#and for those of you who cannot survive that many words of slow burn I honestly do not blame you because even I hate myself for it

[amazingdeadfish]

There are a couple different reasons why your ask blog has a lot of non readers.

It’s an ask blog with art

It’s a rare pare with not that much content

THE fan favorite character Macaque is a big part

The fic is really long and hard to get into at this point meaning less people who find it now will actually read it

Ah, I completely get what you mean!

It's a little disheartening to know that, yeah, this is all pretty much true, but I honestly don't blame people because the fic really is... way too long XDDD. Even I am getting a little sick of it to be honest, but there is still so much I need to write down. I'm committed to the bit. Perhaps too committed. I think deep down I always knew this was going to be how it is, so I'm not really surprised.

Even though this is the case, I'm certainly not going to cater the blog to people who don't read the fic (meaning: there is no way in hell am I going to turn it into it's own, separate thing, unattached to the fic series). Because, I'm not actually doing the ask blog for anyone other than myself! You are all just here along for the ride, and regardless if half of you don't even actually understand the full context of what goes on in there, I'm still very thankful for the support nonetheless!

I like to think that I have done my part by explicitly saying on the Master Post of the blog that it is in fact linked to an AO3 series. I mean, what else am I supposed to do? Link the fic to every answered question? Besides, it's not like that will help the situation any better, haha.

Also, I'm sorry about the late reply! I can't even remember how long this has been in my box for, I kept meaning to make an answer and now I've finally done it (to those of you who have also sent me something, rest assured that I am 84% sure that I have received it and the only reason you have not gotten a reply is because I have just... left it there alone for no particular reason XDD).

[tcookies777]

Where I am now

Many of you have left such kind comments and sent me messages out of concern for my wellbeing. For that, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I also appreciate your patience as I understand it can be difficult to wait months for a chapter update on a long, tedious fic such as The Anatomy of Love. Your patience for this story is always sincerely appreciated.

I've been struggling for months to find the right words to say. To decide whether to express the ache in my heart or draw lines and stay silent. But while a part of me wishes to say little to nothing on the matter out of a sense of shame, the better part of me recognizes that conversations like the one I'm about to raise are something that needs to be discussed more. If only to raise awareness of the topic or help destigmatize it. If only to normalize issues like these. If only to just help someone else who might be going through a dark period in their life as well.

It's here that I'll give a final warning of the sensitive topics of this post. So feel free to turn away now if the topic of mental illness might be upsetting.

Trigger warning: suicide and mental illness

Ok, so here goes....

My sister committed suicide. I won't go into details of course, but it was not peaceful or quiet - it was violent, gruesome, and excruciatingly painful. So much so that the police thought it might've been a murder and harshly investigated us, making everything more difficult and traumatizing than it already was.

She had battled with depression for nearly 2 decades, deteriorating far beyond recognition. We had grown estranged over the years of my childhood because she pushed loved ones away, blaming them for the way she turned out but also still relying on them to survive. An awful cycle of codependency.

I myself have been battling with high-functioning depression for the past decade, which is one reason why I struggle to respond to people's messages. From readers, friends, and family alike. I, too, have an issue of pushing people away. Because I'm ashamed for them to see how broken my life is. Because I have seen the way people judge you for having a mental illness. I have witnessed friends, family, and even Healthcare workers gaze upon the mentally ill as if they are a sore sight.

To be honest, I understand both sides; it can also be frustrating to pool all your time, effort and resources into trying to help someone who does not want to be helped. It burns you out. That despite your efforts to fight for that person, they do not fight for themselves and you're forced to watch them deteriorate in a slow, agonizing process.

"At the beginning, you’ll do your best to shoulder all my burdens. At the beginning, you’ll be strong about it. But over time, you’ll come to regret it—you'll come to regret me, and the burden that I have become to you." — Kakashi, Chapter 30 of The Anatomy of Love

On the other side, it's hard to take that step to accept the help offered to you. It's hard to find the strength to meet your loved ones halfway and help them to help you when you hardly have the strength to even get out of bed. Yet, you also feel guilty because it feels as if you are just dragging down those around you.

These are the feelings Kakashi expresses to Sakura in Chapter 30, when he tries to explain the reasons why they cannot and should not pursue a relationship. Guilt and self-loathing are the feelings that have been eating me up inside for years, as they ate at my sister as well.

We were born from a loveless, violent marriage. So we didn't know how to love each other, though we did whether we wanted to or not. Likely it was the trauma that bonded us. But put together, my sister and I were oil and water. Loving someone who is your family but is practically a stranger to you is incredibly difficult and taxing.

