one of his brothers had made and not laughed at one of his, “I’m going to teach you a real lesson.”

He tells you about the ‘training and discipline room’ on the Zenin estate later that night. A room that the family use for honing cursed techniques, both for practising and for learning purposes, when someone needs to be brought down a peg or two. It’s full of cursed spirits – all the way up to grade two, which makes your blood run cold.

Of course, you have cursed energy. You even have a careful little technique; one that would wrap your enemies up in vines, if you’d ever been allowed to train to use it for anything other than keeping your well-appointed garden neat and orderly. Naoya would not have married someone without either of those things, lest they not bear him fruitful children--

But you have never been allowed to use it for anything more.

The women of your clan are pretty decoration, with no need to learn anything other than how to behave and how to please their masters-and-husbands. You would be useless, thrown into the den of the wolves like that.

“Please don’t,” you’d said to him, your voice all soft and gentle, trying to be appeasing. “Please. I promise I’ll try harder.”

Naoya had taken your chin between thumb and forefinger, the grin across his face very sharp as his light eyes took in the pleading in your own gaze. You remember how the light had hit his earrings, the look of satisfaction at your begging and having you utterly and completely under his thumb.

“Be good,” he’d breathed, all slow and drawling. “And I won’t have to, will I?”

And he’d bid you to get on your knees for him and show you just how good you could be. Starting with your mouth.

So you know where he’s dragging you, down the labyrinthine halls of the estate. You try and pull back, feet sliding on the tatami mat, your voice pitching as you say;

“Naoya, please, I’m sorry--”

“Women should be seen and not heard,” he says to you. “Don’t make a fuss like that. You earned this.”

Your eyes are filling with tears, hot fear clawing its way up your throat.

“I’ll do anything,” you say to him, despite knowing that it’s a dangerous bargain to give him. He almost considers it for a moment, pausing – but then, his fingers just dig harder into the softness of your bicep (you’re going to bruise), and he tugs you.

“You’re making a scene,” he says. “If you don’t stop, I’ll leave you in there even longer.” You try to wrench your arm out of his grip, all of your self-defense mechanisms going into overdrive as you recognise the door he’s leading to you too. You’re breathless, so frightened you think that your heart might stop.

Naoya opens the door and pulls you in. You almost stumble at the flight of stairs, but he clicks his tongue at you in annoyance.

“So clumsy,” he drawls. “And here I was, under the impression I was marrying a graceful, lovely, credit to her family--” More steps, until he’s gotten you in the middle of the floor. He gazes around him, and you hear the low hum of a hundred cursed spirit’s voices murmuring the same things, over and over again. “The only time you’re a credit to them is with your legs spread.”

“Naoya,” you whimper, torn between pushing yourself into him for the comfort and protection that you know he can offer, or trying to tear away from him and escape the room yourself. You know the second option won’t work – he’s far faster, far stronger than you – but it’s hard to think of anything when you feel like your very survival is teetering impossibly over your head.

“If you run,” he says, still in that cold, uninterested drawl, “I’ll break one of your ankles.”

You don’t think he’s bluffing. Naoya says a lot of things, yes – but he’s also reckless and proud enough to mean them. You stand there, next to him, feeling yourself begin to tremble.

“W-why aren’t they attacking yet?” You ask him, voice very small. He looks at you pityingly.

“They’re afraid of me, obviously,” he says to you, very slowly, like he’s explaining it to somebody very stupid. “I didn’t get this good at everything by not training myself, darling.” He lets go of you, finally, a whistle escaping his pursed mouth as he rocks on the balls of his feet. He’s supremely unconcerned by your fear. “When I’m gone, they’ll come out for you.”

Your eyes fill with tears.

“What am I supposed to do?” You ask him, desperation leaking into your cracked voice. “I can’t—I can’t protect myself--”

Naoya narrows his eyes.

“You should have thought about that before you were such a pain,” he replies. And, without further ado, he turns around and begins to ascend the stairs again. You turn with him, moving forward, stumbling in your haste and ending up sprawled at the bottom of the stairs with your hand pathetically fisted into the hem of his hakama.

He looks down at you with a disgusted sneer on his face, and you hate that even with that expression his features are still unmistakably handsome.

“Let go,” he says. “Have some dignity.”

“Please,” you repeat. You can feel a fat tear spilling from the corner of your eye down the curve of your cheeks. You know the ‘dignity’ statement is a dig; the fact that you’ve heard his family members calling your clan power-hungry undignified gold-digging whores, but you can’t bring yourself to care when you can see the beginning of shadows spilling out too far into the main floor of the room. “Naoya. Please.”

He kicks out at your wrist, face twisted in distaste, and you let go to avoid it being stood on and crushed under his strength. You cradle it against your chest, looking up at him still all desperate and afraid.

“If I helped,” he said to you, “you’d never learn your lesson.” He takes a step up and turns away completely from you, as if you’re nothing more than an ignored child on the street. “It will be good for you, beloved wife. Character-building.” You hear the smirk in his voice and you hate him.

You want to strangle him. You want to beg him to protect you. You want to tear him limb from limb, but you want him to let you bury your head in his chest as he dispels the spirits with ease. You want--

The door slams shut behind him. He’s too cheerful as he throws behind him;

“Good luck!”

And you are left alone.

It takes a moment before anything slithers out from the shadows, and you clap your hand over your mouth to stop yourself screaming. The first cursed spirit is a hunched over creature with the face of a Pierrot clown, mouth stretched impossibly wide with gaping black abyss where eyes ought to be. It’s whispering something over and over to itself, but the wide mouth is so crowded with teeth that it comes out as an incomprehensible noise, dripping drool as it begins to move horrifically slowly towards you.

Oh, God. You’re not supposed to look at them, are you? You dimly recall something about many sorcerers wearing glasses so the creatures can’t tell where their gazes are, but this one has already got the scent of you; those dark pits staring at your crumpled form.

Everything you’ve ever been told in passing about jujutsu and cursed spirits and cursed technique just seems to flow out of your mind to be replaced by mind-numbing fear. You’ve not been trained for this; when your clan had arranged your marriage with Naoya, you know that they’d expected fine silken kimonos and traditional food and you being a pretty trophy on the arm of the future leader of their clan. You know they’d be horrified if they saw what was happening.

More of them are melting from the shadows, the whispering and moaning reaching a terrifying crescendo. You’re trembling. Your heart is beating so fast inside of your chest you think it might break free of your ribcage and sputter out onto the floor.

The Pierrot monster is close enough that you can see the six hands it drags on the floor are all tipped with claws that are sharp as blades. You scramble up the stairs on your ass, too afraid to turn your back on the creatures. You realise you’re shouting, but it seems just as blurred as anything that the cursed spirits are saying. You’re crying, too – howling, whimpering, so scared you’re surprised any noise is able to come out at all.

You’re going to die.

It hits you with cruel certainty as you reach the top and throw your weight at the door, only for it to not give an inch. You scramble at the heavy wood, not caring about your careful manicure (Naoya wants you to be a credit to him, and that means manicures and facial treatments and a fancy bathroom full of soaps and creams that he expects you to use and that he slathers, too, on himself). You hear a nail break but you can’t bring yourself to worry about that when the Pierrot monster is dragging itself up the flight of stairs, one step at a time. It makes a hideous sliding thump, like it’s both wet and heavy – and you notice, too, the scent of blood invading your senses.

Your tear-blurred eyes can see all of the other monsters, too – not quite as close, but still too close for comfort. Too many eyes and not enough eyes, too many legs, claws and teeth and misshapen bones and blood leaking from holes. What are you supposed to do?

Naoya has left you here, alone, to teach you a lesson. You hadn’t realised the lesson would culminate in your death, but with all of the spirits so close to you, you cannot see any other way.

All of the fight goes out of you and you sag against the door, a broken sob escaping your lips. Your throat is dry from hoarse screaming.

You are going to die. You hope it will come quick; you hope the Pierrot monster will tear you limb from limb and you’ll die in instants from the shock. Your voice whispers Naoya’s name one last, hopeless time.

Will he find another wife? Will they even bother covering up your death, or will they spin some rumour or lie to your family and the whole of jujutsu society that you brought it upon yourself?

You would do anything to be rescued right now. You would crawl on your hands and knees behind Naoya for the rest of your life, refer to him only as ‘Master’, fulfil every single thing he ever asked you with no more than a meek nod of your head. Pull out your tongue so you couldn’t make any more mistakes.

But the time for pleading seems to have gone entirely, and you are useless and stupid and weak as you run out of tears, eyes burning. All you can do, you think, is wait for death.

The door swings open behind you and you’re dragged backwards, onto tatami, by powerful hands gripping your shoulders as it closes once more with a massive clunk that echoes in your ears--

And you find yourself strewn out on the floor, face caked with dried tear-tracks, a trembling, pathetic mess looking up at your husband’s face.

He leans against the door, listening to you scream. He can hear his name mixed in with sobs and screams and pleading; saying that you’ll do anything, you’re sorry, you’ll never disobey him again you’ll take any punishment he metes out with a smile on your face, if he just helps you. He hears you call yourself weak and pathetic and useless around the tears clogging your throat; he hears the thump of you hitting the door and the sound of your nails scratching down the wood, uncaring of anything other than getting away from them.

Yes, he thinks as he opens the door for you and you fall, shivering and sobbing, in front of him. Yes, he thinks you’ve learnt your lesson.

You’re so pretty, he thinks, closing it once more (he sees the cursed spirits begin to creep back to where they came from at the very sight of him, now their preferred victim is protected), with your eyes all glassy and wet. You’re extra pretty looking at him like he’s a conquering hero who’s saved you from certain death – which he supposes he is.

You cling to his arm, pulling yourself up, burying your face in his chest as your hands cling to him like you’ve been lost and he’s the first familiar thing you’ve seen in months. Your tears soak his kimono, but . . . he finds himself not really minding, as big, lean hands pet you gently on the back.

“It’s alright now,” he soothes you, murmuring low. “Your husband has you.”

“Please, please, ‘m so sorry--” You’re mumbling into him, whimpering, your shoulders shaking. “Please never m-make me, again--”

“Shhh,” he continues, gently beginning to move towards his chambers. You cling to him, adrift in a sea of your own fears. “It’s better now. You’ll be better now, won’t you?”

He receives a fierce nod for that, your fingers twisting into his clothing. It’s nice, having you so wrapped around him; seeing him as the strong protector that he knows he is but you needed reminding of. You’re still mewling little pleas into him even as he unlocks the door to his bedroom and gently pushes you in. Letting go of him even for a moment seems to cause you physical pain--

Good. You should feel like that. You should feel incomplete without him at your side. Naoya rewards you with a rare, soft smile.

“You know why you had to be punished like that, don’t you?” He purrs to you, petting your hair and carefully drawing back so he can look at your face. Your lips are all swollen from crying and biting; he thinks you’ve never looked quite so kissable as you do right now.

“Yes,” you nod, fiercely. “I’m sorry. I’ll do a-anything, I promise. I . . .” You swallow, your eyes filling with tears again. Naoya has been hard since the moment he heard you call out his name from inside the training room, your voice filled with choked tears, and watching them well up again does nothing for the stricture against the fabric. “I needed you.”

“And I saved you,” he says, arching an elegant brow – to which you nod again, and your hands drift towards him like you’re aimless without him in front of you to serve. “I’ll protect you, darling, as long as you learn your place.”

“I will!” That’s said with such conviction that he can’t help the smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I will. N-Naoya . . .” Your voice trembles a little. “’m willing to do anything for you. J-just please . . . not again.”

“Shh,” he reaches out and deigns to touch you, to gently and soothingly rub his thumb over your cheek, where the tears have dried. “If you’re really going to be so good for me, I won’t have to, will I?” You stumble forward onto your knees and Naoya’s brows shoot up in surprise as your hands tug at his hakama.

“Please let me show you how grateful I am,” you whisper, your eyes wide and bright and desperate. “Naoya, please, please, please--”

Oh, there’s something so gratifying about you like this, begging to suck his cock. It stirs between his thighs again, reminding him that he’s painfully stiff; and you are here, a willing mouth, scared out of your skull and desperate to please him. He’s smirking at you but you do not register it as such; all you see is the smile of your rescuer.

Your protector.

Your husband.

“Say what you want to do to me, darling,” he tells you, keeping his voice as sweet as he can make it. “You’re a big girl. You can use your words. What do you want to do, to show me how grateful you are that I saved your paltry life?”

You’re pouting; your mouth is sweet, pretty. He wants to pry your jaw open and fuck the back of your throat, and his body roars as your fingers tug on the hakama again and your meek, soft voice whispers;

“Please let me suck your cock.”

“You have a dirty mouth,” he coos to you, leaning forward to brush a finger over your lower lip. “Not befitting of a woman of your station. I suppose that means that it’s up to me to keep you quiet, hmm?”

You obediently open it, letting his finger gently rest on your tongue for a moment.

Desperate to please, your mouth closes about it, your tongue gently swiping over the pad, your cheeks hollowing a little as you suck on the digit inside of them. Naoya’s smiling again, the victorious grin of someone who’s gotten exactly what they wanted. He pulls his finger out and thrusts back in with two, whispering to you;

“Do you think you deserve my cock, after what you put me through today?”

You shake your head, but you don’t stop lavishing attention on the fingers in your mouth, a string of drool falling from the corner of your mouth as he presses his third finger inside of it. So warm, and wet. He needs his cock to be inside of you or he thinks he may embarrass himself.

The fingers are pulled out, wiped on the hakama fabric, before he says (the carefully adopted tone almost disinterested);

“Take them off, then. Don’t make your promises empty words. I wouldn’t appreciate such thoughtlessness in a wife.”

You’re eager, stripping off his clothes. Your mouth practically waters at the sight of his cock; elegant, flushed, hard and straining with a light upwards curve that he knows will hit you in the right place at the back of your throat to make you gag.

“Wait,” he says, as you lean in to bring him to your lips. “What do you say, darling?”

Your eyes (still brimming with tears, he notices – and fuck, he loves how you look teary-eyed and pouting. He has to make you cry more often) meet his, but the look in yours is worshipful so he doesn’t chide you for having the insolence to meet his gaze directly.

“Thank you,” you breathe. “For saving me. For letting me suck your cock. For everything.”

Naoya is smiling.

“Good girl,” he says, placidly, as you place a delicate kiss on the head of his cock and slowly envelope it in the warmth of your mouth. “Very good.”

[boredfangirl16]

Days Past: Cirenworth 1893

Chain of Lies

Alastair Carstairs was nine years old when he found the truth about his father’s “illness”.

It was a seemingly normal night. The days had just started to get colder as the season changed from summer to fall. Leaves fell outside of Cirenworth, turning a golden brown as they littered the lawn of the grand mansion. The Carstairs were once again at their ancestral home after multiple moves across countries near and far. The children had always enjoyed the familiar home as it was the closest thing that either of them could have considered a home. A true north among dozens of never ending stops at various destinations. Neither was very good at making friends and got used to each other’s company as the only interaction they needed with someone their age. Soon enough they would uproot their lives again and the only constant would be each other. 

Alastair padded up the stairs to his room after a long day outside with his sister. He collapsed in his bed, looking up at the ceiling. Then he turned his head to the wall that he started to fill with daggers. His father didn’t approve of the collection. He called it “useless” considering they will never be used in battle, but he couldn’t help but smile at the weapons. They might not have an angelic purpose or even a mundane one, but each has a meaning beyond what his father can see. He scooted over to pick up his khanjar, a curved blade, that his maman had given to him that started his collection. On the blade is the words, “I wanted so much to have a gleaming dagger, that each of my ribs became a dagger” in Persian. It had been in his maman’s family for a long while and he couldn’t help but feel proud that it was given to him over Cordelia who seemed to shine brighter than any star in the night sky. She stood out like that bright red hair of hers. At the time he was mildly jealous, but ultimately was proud of his little sister. In time, he would turn bitter even if he loved her more than anything else on this earth. But on this night, Alastair was content holding the blade as sleep started to close his eyes against his own will. 

Crash! 

A loud sound came from outside, startling him out of his slumber. He quickly put the dagger back onto the wall and crept out into the hallway. He looked down the hall to where Cordelia slept, but being the deep sleeper that she was, didn’t awaken to the sound. Deciding he needed to check on whatever it was, he hurried down the stairs and made his way to the sitting room. 

Later he would wish that he had never would have gone after the sound that night, but he also knew it was inevitable. He was the man of the family and it was his responsibility to clean up their messes. It was his responsibility to protect Cordelia for as long as he could. It was his responsibility to give up his childhood for his father’s wellbeing. Whether he figured this out that night, a week later, or even after a year, the truth would still be the same. This was his burden bear and his alone. 

“Esfandiyar?” He heard his father call out. His voice was shaky and had a strange tremble that he couldn’t quite place. It was desperate and hoarse. “Is that you?”

“Yes?” He said back questioningly as he entered the room. 

His father was collapsed on the floor with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. His clothes were rumpled and smelled atrocious. He took a long sip of the drink before looking back at the young Alastair who rushed over to him after realizing his state. 

“Baba, are you alright?” He asked as he hoisted his father onto the couch. He reeked of alcohol and Alastair could put two and two together to what had happened. “You shouldn’t be drinking so much.”

“Don’t tell me what I should do!” His father snapped at him and took another sip that seemed more like an childish act of defiance than anything else. “Fetch me some more whiskey from the cabinet.”

Alastair was startled by the harsh words coming out of his baba’s mouth. He had never heard him speak so rudely to either him or Cordelia. 

“Are you deaf? I told you to bring me whiskey, boy.”

After just a second more of hesitation, Alastair scurried away into the kitchen where most of the alcohol is stored. It’s all on the top shelf, probably so that neither of the children could accidentally grab it, but made it quite difficult for Alastair to reach. He wasn’t short for his age, but neither was he tall. He was somewhere in the middle, so that even on his tippy toes, he couldn’t reach a single bottle of the liquid his father was demanding. He heard another shout and looked around before he climbed up onto one of the counters. Just as he stood up to grab the closest bottle to him, he heard the squeak of a door. 

“Mr. Carstairs, whatever are you doing up there?” Asked Risa in Persian. 

“Baba asked for it,” Alastair responded in the same tongue. He tried to sound as inconspicuous as possible. His father probably just had a bad night, it couldn’t hurt to help him out just this once. 

“Bring down a bottle,” demanded Risa and Alastair did as he was told. “Your father does not need any more of this in his system, so we will dilute it. Let me show you how it’s done.”

Alastair watched as she poured most of the liquid into another bottle and refilled the remaining container with water before putting the lid back on again. It wasn’t until later that night that the boy questioned why Risa knew how to do such a thing and why she felt he needed to know. 

“Bring him this and then stay out of his way,” warns Risa handing him the bottle. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Alastair nodded even if he didn’t understand the last part of her sentence. He hurried into the sitting room and handed his father the diluted bottle. The last one is empty, laying on the ground beside him. 

“What took you so long? You truly are worthless,” he said snatching up the bottle and gulping down as much of the liquid as possible. He doesn’t seem to realize that it’s been tampered with. 

The young boy was stunned at his father’s words once again. 

“I don’t understand,” he says softly. 

His father laughs, “Haven’t you figured it out already? You aren’t good enough. Just look at the results of your training. You’re a sad, pathetic excuse for a Carstairs. You’ll never be able to live up to Cordelia’s potential.”

“Baba?” He says. His voice shakes. “Do you really believe this?”

“Do you not?”

“I just need more time. I can be just as good as her, as good as anyone.”

“You can certainly try,” his father says, taking another long drink. “Get out of my sight.”

Alastair is trembling. He doesn’t know why his father is saying such cruel things or why he is drinking so much with his illness, but the man before him is scaring him. 

“Go away!” Shouts his father as he picks up the empty bottle and chucks it vaguely in the boy’s direction. Alastair is able to dodge, but it’s enough to make him run away in fear. He darts up the stairs and rushes into his mother’s room. 

“Baba isn’t well, maman,” he says as his mother stirs in her bed. “He came home drunk and is throwing things. Risa had me give him some diluted whiskey, but maybe you can convince him to stop. He must have had a terrible day on patrol.”

His mother sat up and patted the space next to her for Alastair to sit. He complied even if he didn’t think there was time to be talking. 

“Your father is a drunk, Alastair,” his maman said almost as if she had commented on the weather rather than accuse his father of such a disposition. Surely that couldn’t be true. Even if it was, they could help him. There are ways to combat such an addiction, the silent brothers could help. “But no one can know.”

He thought of all the times his father has shut himself in his office, insisting he is too sick to be seen. Was he just drunk? He thought of the times he’s seen bottles in strange places around the house before Risa would quickly take them away. Were those all his father? Small things all start to come together in his mind and his mother’s words start to make sense. His father is a drunk. 

“Why? Shouldn’t we get him help? Could it be because of his illness?”

“Alastair joon, your father’s illness is his drunkenness,” his mother said calmly. “We need to keep the whole thing quiet. No one needs to know when he will get better with time. The Carstairs name would be shamed if anyone was to find out before then. You must keep this secret for me and for our family.”

“But he is not well, maman,” Alastair insisted.. “How can letting him suffer help anyone?”

“We will help him, joon. Together we will aid him as he fights his inner demons.”

“But—.”

“I understand that this is a lot, but you will soon be the head of our family and it’s only right that you are bearer of this secret. I trust you, Alastair. I trust you to keep our family in good graces and to keep your father well when he cannot do so himself.”

He nodded hesitantly. Alastair didn’t quite agree with his maman, but he will do what he must for his family. He trusted his mother. 

Cordelia, he thought. She can never know. Even if father will get better and this will all be behind them in due time, he can’t let her see what he did that night. After all maman said that he is the head when his father is away, so therefore he should be shielding Cordelia’s eyes about the situation along with the rest of the world.

“We need to keep this hidden from Cordelia,” he voiced to his mother. “She shouldn’t know until this is all in our past. There is no need to worry her.”

His mother smiled and nodded, “I completely agree. Now you should go and check on your father. Bring him to one of the guest rooms and make sure he sleeps on his side.”

Alastair dutifully nodded, but paused in the doorway. His father’s harsh words play back in his mind and that fear he felt as the bottle flew by his ear. 

“Go on, joon. He’s bound to be half asleep by now.”

There is no avoiding the confrontation, so he walked back downstairs and was greeted by the sight of his father passed out on the couch. Shards of glass are scattered on the floor from the first bottle, but the second sat empty. Alastair carefully stepped over them and threw his father’s arm over his shoulder. The man groaned, but other than that there isn’t any response. He isn’t sure if this or his anger is worse. Probably the anger. 

Alastair hoisted him up onto one of the beds of the downstairs guest rooms and placed him on his side just like he was instructed. 

“Esfandiyar?” Mumbled his father. 

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

After that his baba is completely silent, so he decides it’s alright to leave him and retire for the night. He shut the door quietly and searched for a broom. He found one in a closet of cleaning supplies and starts to cover the mess that his father made. Only as he did so, one of the shards cut into his hand. Red started to ooze out of the wound. For a moment, Alastair only stared. It was entrancing the way the blood moved, until he finally felt the sting. He pressed onto the wound with his other hand and moved to the cabinet that was filled with all sorts of bandages in case of training accidents. He washed out and bandaged his hand. Then he finished his work in the living room before going back upstairs to his room 

He couldn’t fall asleep for a long while, but when he did, it was plagued by nightmares of his father and his anger. Alastair woke up drenched in sweat, breathing heavily. It was just a nightmare. That was a one time thing and his father will get better in time. It’s what his maman said, so it must be true. Yet when he looked at his injured hand, he wondered if it is true. He didn’t want to doubt his father, but that short period of time with him was simply awful. He must be strong, for his mother, for Cordelia. He’ll find a way out of this mess. He’ll aid his father in his recovery.

Little does Alastair Carstairs know that his father will never get better. 

This is the first chapter of my Chain of Gold rewrite and is also posted in ao3 under bored_fangirl16.

@artist-in-soul

@laylax13s

@thelasthours-alastair

@youwerealwaysmysecret

@ashisamess

@thedamnephilimfangirl

[villainsvictim]

Suggestion for another drabble: betrayed

Betrayed

Content warnings: kidnapped, restrained and held captive, head injury, fear of dying, knives, implied character death

Whumpee took a desperate breath as Whumper finally removed the wet cloth that had been forcefully stuffed into their mouth, only to start coughing heavily as fresh air flooded their lungs. They could not tell how much time had passed since a single blow to their head knocked them out. They were on their way to Leader to give them a brief update on their current case as Whumper suddenly appeared in front of them with a fucking baseball bat in their hands. Whumpee did not remember much afterwards, when they regained conscience, they were restrained to a wooden chair with the previously mentioned dirty cloth taking away their ability to scream. Now their throat felt dry and sore, and they could barely find any words, also because their head was still pounding.

„P-please,“ they stuttered, trying to focus their blurred sight on Whumper who was standing not far from them, Whumpers hands browsing through what seemed like a toolbox. „W-what do you w-want from mee?“ Whumper did neither react nor reply, still looking for something to… torture them?? Whumpee recognized their breathing rate increasing as well as their heart beating way too fast for their liking. “I don’t… I don’t have the information you are looking for,” they firmly stated, trying to keep their voice steady and straightforwardly. To be perfectly honest, that wasn’t even a lie.

Leader never told them anything more than what they absolutely needed to know to fulfill their given tasks. Whumpee had been working for them for a good while now, always trying their very best to please them, to make them trust them, but despite their greatest efforts, there was always a spark of suspicion in Leader’s eyes when they looked down at them, a subliminal fear Whumpee would delude them. However, Whumpee would never. Even now, strapped to a chair in the basement of sick supervillain who would kill in a heartbeat to get what they wanted to know, Whumpee would not even waste a thought about spilling Leaders plans, they would never ever have them betrayed. Even if it meant paying with their own life, then they would gladly take that last chance to show their unconditional loyalty to Leader. But they would not die today. They would survive and they would be finally, after all this time, be able to make Leader proud.

When Whumper turned around, a slight grin flashed over their face, but Whumpee’s glance immediately fell to the shining blade in their right hand. Looking at the knife, Whumpee undoubtedly knew where this was going. They gathered all their courage, trying to make themselves being the one threatening the other. “My team will not close their eyes until they have found me and then they will fucking kill you!”, they spat. Unbothered by their words, Whumper came towards them, calmly resting the blade at their throat. Feeling the cold metal pressing against their skin, Whumpees bravery vanished on the spot and left them as a begging mess. “Please- I have… My team- we, maybe we can arrange something, make a deal or… fuck, just… please, they have got money and-“

When Whumper eventually talked for the first time, it sent a shiver down their spine. “My dear, I know they’ve got money,” they said, their words echoing bittersweet in Whumpee's ears. “At least they paid me quite a sum to make you disappear.”

[wheelsup]

the taming of the shrew | two

if i be waspish, best beware my sting

after some setbacks, penelope is willing to do anything to get you back on board. but has spencer already ruined things?

A/N: hello! im so sorry that this posting schedule is super inconsistent. the more i thought about this chapter, the less i liked the more technical aspects of it. but! i hope you enjoy to plot aspect of it nonetheless <3 thanks for reading!

category: fluff, slow burn series, spencer reid x fem!reader

wc: 4.4k

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Since that phone call with Penelope, she’d been over nearly every night for a week with plates of treats and onslaughts of apologies. Each time she came knocking, you told her there was no amount of persuasion that could change your mind. And yet the following night, she’d be there, a new type of pastry in hand and a new set of reasons why Spencer was worth the trouble.

First, she brought blueberry muffins and reasoned that deep below that prickly exterior, he really was everything she promised –– sweet and caring. But that must be deep, deep down. Like, The Lost City of Atlantis, deep down, because you didn’t expect it to surface any time soon. 

Then, she brought fudge brownies and explained that his behavior wasn’t personal –– he was getting snippy with everyone lately. And while you maintained that anybody would have a hard time getting along with Spencer, you were absolutely positive that it was now impossible for you. 

Quite frankly, it wasn’t just Spencer who was unwilling to play nice. You hated him. More than you’ve ever hated a stranger. 

You wished him a lifetime riddled with minor inconveniences that would drive him to the edge of insanity. You wanted him to miss all his trains by just a quarter of a minute; close enough so that he could see it leave the platform, knowing he almost made it on. You wanted him to constantly feel like he was about to sneeze. You wanted his socks to be perpetually wet, and if he should happen to put on a dry pair? You hoped he stepped in a puddle.

That was all you could think about as you laid out on your couch, munching on one of Penelope’s lemon bars while she paced around your apartment. She kept going on and on advertising Spencer to you. As annoying as it was, she was also saving you a ton on groceries that week. 

For the most part, you filtered her out. Not a single word that came out of her mouth was believable anymore, especially not when she was talking about Spencer. Despite what Penelope thought of him, you saw in him what she refused to accept. 

As her speech came to a close, she looked at you like she expected a response to dignify her prattling. 

“Give it a rest, Penelope. He’s a lost cause,” you laughed dryly. “He doesn’t need –– nor does he want –– anyone in his life.” At the very least, he definitely didn’t want you. 

“Yes, that’s the problem!” If you’d been listening to her, you would’ve heard her saying the same thing. “He doesn’t want to date!” 

Your head just about exploded when she said that. 

There had been countless, fruitless conversations about this, and all along she saw the gaping hole in her supposedly airtight plan?

“If he doesn’t want to DATE, then WHAT was the point of this?!” Your fingers pressed the bridge of your nose; you suddenly felt a headache coming on. Funny how it always happened around the time of day that Penelope came to visit.

Penelope stopped pacing. She stalked over to your couch, picked your legs up by your ankle, and moved them to make space for herself. You begrudgingly sat upright as she took her place beside you. 

“Because he’s not himself anymore. He’s not open like he used to be. Not to the people who care about him the most, and certainly not to the world.”  

Penelope toyed with the hem of her dress, distracting herself from her quivering lip before pressing on, “Spencer Reid has always wanted love. And it’s not right that he no longer believes he can have it.” 

You hadn’t seen Penelope look so desperate until now. It was concerning. Because what could make her look so hopeless? What could make Spencer so hopeless? 

“Penelope, I don’t know what’s wrong with your little friend, but… there’s a lot more bubbling inside him than you’re letting on.” 

She chewed up the insides of her cheeks, wincing to herself at your incredibly accurate claim. 

“You are hiding something, aren’t you?” You narrowed your eyes on her. You were no detective, or whatever exactly her team did, but she was just awful at concealing her thoughts.

“It’s not my story to tell,” she murmured. 

She could already feel herself about to give it away and doubled down her mental defenses against it. Focusing extra hard on keeping Spencer’s privacy intact. If only you knew her track record with secrets, you’d be proud of her for staying quiet this long.

“What isn’t your story?” 

“That his girlfriend died last year.” 

She spilled it before she even realized what she was saying. You’d just asked so nonchalantly that she forgot she was talking aloud. Penelope turned purple, terrified now that the whole truth was out there. 

You couldn’t even take satisfaction in the fact that your trick worked. You were just as mortified as Penelope, and if you weren’t already sitting down, you knew you’d need to. You assumed there was something deeper going on with him, you didn’t think it was a dead girlfriend. That was some Nicholas Sparks shit. 

“He pretends like he’s fine but I know he’s not. And if he found a way to move on, maybe he’d start feeling as okay as he claims to be,” she sniffled before snot could run from her nose, tears lining the rims of her eyes. “I know I should’ve given you the full picture, but I didn’t think you’d go for it if you knew…” 

You were too floored to process it all right away. This added a whole new layer of complicated to an already uneasy arrangement.

“Well, I know you’re right about one thing. I would’ve said no.” 

She gave you a set of pleading eyes, praying you’d see where she was coming from. 

“I know,” she whispered defeatedly. “But maybe... now that you know, you can understand why he acts out the way he does.”

“Penelope, I can’t just… make someone move on, or –– or get them to believe in love! Especially when it’s fake.”

How on Earth did she expect you to pull that off? Did that guy from A Walk to Remember move on when Mandy Moore died? You hadn’t seen the ending of the movie, but you assumed not. 

“I’m sorry, this is just… a lot bigger than the favor I thought it was ––”

“What if I could return it?” she cut in. The gears in her head started to turn, figuring ways to patch up the holes she made. 

“There’s nothing I need from you.” 

That couldn’t be true. Penelope looked around the room and it didn’t take her long to think of it.

“I can help you sell your art,” she tempted, gesturing to the scattered canvases. “You make all your income from this, right?” 

You didn’t want to give any fuel to her fire, but you nodded. “What if… what if you didn’t have to settle for local buyers? What if I told you that you could make way more money selling them to the whole world?”

You chortled at her idea. 

You were a local artist, through and through. Your art got put in local galleries and sold to local buyers. Nothing more, and that was fine with you. You realized it a long time ago that it was just a pipe dream to think you’d be more. 

“I’m serious! You could get a separate painting studio, and stop living in one? Huh?” She wrapped her hand around your shoulder, waving the other in the air, urging you to picture it with her. “Imagine this: a kitchen that’s separate from your living room. A bed, inside it’s own four walls, and more than twelve feet from where you cook your meals.”

Pushing aside her so blatantly insulting your apartment, if that were a possibility, you’d want nothing more. But it already sounded foolish and you hadn’t even heard how she planned to pull it off. 

“Penelope, I’m fine where I am. I make the money I need, and that’s... it’s fine.”

She gave you a pointed look. “You know, I can hack all search engine results to make sure you are what comes up first anytime someone enters the word ‘painting’, right?

An airy chuckle left your lips. Of course she could. You patted her thigh twice and stood up, prompting her to follow you to your door –– hopefully, so she can show herself to the other side of it. “Still no, Pen.” 

“Just take some time to think about it!” Her voice carried through the wood as you shut it on her.

*

There was this one bench in Kenilworth Park – the one that overlooks the crystal clear pond – that you’d always been able to rely on to fix any problem.

There was hidden magic in the bushes that sprawled out from the edges of the water, surrounded by spiky green blades of overgrown grass. A simplicity you loved in baby ducklings paddling into the tiny body of water, swimming close together so they don’t get lost in, what seems to them, a whole ocean. And clarity provided by the freshest air in the world, under the shade of the big oak trees on a late summer afternoon.

But at the present, none of that came close to being enough.

The artist’s block started off as a minor inconvenience, but without your permission, had stretched into weeks of steadily declining motivation. Each new idea felt even worse than the last, and you were acutely aware that there would come a point where you’d officially hit maximum capacity for how awful they could get.

Still, that didn’t seem to light a fire under you. You happily coexisted with the blank pages of your sketchbook. Staring down at them, laying open on your lap in their stark-white glory, you felt like you were playing a waiting game. If you stared long and hard enough, maybe they’d flinch. 

Unfortunately, you never got to find out who won, because your phone rang inside your pocket. As if the caller had interrupted an incredible genius at work (which couldn’t be farther from the truth), you hastily raised the phone to your ear, slamming your sketchbook shut.

“Hello?” Your voice wasn’t as kind as it could be for someone with nothing better to be doing. Two seconds later, you learned who was calling and came to regret it.

“Hi, This is Rebecca from District Arts, calling with a message from Andre ––”

“Oh, hi!” you tried to walk back your previous tone, straightening up in your seat and pitching your voice higher, “Yeah, I’ve been waiting to hear from him!” 

While Rebecca intimidated you, Andre happened to be your closest friend at the gallery. He worked closely with the artists to curate their collection and help them make sales. 

“Does he want to sort out what to set the opening bid prices at for my new pieces?” A handful of days ago, you sent him pictures of your new work and were waiting to hear his thoughts. You’d always been able to trust his opinion, and a vote of confidence from him might be just the thing to inspire you.

“Uhm…” There was a criminally long pause on the other side of the line, ended by Rebecca’s weary inhale. “Unfortunately, we’re calling to inform you that your pieces will not be included in the next rotation.”

For a minute, you weren’t sure what to make of what she said. You’d never heard those words before.

“What – what do you mean?” you laughed nervously. She probably misspoke. Perks of friendship aside, Andre always included you in sets. 

“Ugh, let me just get him…” her voice faded away as she put the phone down. 

That wasn’t exactly the reassuring statement you were looking for. In the time it took for the call to switch hands, your confusion finally melted in. And then quickly boiled into anger.

The District Arts gallery changed their entire collection every two months. The pieces shown accepted rolling bids throughout the full eight weeks, finally selling at the end of term to their highest offer. After that, the pieces got taken down, sent to happy new owners, and the entire gallery reset with entirely new works. 

So if you missed one rotation, that meant waiting two months to get back in.

“Andre, how am I just cut from the gallery!” you barked before he could get a word in. If he didn’t like your work, he could’ve just said so. 

“No one said that ––”

“Okay, let me rephrase.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, something you found yourself doing quite frequently lately, and took a deep breath in and out. It was seemingly just for show because it did absolutely nothing to calm you down. “Why wouldn’t you put me in the next set? I’m in all of them!”

“I know you are!” He sounded just as upset. “It’s just that… we give you the biggest space we have, because you always manage to fill it up. But this time… I’m not so sure you can.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you scoffed. “What makes you say that?” You asked that, but you knew.

“You’ve only finished three pieces… I’m worried how you’ll deliver seven more before we set up.”

“But… it’s four weeks away, I could do ––”

“And it took you four weeks to make what you have... I’m sorry. We couldn’t take that gamble.” 

He took your silence as an opportunity to turn off the work talk and speak, just friend to friend. 

“You know that I trust you and I’d hold that spot if I could. But, I also know what you’re going through right now, and… I don’t know, maybe letting yourself rest would be a good thing?” 

Your heart paused. By, “knowing what you’re going through”, you assumed he didn’t mean the little artist’s block.

“If you’re implying that I can’t do my job because of what happened with Cyrus –”

“I’m not, I’m not....” he backtracked as quickly as he could. “But take another look at the paintings you showed me and tell me if they feel like you.”

Even if he was right, you wanted to fight him. You wanted to cry. You wanted to beg that you didn’t need that big space; you were willing to downsize and just turn in the three that you had. Even if they got shoved into the corner where hardly anybody bothered to look. You just couldn’t afford to go two months without the income. 

But even with tears beading up, you realized that the gallery couldn’t afford it either. They needed to bring in money and you couldn’t do that for them this time. So they were right to go to someone who can.

“Right,” you sniffled, recollecting yourself so he can’t hear the shakiness in your voice. “I understand. It’s a big risk, like you said… It’s for the better.”

Andre tried to thank you for being understanding and spewed some sort of encouragement. The words flew over your head. You managed to toss in a few ‘mhmm’s and ‘sure’s at the right places to coast you along until the call finally ended. 

As soon as it went dead, you dropped your phone to the side and brought your hands to your face, rubbing them furiously over your cheeks. Your fingertips pressed hard into your eyelids, trying to forcibly reabsorb the tears threatening to spill. 

It almost worked, until you tried to breathe. 

A full sob escaped in that one gulp of air and you succumbed to it. But the loud crunching noise of some pedestrian walking over the falling leaves destroyed your sense of privacy, and you quickly wiped away all signs of your breakdown. The crunching stopped just short of your bench and on instinct you flicked your eyes up to see who the intruder was.

You did a double take. It was him. That fucking asshole.

He was standing there, looking dumber than you could even remember, with his hands in his coat pockets and a curious look on his face as he watched you cry. Tucking your sketchbook under your arm in haste, you made it a point to stand up with as much aggression as possible, rolling your eyes at him.

“Don’t worry, I’m leaving,” you barked. “No need to yell at me this time.”

You bristled past him, barely refraining yourself from checking his shoulder as payback. You wanted to believe you were better than him, but it did sound incredibly tempting. He stood there for a moment before turning on his heel and following you.

“Wait,” he groaned.

You didn’t listen, neither stopping nor slowing down.

“I said wait,” he huffed as he caught up to you, popping up at your side and jogging along as you kept going.

“Yeah, because I need to listen to a guy who yells at strangers in bookstores.” 

Now that you’d brought up the elephant in the room, your feet started moving even faster, working double time to get you away from him.

Damn the fact that he had those long legs. He didn’t even break a sweat trying to keep up. He was inescapable.

“Well, if you waited like I asked, you would’ve gotten an apology for the ––”

“Gee, thanks!” you yelled, stopping for only a second to turn to him and give him a mocking bow of your head, hands clasped together like you were praising at his altar. “I was waiting with bated breath for that! Thank you, kind sir, for now my life can go on.”

“Look, I’m actually sorry,” he snapped. Then in realizing the irony, softened his voice, “I’m sorry for being rude. I was having a bad day… not that that’s an excuse.”

You stared at him blankly, just watching his mouth moving quickly and waiting until it finally stopped. 

“Did you need something?” 

“Did you… did you not hear what I just said?!” 

“No, sorry,” you smiled, voice sweet like sugar. “My ears filter bullshit. Wanna try again?”

He scoffed, looking away like he couldn’t believe you before stepping even closer. “What’s your problem?”

“Me!? The fuck –– what the fuck is your problem?” You turned and stormed off again, seething at his audacity. Spencer just couldn’t relent his annoying tendencies and followed yet again.

“My problem is that I’m trying to be nice, and you’re not letting me!”

You got a good, hard laugh out of that. “Okay, first of all, having to apologize for yelling at me and pushing me isn’t exactly the best starting point for the journey of becoming a nice person.”

“Like I said, I was having a bad day.” 

Under your breath, you muttered, “Well, I hope this one’s even worse.”

“Why are you such a ––” He stopped himself from finishing that thought. Even in his worst mood, he wouldn’t cross that line. 

But he didn’t need to finish it, you knew exactly where he wanted to take it. The soles of your shoes scraped against the loose gravel as you came to a grinding halt, ears ringing.

“A what?” You turned to face him, a sarcastic smile on your face growing wider as he started to shrink more and more. You got up close in his face, daring him to say what he really wanted to. So he could reinforce your belief in exactly the type of person he was. “A what?” 

Spencer pursed his lips and shook his head, refusing to say it no matter how much you challenged him. If he wasn’t going to have the balls to say it, you decided to take it upon yourself.

“Tell you what, you keep thinking about it and get back to me the next time you’re in a cunty mood.” 

The word he was thinking of was probably not as bad, but you had a habit of escalating things. Even if you took this one too far, you didn’t care. 

Before you tried to take off again, Spencer’s hand flew to your elbow. He tugged you back, forcing you to turn around and face him. He didn’t know his own strength; without any resistance, you came stumbling into his chest, at risk of falling over if it weren’t for his tight grip on your arm.

It took you a beat to push him away with both your hands on his chest, vocalizing your disgust for being so close to him. 

“Can you stop trying to disagree with me for a second? I’m trying to tell you that you’re right, I was being a… well, you know…” He avoided the word. Apparently ‘cunt’ was where he drew the line. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve it.” 

Your nostrils were still flared and blood hot as ever, but he made you pause. He looked sincere, if not a little tinged with guilt as well. You were suspicious of it.

“You saw me crying and felt bad, didn’t you?”

He laughed darkly. “Well, I saw you, yes. Did I feel bad? No.” 

“Oh, my God,” you growled, berating yourself for getting close to believing he might be capable of decency. 

“I’m joking! I’m joking.” He squeezed your elbow twice in earnest. “I did feel bad, but that’s not why I wanted to say it.”

“Okay.” You weren’t ready to give him a real smile, so you flattened your lips into a thin line and nodded once slowly, and left it at that. 

You still weren’t a fan, but the apology did dampen some of the resentment. Maybe he wasn’t the worst person alive. You’d settle for saying top ten most annoying, instead.

Minutes later, you came to the startling realization that he was still on the path, just two paces behind you. You flinched when you saw him out of the corner of your eye, not expecting him to still be here. 

“Uhm. Where are you… why are you still following me?” 

“I’m not. My car’s that way,” he gestured to the parking lot at the end of the long walkway. “I forgot my loaf for the ducks.” He didn’t mean to offer that information up, it just slipped out. He could practically see your smug expression coming before it even got there.

“You’re not supposed to feed bread to the ducks. It’s bad for them.”

“I don’t.” He didn’t care to explain this to you, but he couldn’t have you thinking he was any less competent than he really was. “It’s a special bread made from water and seeds that were ground into flour. It’s duck-safe.” 

“They make duck-safe bread?” Now that was something you’d never heard before. 

“No… I make duck-safe bread,” he said softly under his breath. 

You didn’t know how else you were supposed to react to that besides laughing wildly. 

“You make it?” He nodded like you were the crazy one here. As if he wasn’t the one spending his spare time grinding up seeds and baking loaves of bread for ducks, donning a frilly pink apron and oven mitts as he did so. At least that’s how you imagined it. “Why not just feed them the seeds?”

“Because, loose seeds will sink in the water and can potentially clog waterbeds and cause foreign bacteria growth in the pond.” 

“So you… hand-make the seeds into a little loaf of bread so it doesn't do that?”

He confirmed. You pondered silently for a moment, then absolutely had to ask, “You ever eaten the duck bread before?”

Spencer was caught off guard by that question. His cheeks deepened to a rosy color.

“Yeah, well, it was the house so…” he laughed nervously and stared at his sneakers. “It’s actually not too bad.”

You weren’t entirely surprised by that. You remembered what his grocery basket looked like, and given those same options, you probably would’ve tried the duck bread too. Still, you cracked the smallest of grins at knowing he makes bread for ducks. The one, sole redeeming fact you’ve learned about Spencer. 

You reached your car first, and Spencer stopped in front of it with you. 

“I’m actually sorry, you know,” he whispered once more, hand resting at the top of your car door as you opened it. He wasn’t talking about the incident at the bookstore.

“Yeah…” For a while you were so busy being angry at Spencer that you forgot about your own problems. 

He noticed your nose was still red around the edges, eyes still a little bleary. “Are you okay, by the way?” His voice was too soft, too genuine.

You shook your head no.

“Is there anything I can do?” You shook your head again. And then you had an awful thought.

You knew he was just offering to help just to say it, because that’s how people react when you say you’re not okay even if they don’t care. But there actually was something he could do for you… Something that Penelope could do.

“Uh, no but…” you fixed your hair and tucked it behind your ear, seamlessly switching to a flirtier voice. “If you still feel bad about the other day, you’re welcome to make it up to me.”

Spencer cocked his head to the side, unsure of how he could do that. 

“Hang out with me sometime.”

“H-hang out?” You could tell that it flustered him, even if he tried to play it off. He swallowed thickly, nose twitching and brows scrunched together.

“Relax, I really do just mean hang out.” You were lying through your teeth. He didn’t need to know that. 

As if he didn’t want to think about it for a second longer and just get out of this conversation as quickly as possible, he agreed without thinking it through. He didn’t even ask why an almost complete stranger would want to hang out with him. 

You stuck your hand out, expecting him to hand over his cell so you could put your contact into it. He rocked on the balls of his feet, watching as you input your contact and sent yourself a text on his phone.

“Hi, this is…” you read out your message as you typed, pausing at just the right place. “What’s your name by the way?”

“Oh-uh, I’m Spencer.” 

A devilish grin took over your face, hidden from his view while you were looking down at the screen. He was going to be easy to fool.

-

-

agh! im still not in love with how this chapter is turning out, but it came to a point where i just had to stop fiddling with it and just post it. any feedback or comments about this story is very much appreciated 💕

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Fully Completely 5

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), violence, mutual irritation, harassment, blood, cutting, general hatred

This is dark!Loki x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Series Synopsis: There’s a new face in Birch and he’s come to haunt your door.

Sister series to Smalltown Bringdown, When the Weight Comes Down, and Little Bones

Note: Today, we have more Loki then tomorrow more Zemo and some Sam on Saturday. I might add in some Andy Barber after that but keep plucking away at this and Candy Coated. Anyway, I’ll see you in the comments and the asks.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Chapter 5: Hang me long out in the sun

💀💀💀

You sat against the wall, flinching every time you leaned too heavily on the radiator and burned your arm. You were certain Loki cranked the heat before he left as it was stolid and stifling in the large room. Sweat dripped down your body and mingled with the drying blood along your chest. You were uncomfortable but you didn’t want to get comfortable in this place.

You pulled on your wrist until your hand throbbed and the cuffs showed no sign of wear and the radiator didn’t budge. You stretched across the floor until you could reach the edge of the bookshelf and kicked until some books fell, hoping for some hidden pin or tool to pick the lock. There were only musty old books and dust.

You stood, tried to at least, bent over as you stretched your legs. You did awkward squats and extended your arms to your toes, one at least. You rolled your head on your neck so it cracked noisily and settled back against the wall. You were tired, exhausted, but too worked up to sleep.

It hit you all at once as the stench of smoke clung to your shirt and skin. Your shop was gone, your home, everything you worked for. It was another sick joke played on you by the town of Birch. 

Bucky was just another bully. He was like that boy in ninth grade who asked you to meet him at the park for a ‘date’ only to stand you up. You remembered the Monday after when he planted a stink bomb in your locker. The men around there were all the same. Everywhere if you were to judge by Loki.

You closed your eyes and thought of your dad. You thought he would’ve been proud to see everything you’d done; a shop of your own, a life where you didn’t have to worry. He said to you, through his dying lungs, that he knew you would be alright, that you could take care of yourself and Jerome. What about your brother then? Shouldn’t he take care of you too?

For the first time in a very long time, you wanted to cry. You kept your eyes shut to keep the tears locked in and slowly your mind eased. You sunk down as the warmth of the radiator embraced you, unbothered by the unyielding heat against your arm. You could hear yourself snore as you succumbed to your fatigue.

You were woken by the clatter of the door below. The old Victorian house echoed every noise and shuddered at every gale without. You lifted your head with a snort and sidled away from the radiator. Your arm was tender from the constant blaze of the radiator and you winced as you touched it. Fuck, it was burned.

You braced yourself as you listened to the slow ascent. You heard him behind the door and watched the knob turn. You sprawled out and slid a book closer with your foot. You got up and grabbed it quickly and stood in a hunch. You flung it at Loki as he entered but he quickly blocked the hardcover tome with the door.

He carefully peeked around the wood and stepped back in with a sigh. He shook his head as he crossed his arms and nodded as Korg appeared behind him. The bigger man placed the collection of shopping bags on the table and left with a dismissive sniff from his boss. The door closed and you were left to simmer alone with Loki.

“Such a warm welcome,” he strode to the table and tapped his fingertips on the wood, “and after I went to all the trouble of replacing your wardrobe. A pity all those wonderful pieces you had were lost.”

“I don’t want any of it,” you sneered, “leave me here, I don’t care.”

“Darling, while I find your resilience admirable it is also rather irksome,” he said, “and you will find that in the end, it will only make all this so much more difficult. You needn’t suffer anymore.”

“‘You needn’t suffer anymore,’” you mimicked him, “just listening to you talk is suffering.”

He turned his face down and clenched his jaw. He turned and reached into a bag. He pulled out a swath of black fabric that unfolded to an elegant dress with subtle black gems along the neckline like stars. You pushed your head back and stared at the ceiling.

“I can understand, a woman like you, men aren’t lining up to give you nice things,” he said, “I wouldn’t exactly call this giving, more… trading.”

“Oh, shut up,” you grumbled as you closed your eyes again, “you know, you woke me up so why don’t you keep it down?”

“I did have to guess at the sizes,” he ignored you brusquely, “but I’ve always had a keen eye.”

“You can shove your dresses and whatever else you wasted your money on up your--”

“Darling,” he interrupted, “I will not warn you again. That lip does provoke me.”

You jutted your jaw out and exhaled. You bent your legs and crossed your arms over your knees. You were too tired to argue with him. Hell, it only seemed to make you feel more helpless as you could not act on your anger. You hated that feeling. It remind you of that stupid teenage girl again; so gullible and weak.

“You cannot remain as you are,” he continued, “and I will not have a slobbish hick on my arm--”

“Jesus Christ, is your dick so small you can’t find another woman?” you hissed.

He was silent. You opened your eyes and hit your head on the wall as you were startled by how quick he moved. He pressed his knee to your chest and pinned you to the wall as he reached into his pocket and plucked out the silver key. He bent and unhooked the cuff from your wrist.

He caught your hand as you clawed at him and coughed as he pushed his knee harder against the cut between your tits. He tore you away from the wall suddenly and thrust you up to your feet. He twisted your arm behind you as he spun you and kicked your feet across the floor. You struggled with him but each time he bent your arm further up your back.

He pushed you onto the bed and straddled you as he angled you along the mattress. You flailed with your legs as he kept you trapped beneath his weight and released your arm. You reached out as he shifted above you and quickly snatched up your hands. He wrapped his long fingers around your wrists and snugly wound his tie in their place before he let go.

He backed off of you so that you laid across your stomach, your hands bound above your head to the bedpost. You rolled over as he marched away and returned just as quickly. He unfolded the razor with the mother-of-pearl handle and you dug your heels into the bed as you tried to free yourself from the silken tie.

He grabbed your leg and held it down. You brought your other knee up and he blocked it with his shoulder, “if you continue on like this, I might catch the artery.”

He held your leg down and pressed the edge of the blade to your thigh. You froze as he sliced into your skin and you grunted through your teeth. He traced a line down your leg and mirrored it on the other. He retreated and looked you over as you glanced down between your legs, the red lines dripping onto the blanket.

“What the fuck?” you yanked on the tie, “you’re fucking insane.”

“You haven’t any idea,” he held up the razor and admired the crimson along the silver, “but if you insist on this little dance, I should be inclined to go deeper.” He closed the razor and winked, “darling, you are looking rather rough,” he remarked, “but scars will not deter me.”

He spun and strode again to the bathroom. He returned and wiped his hands on a white towel and tossed it over the back of the chair. He sat and continued to sort through the bags.

“You think I’m afraid of you, you prick?” you snarled, “you think you’re going to win? When I get free, I’m going to take that blade and cut your dick--”

He stood and his hand formed a fist. He was atop you in a moment but before he could bring his hand to your throat, you bit down on the webbing between his thumb and index finger. He exclaimed and retracted his hand for just a second before he smacked you across the face. Your head snapped to the side and you held in a groan.

This time his hand stretched over your neck and he leaned over you. His hot breath whispered along your cheek and you shivered in disgust. 

“Oh, darling, this will be fun indeed,” he purred, “but I have no doubt that you will be prancing around in pretty little skirts for me before long,” he squeezed until you croaked, “you can even keep them on as I fuck you.”

“Go… to… hell,” you rasped.

He snickered and sat back on his heels with you straddled beneath him, “haven’t you realised? We’re already there.”

💀

You laid there for hours after Loki left you. Even though the mattress was preferable to the floor, you didn’t sleep. You stared at the ancient ceiling and cursed every inch of that place. 

Your thighs ached and that cut along your chest. Your arm was sore and raw each time it rubbed against your sleeve or the bed. You were more enraged than ever and you could hardly contain it and frustration had you kicking the mattress.

The windows were dark when he returned. He turned on the lamp beside you as the aroma of food tickled your stomach. You were desperately hungry but didn’t realise it until that moment. You salivated and gulped it down as he pulled up a chair and cradled the box in his lap.

“I’ve brought you dinner,” he said as he opened the cardboard container, “but… you have to use your manners, darling.”

“Get fucked,” you rolled onto your side so your back was to him.

“I can hear your stomach so let’s not pretend I believe you for a moment,” he taunted, “you will realise soon how weak you truly are.”

You didn’t say anything, nor did you move. You sneered at the wall as your arms strained above your head. He let out a long breath and then hummed in delight, “mmm, you know, this is not bad,” he commented, “your little diner has been the least disappointing aspect of this shithole.”

You gulped hungrily but refused to look back. He tapped his foot on the floor impatiently and sighed again.

“You would do yourself a favour if you did one for me,” he said, “say, if you accepted this generosity I might allow you another, perhaps a shower. Those cuts cannot remain unwashed.”

“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you cut me,” you spat, “I don’t want anything from you and I definitely don’t want you. I’ll go live in the rubble, I don’t give a fuck.”

“You will,” he said as he stood and dragged the chair away, “but only you will pay for your stubbornness.”

💀

After another tussle, Loki relocated you once more to the radiator. He slept blissfully as you spent another restless night both sweating and shivering. When he woke, he offered you a bowl of instant oatmeal and you flipped it over. He tutted and went on with his day, leaving you again to stew in your wrath.

By the end of the day, your body rebelled with hunger and you accepted the bowl of soup he brought from The Chipped Saucer. You drank it from the paper cup but felt more rotten as it burned in your chest. He smirked as he watched you and you tossed the empty cup at him.

He scowled and you spent another night in cuffs. On the fourth day, he let you shower but kept you cuffed to the curtain bar for the ordeal. All modesty was gone as you were allowed only a plain white robe after and sat in the same spot, metal at your wrist, and wood at your back.

But you didn’t stop. You bit, you kicked, you hit, you swore, you screamed. A week passed and you wouldn’t accept it. You could see you were wearing on him and comforted yourself with the irritation in his sharp green eyes. You laughed at him outright and it stoked him further. He truly thought you’d never dealt with assholes before. You lived among them your whole life.

But that day when he came in, he was quiet though not sullen or angry. He was almost boasting as he still wore his new leather boots and dark parka. He tramped around and pulled out a mauve coloured dress, some satin and impractical undergarments, and a pair of heeled boots. He placed them calmly beside you but kept out of your reach.

He stepped back and shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned. You shook your head at him and scoffed. He waited as you simply yawned into your palm.

“Don’t you want to go see your brother?” he asked.

“He can rot with the rest of you,” you hissed.

“So heartless,” he slithered, “but I shall relay the message to him, as hard as it may be.”

“What the fuck are you on about?” you huffed.

“Well, darling, I don’t know if he should hear me or even if he could, that it would put him in a worse condition,” he mused.

“Worse condition?” you grimaced.

“Oh, I didn’t tell you, my apologies,” he preened, “why yes, it seems he did have an unfortunate incident. Some suspect it was an attempt on his own life but you know how gossip is in a town so small--”

“What--” you bit down on your lip, “is he… is he okay?”

“Why, he is rotting just as you wished, yes?” he asked coyly.

“Don’t be fucking stupid. Tell me he’s okay!” you tried to stand but were kept in a crouch by the cuffs.

“If you get dressed and behave, then you can see for yourself,” he said evenly, “or I will alone and hope that he survives his injuries… I wouldn’t expect the healthcare around here to be very adequate--”

“You fucking touch him--”

“What? You are wasting time, darling, and visiting hours will be over soon,” he warned.

You clenched your jaw and squinted at him. You swallowed your derision and blinked.

“Fine,” you said quietly, “I’ll… behave. Just take me to see him.”

“Good girl,” he came closer and knelt to grab your wrist, “but let me be clear, one misstep and you will never see him again. I should hate for him to die alone.”

“Just fucking undo me,” you snarled and his lips curved in triumph.

[godkilller]

HC Question: What are your thoughts on Gin's reasons for tormenting Rukia, specifically on the Senzaikyu Bridge in SS arc, and redirecting her to Aaroniero in HM? Given we know he's actually plotting against Aizen, mere casual sadism in his spare time seems a bit odd. We know from Sode no Shirayuki's persona and TYBW that Rukia is capable of being a ruthless and (literally) cold-blooded killer—do you think perhaps he was trying to draw this out of her, as it already existed in himself, to some end?

headcanon. So, it finally arrives -- the day I quit avoiding this and just. Dissect that era of Gin. Considering the amount of time and effort and passion you pour into your meta and headcanon posts, I truly hope I can do ya proud with my own spin! Here goes. I'll have to do this at layers -- because there are many different depths in which this can be taken considering intentional and unintentional implications / character motivations at play.

Firstly, because we know for a fact that, surface-level, Tite wanted to convey Gin as truly villainous to the audience reading Bleach -- it's hard for me to say that Gin could've had ANY motivations beyond a sadistic want to play around with some prey about to meet its end. At this point in time, according to the plot leading up to Volume 17 (in which Gin breaks Rukia's resolve to die), supposedly... everything is playing into the villain's hands. The villain who, thus far, has been painted as Ichimaru Gin. Main antagonist, puppeteer to all, running the diligent and loveable Hitsugaya Toshiro in circles as he seeks to unveil the truth behind Aizen Sousuke's mysterious murder. Everything this far has been 'be careful with Gin' and 'could Gin be behind this, too' and so on.

IMPORTANT: This far into the manga, THE AUDIENCE DOES NOT KNOW AIZEN'S BEHIND EVERYTHING, and Tite may very well be doubling down on throwing the scent via making Gin do a few more deplorable things leading up to that reveal. It's important to keep the narrator's intent in mind when thinking about a particularly difficult-to-decipher moment, because whether Tite meant to or not, he most certainly swayed the story to specifically lead his audience a certain direction. It's safe to assume there was some tugging and tweaking at play to make sure Aizen's reveal packed a punch. Up until the moment Aizen plunges his blade into Hinamori, it's Gin who gets that eerie panel lingering, watching them both, perhaps trying to make the readers feel unease like he's about to ruin their happiness by shooting Shinso -- or whatever that twisted man might do. Either way, that definitely could have been the surface-level reasoning behind Gin strolling out onto that bridge and asking Rukia that one question that restored her hope just enough to make her shake in her calm resolution to die. TL;DR Gin's assholery was Tite's last effort to throw the scent in order to make Aizen's reveal all the more shocking.

A layer beneath that, let's take a look --

GIN ASKS RUKIA IF SHE'S AFRAID, but not due to her own fear of death, no, but because she values the feelings of her friends as they desperately work to stop her from dying -- risking their lives, like Renji has in this instance, to save her. In a way, Gin is asking her if the feelings of her friends are reaching her. "They're all doing this for you, are you just going to give in?" lowkey. Gin is asking Rukia if she's ready to make everything they're doing for her to be all in vain. On a sadistic note, this is incredibly cruel to give someone about to be executed a crisis about letting all their loved ones potentially down via giving up in the face of the inevitable. But also, perhaps Gin is sympathizing. Which leads us into the next layer down --

Kenpachi, taunting and bickering alongside Gin whilst Byakuya deals with their prodding about Rukia's execution coming up -- and their subsequent first introduction to the audience, involves THIS throwaway line about Gin and Tousen. Supposedly, Gin's 'fear of death' is well-known enough for even Kenpachi, social butterfly extraordinaire, to feel confident enough to correct Gin to his face about it. That, or it was a taunt towards Gin, daring him to get into an argument to defend any honor at stake here. However, true or not, there's a huge overarching theme of DEATH specifically circling around Gin at this point in the story. His introduction, here, with Kenpachi, centers around Rukia's impending doom and his own fear of death. His following confrontation and introduction to Ichigo and co. involves scolding the Gatekeeper that 'failure means death' -- the following assassination of Aizen Sousuke / his murder mystery, Gin exudes killing intent at a grief-stricken and attacking Hinamori, which Toshiro then calls Gin out for -- and threatens, with finality, that if a drop of blood is spilled from her, 'I'll kill you myself' -- Gin, warning Izuru to step back whilst confronted by Toshiro later, saying "you don't want to die, right?" -- Gin, leading Hinamori towards a seemingly resurrected Aizen Sousuke, back from the dead. Gin, distinctly being shown to be closely watching as she's stabbed. Gin, being ordered to kill Rukia on Sokyoku Hill. A lot of death and killin' around ya, buddyboi.

Sidenote: Gin may very well have posed his 'fear of death' as a ploy to make him seem cowardly, putting him as one of the only captains to distinctly fear death and therefore 'a cowardly man no one should worry about' etc. etc. but that's just me...

Ultimately, with that taunt of Kenpachi's kept in mind with Gin now asking Rukia this, GIN'S IMPLYING HE'S AFRAID, nervous about failure, anxious about it all being for nothing, about letting his loved ones down and dying. I mean, it's probably too on the nose, right? Right???? ... couldn't be that :'^)

Anyway, there's more.

Another layer down. "IF I WANT TO, I CAN GET YOU OUT OF HERE EASILY. NOT JUST YOU, ABARAI-KUN AND THE OTHERS, TOO." Gin is teasing the possibility of switching sides to Rukia, and he isn't wholly joking about it when doing so. He could. He is distinctly aware. Aizen's betrayed early, after stabbing Hinamori. He brings out Kyoka Suigetsu in a flourish, and reveals its Shikai to Unohana and Isane specifically to explain it, all whilst Gin is directly within arm's reach. The issue being that Aizen could very easily use the four bodies present; Toshiro, Momo, or the captain and lieutenant of his current focus as a body-double to be stabbed by Gin in place, since Kyoka Suigetsu can be activated almost instantly. Gin would have to act fast. It'd be a blink-and-you-miss-it opening and subsequent attack. Which is why I've mentioned that Gin didn't take the shot then, too much room for error and you can't afford that when dealing with Aizen. But regardless, it was an opportunity.

Alternatively, and another layer down, Aizen could be watching at that very moment in time, masked by illusion or via the numerous methods of surveillance he supposedly has used to monitor Ichigo's progress, etc. whilst still within Soul Society and pre-betrayal. Nonetheless, Gin could be pulling Rukia's leg specifically to say to AIZEN that 'hey, wouldn't it fucking suck if I just... took her out from beneath your nose?' which is, yet another frembly remembly, that RUKIA HAS URAHARA'S HOGYOKU WITHIN HER AT THE MOMENT, STILL. Gin knows this. Gin knows that Aizen wants to feed it to his own. The one that has Rangiku's soul piece in it. Y'know. That lovely thing.

In the same vein, if Aizen's watching, Gin can use this as an excuse to make sure Rukia the Hogyoku-carrier makes it to her execution no longer hindered by any outside forces. Gin does this right before the final climax on Sokyoku Hill, meaning he very much could have acted as 'final escort' to ensure Aizen's plan runs smoothly. No straggling Ryoka, no other attempts made. The chaos is contained. The eagle's left the nest.

IT'S SAFE TO ASSUME NO MATTER WHAT GIN'S REASONS WERE, WHAT HE MADE RUKIA FEEL AND GO THROUGH WAS CRUEL, even if it was -- boiled down -- something which actually instilled her to not want to die anymore. Gin's a prime example of 'the goal was good, the execution was evil' etc. etc. so ... yeah.

This's a hot mess but I must continue. I can't keep putting this off.

THE REDIRECTION OF RUKIA TOWARDS AARONIERO'S TOWER.

Gin himself says, when asked (or it's implied by Ulquiorra) if he's distinctly controlling things to make Rukia meet Hollow!Kaien adventure zone or not, Gin says 'I'M NOT THAT CRUEL' essentially, with a 'besides, I hate sad stories' ... implying he knows how tragic Kaien and Rukia's past is, and is aware of her quiet self-blame and despair about it. Not only that, but that he's also aware that Aaroniero's capable of shapeshifting into Kaien, sort of. It's a lot. Is Gin trying to lead Rukia to have her closure about Kaien? Face her fears/demons? Perhaps Gin's acting as the villain of Rukia's storyline, constantly making her heroically endure what will eventually, symbolically, become his downfall: facing his demons/fears, failing to kill Aizen, and Rangiku sobs over him as he dies. Yada yada.

Gin could be lying, saying he isn't doing that when he in fact is, and that HE IS being mean on purpose, too. Yeah, I'm doin' that, I just really fuckin' love bullying Rukia, Ulquiorra. Perhaps Gin's telling the truth, he's trying to override Aaroniero's corridors to give Rukia a clear path through / have her NOT run into the Espada, but it's failing and it's too late, she's too far into the labyrinth. It's said that that whole section of Las Noches is Aaroniero's domain, Gin's controls may not even reach or have a say there, overridden by the Espada's own protocols and lures in which he grabs Rukia and makes her drop right into his waiting palm-ooze. To continue playing off as evil, Gin could be quietly lamenting not being able to steer her away, only capable of watching via security footage. Either way, Gin seems fucking genuine enough in his admission that HE HATES SAD STORIES. Which is depressing to know, considering he becomes one, or perhaps Gin's always been one, knowing he'll end like one, and he's that's why he's able to recognize it in Rukia and tailspin between lashing that out at her, or trying to make her avoid it. Or he's just fucking sadistic, I don't know. My brain's turning off.

Ultimately, I'll never deny that Gin's got a nasty spark in him. He could very well be trolling Rukia for no reason beyond 'she reacts potently and loudly, it's amusing' which is fucked, but also -- she's VERY bad at hiding her emotions, so someone sadistically seeking such things could gain a good bout of amusement from her, yes.

Alternatively, I'm remembering the Rock Musical Bleach moment in which Gin's actor begins happily skipping around and dancing whilst Rukia breaks into her sorrowful song she sings during the reenacted bridge scene between them. That's it, that's his reasoning. He wanted to dance to her despair. Thank you for coming to my TED talk. I'm sorry it's incoherent. I'll probably slap myself for forgetting to add things in five minutes after posting, and find a buncha typos too. Fuck my life.

[minor-character-in-this-story]

Marked (Tommy Shelby x Reader) Part 2

I meant to get this out wayyyy sooner than now-I deeply apologize. Hope you enjoy! Also-for all those who asked to be added to a taglist-I dub thee *waves styrofoam sword* tagged. If anyone else wants to be tagged in a further installment of Marked, just ask :)

Also-Trigger Warning for sexual assault. Discretion is advised.

The Thomas Shelby that left for France at the beginning of the war and the Thomas Shelby that returned are two very different people.

The old Thomas Shelby was but a boy: slight with rosy cheeks, a crooked smile, and a love for horses. He was small and quiet, but not to be underestimated. He was dangerously clever, always had a trick up his sleeve, and a bit of a smart-ass.

The new Thomas Shelby is tall, thin, well-dressed, and observant. His big blue eyes are now cold and searching, the spark inside long gone. His soldier’s helmet is thrown into the Cut and replaced with a flat cap that has razor blades in its peak. He’s cunning, fiery, and has nothing to lose.

Under his pressed suit and cool manner, along his ribcage, a second word takes shape: runaway.

**

“Y/N? Are you well?” You snap out of your reverie to face your best friend, Edith. She’s looking at you across your kitchen table, plump lips pulling into a frown. You sigh in response, running a hand through your hair.

“Yeah, I think. I just really need to score well on tomorrow’s exam,” The two of you were lucky enough to attend the local college together: for a certain amount of money from the right families, the school was allowing a handful of women to attend classes. Because your father was a wealthy horse breeder, you were sent to “make the family proud”. The problem was, you were terrible with math. You were lucky to have even gotten this far in the course, but tomorrow’s test will bank on you staying in university. And you couldn’t go back to father and mother empty handed-they would never forgive you.

“Hey,” Edith places her hand on top of yours, “you will succeed. We have been studying for weeks. All will be well,” You look up at her and smile. You didn’t deserve to have this awesome of a best friend. Edith has always been there for you, and you can’t imagine life without her.

“Thanks. Now how do I factor a polynomial?”

**

You hand in your final with shaky hands and begin to make for the door of the classroom, right behind Edith. You’d failed, you just knew it. There were too many questions that you blanked on, too many that you just wrote the first number that popped into your head as an answer.

“Uh, Miss Y/N,” Your professor’s voice sounds, “Hang back a moment,” You look desperately at Edith, who had turned around too. She gives you a sympathetic look, mouthing, ‘I’ll wait outside,’ You nod, slowly turning around to face Professor Lewin.

He had always given you a strange vibe, especially because he made it clear he hated you. He called on you a lot during his lectures, and when you’d stutter out a guess, he’d shrug and look at the male members of the class: “Women, eh?” He’d say, before moving on.

You put on your most confident smile, “Yes, Mr. Lewin?”

Mr. Lewin stands, putting his hands on the top of his desk, “Have a seat,” he says, gesturing towards the desk closest. You obey, sizing him up. He’s a portly man, with slicked back salt and pepper hair and stubble that tries very hard to be a mustache. His dark eyes glare at you as you smooth your skirt.

“You are quite an interesting pupil, Miss Y/N,” Professor Lewin sidles around to the front of his desk. A sick feeling curls in the bottom of your stomach. You don’t like the way he’s looking at you. Regardless, you keep your cool.

“Oh?”

“Yes. You see, Miss Y/N,” Mr. Lewin walks closer to you, looking as if he’s stalking prey, “I just can’t seem to figure out how your head so pretty yet so very empty,” He’s invading your personal space now, leaning over your table to put a strand of hair behind your ear. You clench your teeth, trying to lean as far away from him as possible. His breath smells disgusting-like old cigarettes and tuna.

“Mr. Lewin, I-” A meaty, chalk-smudged finger is shoved hard onto your lips.

“Don’t speak,” Mr. Lewin grabs your wrists in a death grip, and with astonishing strength, pulls you out of your chair and against him, “Just spread those delicious legs, and you may be able to pass this class,” Oh, no. The feeling in your stomach crests, your blood running cold. This wasn’t worth a passing grade. Despite your paralyzing fear, you fight hard against his grip.

“Let go of me,” You snarl, trying your best not to appear absolutely petrified. He doesn’t respond, instead moving one of his hands to gather your skirts. Your newly freed hand scrabbles at the desk behind you, trying to find leverage. You open your mouth and begin to scream…only to have his palm slap over it, silencing you.

“I told you to be quiet, bitch!” He mutters menacingly, tearing at your skirts. Your desperate left-hand closes around something long and sharp on the desktop. Without hesitation, you jam whatever it is hard into the closest part of Mr. Lewin’s body-which happens to be his neck. It sinks in surprisingly deep, and you feel his grip on you loosen. You wrench away, watching in horror as blood spills out from the side of his throat. Mr. Lewin looks at you with what can be best described as astonishment before staggering forward and collapsing face-first on the ground. Warmth rushes against your feet as your math professor’s blood pools around your shoes. He’s dead. You just killed him. You just fucking killed him. Bile rises in your throat, but before you can act, the door to the classroom slams open.

“Y/N! Are you alrigh-” Edith rushes through the door, then stops in her tracks. Tears well in your eyes as your wet, red hand flies to your mouth.

“I didn’t mean it-he just-he tried to-” You choke out. Oh, dear God. You’re so dead. You just killed a man and now you’re about to spend the rest of your life in a cell. A warm hand touches your shoulder, shaking you.

“No now, stay with me Y/N. It’s going to be alright. We just have to leave now,” Edith’s voice is surprisingly calm, her hand on your shoulder comforting and steady. Somehow, you summon the strength to nod.

“I know some people, and I have an uncle in Birmingham. Come along now, we mustn’t linger,”

**

It’s almost midnight when you board a small boat stacked with pallets of textiles. Your elegant-bloodstained-dress has been traded in for brown, baggy slacks and a tan button up. Your hair has been sheared to your chin and covered up with a large, floppy hat.

“Your job before has been to impress, stand out, yeah?” Edith is saying while fussing you’re your new headwear, “But, now, your job, my dear, is to blend in. My uncle will take care of you, let you help him with the horses, but you need to be able to disappear in a crowd. Your family thinks you jumped from Tower Bridge. Y/N L/N is dead. You’ll go by Marion now. Do you understand what I’m saying?” You look at Edith, awestruck but nodding.

“How-How do I repay you?” You stammer. You have no idea why she’s doing all of this for you.

“Oh darling, you already have. Your friendship has meant more to me than you’ll ever know,” Edith pulls you into a warm hug, kissing your cheek, “Now stay safe, yeah? Give this to Uncle,”

She presses an envelope into your grasp before climbing out of the boat and waving to the captain. With a groan, the vessel begins to glide along the surface of the canal, leaving your old life behind. As it does, the skin on your right hip begins to burn. You shift your clothing and watch as a blotch of ink slowly forms into a word: troubled.

**

A portly, nervous looking gentleman meets you in Birmingham. He shifts from foot to foot, giving you a small smile.

“Ello. My Edith says you’ve come to give me help with the horses,” You dip your head, handing over a small envelope. The man opens it, scratching the back of his head as he reads. Soon enough, he straightens with that same nervous smile.

“Right then, Miss Marion. I’m Curly, and if you would follow me, I’ll show you to my horses,”

Taglist: @fireghost-x @octaviareina @captivatedbycillianmurphy @screemqueen

[tiamat-zx]

How about Yasha?

An anon ALSO asked for Yash, so okay! Let’s do it!

Why I like them

She’s just as much an extension of Ashley Johnson as Pike was. In fact, she’s also very much like Ellie in TLOU: a vengeful sapphic that you do NOT want to cross as she is very protective of her loved ones. Also, she’s a very different kind of barbarian: one who hates being forced to fight and is weary of it, and who is deep down just the gentlest and sweetest radiant soul of an angelkin. And her rage is very much like a storm itself: slow and rumbling until the inevitable thunderclap that precedes the lightning strike of her blade.

She also became the first player character to undergo an entire subrace change: from a fallen aasimar to a protector.

WHAT I don’t like

Ashley’s numerous absences due to Blindspot as it left Yasha as little more than someone to jaeger and therefore she wasn’t able to truly participate in RP. It took until the show’s conclusion for her to finally come home and truly spread Yasha’s wings and show us the full extent of her character.

Favorite episode (scene if movie)

A bit of a two-fer.

First favorite episode: “A Storm of Memories”. The episode where we learned our first true glimpse into Yasha’s past, including the existence of Zuala and the first tease of Obann’s presence. It was the first time we could see past the perceived “metal goth angel” vibe to see who she is: a broken bird wanting to fly again.

And the second favorite episode: “Into the Eye”. Her dreamscape trial against the Stormlord’s elementals. The moment she fully embraced her purpose as his Avatar. She had desperately been seeking purpose, and had been wanting to establish her standing with the Stormlord. And then when he finally asked her The Question, “Where do you find your strength?”, she did not hesitate. She knew her purpose, had known it ever since the night before her date with Beau: to protect. It gave her the resolve to persist against the odds and survive the rest of the campaign.

And speaking of, I have to include a third: “Worth Fighting For”. Yes, the date night. Specifically, the moment she finally confessed her feelings to Beau and let herself be just as open and vulnerable as her partner was aiming to be.

Favorite season/movie

The Rumblecusp arc and the last few episodes before the pandemic. It showed us the beginning of her reconstruction and rebirth, manifesting in the harp performance in Vo and her dream where she gained her wings, forever shedding her fallen self and ascending into the protector she was meant to be. Also, it was the arc where she began to come to terms with her feelings for Beau. Slowly but surely, through small moments, up to the maiden flight. From there, those feelings that had begun to sprout since Kamordah continued to grow.

If anything, Rumblecusp was a turning point for many of the Nein. Yasha was someone that needed it most.

Favorite line

Is it wrong of me to say that my favorite line of Yasha’s would be the entire letter she wrote for Beau?

Aside from that, it would be what she said to Beau upon admitting her feelings: “I really care about you, and I just hope, if anything, that you know I’m… I'm so proud of the person that you've become. Just seeing where you started and where you are now, you have completely done that on your own. And I just, I'm-- You blow me away.”

Favorite outfit

Her Eiselcross outfit, with the Coat of the Crest.

OTP

Beauyasha, obviously. And of course, her first love, Zuala. I wouldn’t be doing her justice had I NOT acknowledged her. And PURELY on the platonic side, with Molly, as he was just as much a loved one as Zuala and Beau and he left an equally strong impact on her life.

Brotp

With Caleb. They are able to relate so well, both being Haunted Ones. Also, with Jester and Veth as a fellow chaos gremlin.

Head Canon

I believe her level 10 outfit was given to her by Obann, and he burned her old attire but spared her shawl intentionally, just to twist the knife on purpose. And while we don’t see her arms in her level 13 art due to the coat, I think she tore the sleeves from her level 10 outfit so she could have the Orphanmaker tattoo visible. But eventually, after the campaign, she disposed of the leathers entirely and began wearing plain clothes altogether and even got herself a haircut.

Also, she is taught druidic magic upon finally meeting Reani for the first time, to help supplement her gardening.

Unpopular opinion

She did not need a proper “arc” as she willingly didn’t want to go back to the Iothia Moorlands… at least until the finale where she went with Beau to find Zuala’s grave. As far as she was concerned, the past should remain in the past. And she chose to keep it that way by not seeking vengeance on the tribe and choosing to live in peace.

Also, “lifespan angst” is such a stupid thing to fuss over with them. Sure, Yasha WILL outlive Beau, but she will still be happy to spend as much of their life together as possible. And she wouldn’t have it any other way.

A wish

I wish for her and Beau to live a peaceful life for the rest of their days.

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen

For her and Beau to ever suffer a breakup.

5 words to best describe them

Angel, protector, lover, sapphic, sentinel.

My nickname for them

The “wolf” to Beau’s “lion”.

[akachaan]

the golden-winged king [xiao]

genre: angst

warnings: death, blood

notes: pls im so proud of this writing BYE

The gentle chirps of birds graced Xiao’s ears. He recognized this as a melody of nature, the sunlight cascading a loving warmth onto his pale skin. Lush and rich grass blew in the breeze, one of the few somethings that Xiao actually appreciated from the Wind Archon. He chuckled breathlessly, a feeling of lighthearted mischief settling upon him. Xiao imagined how Venti would pout and scold him for his unbearably disrespect remarks, as he liked to call them. The grass entwined itself into his gloved hand like a silky ribbon. The light, fluffy clouds passed by, drifting away like dandelion seeds floating in the winds.

Xiao’s legs began to ache— the reason unknown —so he’d sat himself down, assuming he’d been basking in the beauty of the flower field for much too long. Ah, flowers. He’d almost forgotten just how intricately designed they were. Well, as a Guardian Yaksha, there’s only so much you can stop and admire. What were the names of these? The petals were pale blue from the bottom fading into a remarkable teal color, four pastel purple strands sprawling out from the top.

Glaze lilies, he recalled. These flowers only bloom once sung to, yes? He remembers this from a certain... human. He smiles fondly at the thought of them. “Xiao, Xiao!” A familiar and soft voice called. Speak of the devil.

Xiao turned to them, and his breath was caught in his throat. It’s like time slowed down, just for them. Just for him. He took a deep breath, his eyes softening, showing vulnerability he’d been hiding for a millennia. Your shining, soft locks framed your face, [c] eyes shining with love and purity. Xiao had seen skies like an ethereal dream, twinkling like sparklers trapped in the deep cerulean sky... But none of those galaxies and any to come would even compare to your radiant image. You were an angel sent from heaven, one to remind him what life can truly bring upon humanity; people like you.

You were like his little secret of sorts. Not a secret of the world. Anyone could meet or find [Name]. He knew anyone could come and sweep you away from him— though he doesn’t enjoy thinking of such ideas —he knew. It could happen. But, he also knew, and he trusted that you wouldn’t truly leave him, after all they’ve been through. He knew that you confined in him just as he did you, he felt like he was finally certain in his eternity of suffering and emptiness. Days that went by where he felt as if he were just existing. He was not living, he never was. Xiao was simply a guardian, assigned to protect Liyue until he drops dead from exhaustion. He was existing as The Guardian Yaksha, Conquerer of Demons.

But with you, he was not any of those. He was not just existing, watching over a nation til his last breath. Your presence alone made him feel warm. Him feeling was already an achievement in itself, after all these years as standing on the sidelines, secluded; no matter how close to Liyue he physically was, he felt so different and disconnected from his people. He’d only be remembered as tale to be told. The way that you made him feel. Not only have you made him feel, you’ve made him feel warm. A ‘warmth’ that he wishes to bask in for the rest of his existence. Warmth. Xiao knew this wasn’t the word to describe how he truly felt. By definition, yes, Xiao admits, albeit hesitantly. But he couldn’t help but feel it was so much deeper than that. You made him feel a warmth that burned his insides. The feeling had words caught in his throat, he often struggled to form a single coherent sentence when you eyes twinkled with a joy he can’t quite grasp. It made him stutter, the way you looked so blissed and euphoric in his company. He loved it. He loved how the butterflies in his stomach never seized, fluttering and flying with each second. His heart raced like a tiger running after its prey, running at miles per minute. He felt so human. So alive. So loved, and he’s finally experienced what it’s like to love. He never wanted it to end.

You laid yourself onto the luxuriant meadow of nature, the blades of green tickling at your cheek. The sun caressed your skin like a mother would her child, giving you an angelic-like glow. Your eyes had drew closed as you listened to what was around you. Distant animals chirping and buzzing filled your ears along with the synchronized breathing of you and the boy next to you. You smiled, your heart thumping against your chest as savored the peace of this moment.

Xiao turned his head to admire the gift the Archons had given him. He saw how amicable this whole ordeal was and how much you were enjoying it. It wasn’t everyday the two of you had the time to lay down and appreciate each other and what the Earth truly had to offer, though I’m sure that’s been made clear. The soft whisper of his name felt like a melody being sang to him, and he couldn’t help but smile.

Another sweet murmur of his name was called. And another. And another. Xiao grew worried. With every purr of his name, he could hear desperation and panic in your tone. That alone had him sick to his stomach. He sat up, his eyes now greeted with an all-too-familiar setting.

The sky was dark with stormy clouds, rain thundering heavily onto the bloodstained ground. The air was no longer crisp and clean but instead reeked of the metallic scent of blood and sweat. He could almost taste the blood on his lips. Xiao looked at his hands, dirtied and course with dried ichor. What was once his peaceful escape of serendipity was now a horrid sight of what he used to be. The murderous machine of what he promised himself to cast away since The Archon War. Screams of retreat, pain, defeat and victory mixed in his head, which was now throbbing from the sudden change in scenery. Why was he here?

More importantly, where were you?

“Xiao... Thank god you’re alive.” Your broken voice chuckled, growing dryer in the passing seconds. His head snapped to you, who was laying on the floor, absolutely beaten up. His heart ached at the sight, and he reached to gently cup your face, as if one wrong move could completely shatter you. You gasped for air before continuing, “I knew you would survive. There’s,” You paused to cough harshly, your body crumbling as the cough was let out, “no way the Xiao I know would loose to anyone.” He pulled you closer to his lap, panic and adrenaline coursing through his veins. He knew there was nothing he could do. But he still tried. He still tried to grasp onto what little hope he had left; it was all happening too quickly.

“Hang on. I’ve got you, okay?” He choked out after the initial shock. The time you have left and the time he would be able to get you proper medical attention were so obviously not in his favor. He picked you up, carrying you on his back. And he just ran. His legs moved like he was going to die if he didn’t hurry. Quite frankly, he would most definitely die emotionally. Xiao couldn’t loose you. Not now, not ever. He wanted to live with you until your died of old age, peacefully where you could’ve smiled on your deathbed. He remembers how you used to get mad at him for carrying you like this. The way your cheeks heated up and you buried your face into his neck always got a goofy smile on his face. But now, you were clinging onto his back as best you could— though it was a loose grip, you used what energy you had left in you to let him know you were still there with him.

But soon, too soon, you wouldn’t be, and you both knew it. “Xiao,” you called weakly.

“I said hang on. I’ll get you medical help soon. Please, keep your eyes open. You still have time.”

“Xiao...”

“You can’t leave me like this. I swore to hold you and protect you and love you for the rest of my life. Out of the many promise I’ve broken I can’t... I can’t break this one.”

“Xiao, listen...” The utter amount of suffering in your voice tore him apart more than the searing pains in his limbs. He knew he wouldn’t be able to make it in time no matter how fast he ran. So he obliged to your request and set you in his lap once again. He stared at your face, covered in dirt and scars. Yet you still looked at beautiful as ever.

“Please. Don’t go. I won’t know what to do without you.”

“I’m always here with you even if...” You trailed off, both from the lack of oxygen you had and the discomfort of finishing your own sentence. You felt tears brimming in your eyes, as you saw Xiao in such a vulnerable and tormented state. “Xiao...”

He caressed your face like a mother would her child. The sting of his heart drowned any physical injuries he had. Nothing would hurt more than the thought of losing you. The grass scratched at your cheek, and you winced at the feeling. Xiao tucked a hair strand behind your ear. As he leaned down to press his forehead against yours.

“Xiao... You are and forever will be my Golden-Winged King.”

And that was when the tears spilled. Your body went cold and limp in his own very hands, your eyes that shone with love and purity where now dark and lifeless. The smile that lit up his world was gone; replaced with a face of sorrow eternally etched onto your features. Xiao wondered. Death was a pitiful punishment, yet somehow so enchanting. You still looked as heavenly as ever. It was only then the pain of truly losing you settled in. You were never going to grace his ears with your melodic voice. You were never going to grace his eyes with your smile. You were never going to grace his senses with your adoring hugs.

You were never to grace his life again.

The Golden-Winged King had a fall from grace, just as you did in his own very arms.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Tedious Joys - Chapter 3 -

- Ao3 link -

“Truly, Lao Nie, you are blessed to have such a talented son,” Wen Ruohan said, and if it were anyone else it might have even been a compliment, sincerely meant.

But Wen Ruohan was an ancient monster, two generations older than Lan Qiren – though you couldn’t tell by looking at his smooth young-seeming face, and only his eyes told the truth of it – and possessed of both a longstanding grudge against the Nie sect and the apparent sense that all good things in the world ought to belong to him and him alone.

He had only two living sons at present, the younger one only a little older than A-Zhan, now called Lan Wangji, and neither of them had yet displayed any particularly fine qualities – understandable for little Wen Chao, who was little more than a spoiled princeling, but the tone in Wen Ruohan’s voice boded no one any good.

“It is, no doubt, a credit to Sect Leader Lan’s excellent teaching,” Wen Ruohan added before Lao Nie could respond, and he raised his cup to toast Lan Qiren. Etiquette required that Lan Qiren acknowledge the toast, which he did with a stiff nod, but he disliked this line of conversation more and more.

“Starting to regret not sending your own boy there, are you, Hanhan?” Lao Nie laughed, and Lan Qiren devoutly wished that his friend would leave him out of whatever strange ongoing thing he had developed with Wen Ruohan, half rivalry and half challenge, hatred and affection both. Who in their right mind would call the fearsome Sect Leader Wen such intimate things like “A-Han” or “Hanhan”?

Lao Nie, that was who.

Wen Ruohan bared his teeth at Lao Nie in something that might be mistaken for a smile. Lan Qiren averted his eyes from the whole debacle, thinking to himself that he would need to advise Lao Nie that he could either invite their fellow sect leader into his bed or have Lan Qiren as a friend but not both. Lan Qiren’s entire life had been thrown into chaos by other people’s choices in that regard and he was not inclined to endure any more of the same if he could help it.

The jade pendant he had taken to wearing on his belt for easy access was warm against his leg, as it often was when he was thinking ungracious thoughts – he’d had something of a breakthrough with Jiwei shortly his affirmation of friendship with Lao Nie, achieving perfect resonance between blade and pendant, and he was very pleased even if he didn’t actually have any evidence that it was helping. He’d tuned a similar pendant with Baxia for Nie Mingjue, who wore it around his neck to help seep off Baxia’s rage, and though there were no dramatic effects, Lan Qiren thought that he seemed steadier for it. Though that might also just be how Nie Mingjue was starting to grow into himself, both in terms of becoming a teenager (Lan Qiren’s best estimate was around thirteen) and in terms of his ever-increasing height.

Children at that age were especially tricky to convince to listen, so Lan Qiren had allowed Lan Xichen to select the pendant and act as messenger to hand over the gift, thinking to himself that their mutual friendship would do more to convince Nie Mingjue to wear the thing than any esoteric explanation relating to cultivation. He had been proven right, and the fact that Lan Xichen smiled brightly every time he saw his friend wearing it was an unexpected but welcome bonus.

Sadly, Lao Nie was not so easily convinced, but again then he was an adult, with his habits set in stone, harder to change. His style had always been simple and stringently austere; he hated having any sort of weight on him but for his saber, his guan and his braids, and not even the threat of his pending eventual death would change his mind about that. As a result it was Lan Qiren who wore the pendant for him, meditating with or playing for Jiwei whenever he could and doing all he could to strengthen the resonance between the two items even at a distance.

It was Lan Qiren that wore the jade, even though it hung heavy and swollen with Lao Nie’s spiritual energy, and Wen Ruohan that glared each time he saw it, and really, if Lao Nie could just stop whatever dangerous game he was playing, Wen Ruohan could go back to disregarding Lan Qiren as the mediocre replacement for the far more dangerous Qingheng-jun.

Instead of…well, whatever wrong idea Wen Ruohan had gotten into his head about him.

About them, perhaps.

Some people thought everything was about sex, he thought disdainfully, and then had to suppress a flinch at the abrupt stab of pain – He Kexin had died earlier that year, fading away suddenly and unexpectedly, and for all that Lan Qiren had not liked her it was still a shock to think that she was gone.

He had been the one to find her, which he supposed was lucky in comparison to the alternative. It had been during one of his visits, coming as he always did to report to her at the midpoint between her children’s monthly visits, and even now, months later, he found himself starting to walk towards her house on those evenings, found himself mentally making a note of things his nephews did as if he were still preparing the reports that he would have given to her if she had still been there.

His brother had never cared for such reports.

His brother…

Lan Qiren had had to tell him that the wife he had sacrificed everything for was gone, talking through the door in the hope that he would be listened to and heard, and perhaps the only benefit of his brother’s cold and endless seclusion was that he didn’t have to hear his brother’s response to such news.

(Sometimes he wondered if his brother was already dead and rotting away in there, only to scold himself for such inauspicious thoughts. In the end, despite everything, it was still his brother, and surely they had been close, once, the way Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji were, even if Lan Qiren could not remember it.)

He had hoped that Cangse Sanren would somehow hear the news and come to find him, to commiserate – even more than Lao Nie, she could put a smile on anyone’s face – but she did not come to the Cloud Recesses. Lan Qiren hoped it was only that she was busy, or else perhaps had not had reason to hear such gossip as a traveling rogue cultivator, but he feared the worst. The last time they had met she had reminded him, as she did every time, that she had a doom hanging above her head which could not be escaped, and as always they made sure to part on good terms as if that time would be the last. And yet, despite that, he still hoped desperately that he had not lost her, too.

“– such a talented niece,” Jin Guangshan was saying ingratiatingly to Wen Ruohan, who looked pleased – they must be discussing Wen Qing, who was around Nie Mingjue’s age, perhaps a little older, and who already showed all signs of being an extremely talented doctor. She was not Wen Ruohan’s direct niece, being a child of the Dafan Wen branch family, distant cousins at best, but Wen Ruohan had claimed her as his ward and therefore, technically, her skills were his merit, no matter that she had developed them before her abrupt relocation to the Nightless City to accompany the main family line. “Perhaps you might consider sending her to Sect Leader Lan’s lectures next summer, instead.”

“There are separate lectures for women,” Lan Qiren demurred, going for the easy excuse of his sect’s customs. “I believe she has a younger brother? You are welcome to send him once he is old enough, if you like.”

Wen Qing was not at all to Lan Qiren’s taste, as much as he was loath to say such a thing about a girl little older than a child. She had inherited the arrogance of the Wen sect in full: proud and unwavering, convinced of her own viewpoint regardless of any evidence to the contrary, and unwilling to compromise or listen, determined to have her own way. While in her case the traits shaded closer to virtue, such as with her absolutist refusal to use her sword to engage in any of Wen Ruohan’s skirmishes with small neighboring sects, Lan Qiren could see a future in which that very same arrogance would bring her nothing but problems.

If there was one thing that he’d learned from Jiwei, it was that it was not good to be too rigid, too set in your path, or else you would ignore any other solution in favor of walking step-by-step down the path you’d created to your own destruction. It was something he himself was constantly trying to correct in himself, with his love of the rules and very particular habits, and perhaps that was why he could recognize it in others.

Still, she was young, and there was time yet for her to learn better. Maybe he should recommend her for some classes…

“I will consider it,” Wen Ruohan said with a not-smile on his lips. “Perhaps there’s something that the boy can learn from Sect Leader Lan’s…wealth of experience.”

Lan Qiren did not flinch at the jibe, clearly aimed to remind him that he had never left the Lan sect to gain experience the way so many young men did – Wen Ruohan had discovered that particular sore spot years ago, and however skilled he was at picking at old wounds, they would eventually toughen into a scar – but he was somewhat gratified to see Lao Nie’s frown deepen when he heard it.

Still, since Lan Qiren didn’t actually want to get in the middle of the other sect leaders’ personal business, he interjected, “There is still time before we need to think of such things. The children will be grown sooner than we like; we should cherish the time when they’re still young.”

Wen Ruohan rolled his eyes at the platitude, but the conversation moved on to other matters. There was always business to discuss at these discussion conferences, even in the parts that were nominally meant as social events, and of course some of the social discussions were also in their own way business. The birth of a son for Tingshan He clan, yet another daughter for the prodigious Yingchuan Wang clan with all their concubines…

The pendant on Lan Qiren’s thigh burned hotter than ever, and he slid a hand out of his sleeve to press down on it, wondering at the cause. He glanced over at Lao Nie, at Jiwei, and found him scowling in a way that seemed more intense than the usual, his eyes on Wen Ruohan – had he truly just noticed the other man’s disdain of Lan Qiren? Surely not.

Perhaps he was simply responding to Jiwei’s own response, but why the saber would be upset at Wen Ruohan, Lan Qiren truly did not know. There was only so much he could understand without the lived experience of cultivating saber spirit himself, which for all his effort he did not and could not have.

Lan Qiren sent his own spiritual energy to the pendant, trying to press the feeling of calm there in the hopes that the resonance would also help calm Jiwei, and thus in turn Lao Nie, but he had no idea if it was having that effect. Perhaps he would try to play for Lao Nie himself as well as for Jiwei tonight.

Assuming of course that Lao Nie was not otherwise preoccupied…

A loud noise came from the arena below – a giant wave of cheering – and Lan Qiren turned his attention there: it appeared that, as Wen Ruohan must have foreseen, Nie Mingjue had just defeated someone one and a half times his own age in a clean sweep. He was practically glowing with joy and youthful enthusiasm and, yes, sheer overwhelming spiritual energy - had he managed to advance his own cultivation during a performance spar?

Of course he had. Geniuses.

And of course, just as predictably, Lan Xichen was the first one by his side when he left the field, the two of them talking avidly and enthusiastically – perhaps a little too much so for Lan Xichen, just edging outside of the Lan sect rules, but Lan Qiren could forgive the small misstep under the circumstances. Normally he tried to be as strict as possible when teaching his nephews, erring wherever possible in favor of orthodoxy out of his fear that they would end up indifferent to their sect or blinded by passion the way their father was or too mercurial and easily deceived the way He Kexin had been. Still, Lan Xichen had only just become old enough to attend the events and it was only another year before he could participate, albeit only in the most junior capacity; some enthusiasm was understandable.

Truly, he thought as he watched them, it had not been a mere platitude to say that a child’s youth needed to be cherished before it disappeared forever, and all the more so when it was your child. With their mother’s death, his nephews were now wholly in his custody and care, and he thought that he could not have loved them any more if they had been children of his own body.

Unexpectedly, he felt someone’s gaze on him and turned his head to catch Wen Ruohan studying him thoughtfully. When their gazes met, Wen Ruohan did not look away, but only smiled and raised his cup – the second time now he had tried to catch Lan Qiren in a toast. He would probably try to force them all into drinking later. Lan Qiren would refuse, as always, and take his leave early so that he could sleep, and Lao Nie would stay and probably get himself into trouble.

Perhaps Wen Ruohan had some sort of scheme to force the issue. That had happened a few times, although the move was more typical of Jin Guangshan, who liked to set important business meetings in the evening and then insist that they might as well have the conversation at a ‘tea house’ or ‘wine shop’ that barely bothered hiding the fact that it was brothel. On a few instances, he had steered the conversation in such a way that left Lan Qiren no choice but to either drink, lose face, or give Jin Guangshan no face, and of those three options the most palatable was clearly the first. Lan Qiren would therefore drink and, true to his bloodline, almost immediately become extremely dizzy and confused, losing all his senses.

Presumably that had been Jin Guangshan’s goal the first time around, except unfortunately for him Lan Qiren, when drunk, did not become easier to manipulate. Instead, it appeared that he simply lost all control of his ability to moderate his interest in the Lan sect rules or obscure musical theory and would therefore proceed to talk about those subjects at monotonous and excruciating length to anyone who would listen, and several who would really rather not. Lao Nie had told him about it after one such incident, claiming that he had nearly burst a rib laughing at Wen Ruohan’s worsening expression as Lan Qiren earnestly hung off his arm all evening, refusing to be shaken off, and dictating to him the entire history, development, and applicable exceptions of just one of the rules regarding the use of the Lan sect forehead ribbon.

With quotes.

(In his embarrassment, Lan Qiren had responded by muttering something about the importance of citing appropriate authority, causing Lao Nie to nearly burst another rib.)

He wasn’t sure why Wen Ruohan would bother inviting that sort of behavior again, especially when he had already requested in advance that should such circumstances ever occur again, Lao Nie was to have pity on him and drag him back to his bed before he went on too long. And yet – reviewing the day’s proposed schedule in his mind – it seemed likely that Wen Ruohan did have such intentions.

For some reason, it made Lan Qiren worry.