Yet, I understood completely. You just don't know how to show love to someone when you were never given love.

But despite my estrangement from my sister, I still love her. Being a 1st generation American often means you have nothing but your family. When you have no house, no savings, no relatives to turn to - just your immediate family - it can be a toxic, tough love where you have only that person whether you like them or not. And in Asian culture, family is especially everything even when it's completely dysfunctional.

So why am I updating TAOL now?

It's mostly for myself. Because it's my own comfort fic that allows me to engage in therapeutic writing. It's a story of loneliness and love of all forms (romantic, sexual, familial, etc). More importantly, it's a story about finding family, finding love, and finding home. Something that I've yearned for all my life.

And it's a story of pursuing happiness even when you think you don't deserve it. It's a story that shows good coping mechanisms and bad coping mechanisms and their consequences. It's a story of picking yourself up by the bootstraps even when you just want to sit and wallow in despair. And it's also a story of embracing the love of those around you and taking their hands when they reach out to you and offer their support.

At its core, The Anatomy of Love is a story about fighting loneliness, self-hatred, guilt, and mental illness with love. With the love of friends and family. And with the love for yourself. Because while it's important to have a strong support system to love and look out for you, it is just as important to love yourself and really put in the effort to take care of yourself. And sometimes that means being ""selfish"" and prioritizing yourself over others.

Why am I saying all this?

I'll admit, I'm uncomfortable revealing the skeletons in my closet to strangers online where everyone can judge and share my secrets. I'm embarrassed to admit that TAOL's themes are projections of my own desires, and for people to know that I write about such things in fanfic because of the fact that I don't have them. But I'm just too insecure to talk to anyone 1 on 1. Not to mention that, unfortunately, it's not that simple to just go to therapy (especially when the healthcare system is broke here).

Most importantly, I hope that if there's anyone out there reading this and going through a shitty point in their lives as well... I hope you are able to take comfort in the fact that you are not alone in this. We individually have our own demons to fight, but we're all fighting the same battle.

I wish I could say it gets better, but there's honestly no guarantee. So many times, I've had to stop myself from telling patients "things'll get better" because that's a promise that we're taught never to make. The truth is no one knows if things really do get better. Personally, I haven't been feeling better at all. For most of my life, people have been telling me it gets better and to just be patient, but every year it actually gets worse and worse. And just when you think things are starting to look up, it instead gets even more worse.

It's tiresome waiting years for things to get better when it seems it's nowhere in sight.

But I'm trying my best to take it day by day. I do my best to get out of bed, go to work, take a proper shower, feed myself. I do my best to love myself - mostly out of fear that what little family I have will one day disappear and I will have no one left to love me. No one but myself.

But sometimes my best does not feel enough. Sometimes I hate myself more days than others.

That's okay, I tell myself. I hate myself today, but I will love myself tomorrow. I will forgive myself eventually. I can be happy eventually. One day at a time.

Because on my better days, I realize that not every person can afford to wait for things to get better. You have to be the one to take the initiative - get off your ass and take that step forward and make things better yourself. All the people around you can offer you all the help that you need, but the most important thing is that YOU have to want to help yourself.

So that's all I am able to say for now. I do apologize if my thoughts are a bit discombobulated. I am still struggling to find my feet when it feels like I'm still drowning under pounding waves of darkness. If you've read this far, I appreciate you taking the time to read this.

Meanwhile, I hope you guys can continue to enjoy reading The Anatomy of Love. The chapter is not entirely to my satisfaction due to the last minute revisions I made, but I wanted a sprinkle of happiness in the moment. I think that's something we all need.

Also, thank you for the messages you have sent me and the comments you left. I'm truly sorry I do not have the courage or strength to respond, but please know I am forever grateful and touched that people would reach out to a stranger like me.

Hope to see you soon,

TCOOKIES

[billconrad]

Unassailable

    I use the word optimize in every possible place it fits. Optimize that recipe. I have optimized my walking style. Can my driving be optimized? You bet! The word rolls off my tongue even when I am silently typing.

    I never use some words because I do not fully understand their meaning and do not want to sound like an idiot. Argyle? Something to do with socks. Bloodthirsty? Umm, I think that has something to do with motivation. Googleplex? That’s a big number, but I do not know how big. Ribosomes? It’s some silly biological term. Myocardial? A doctor used that once in a health video. Metastatic? I think that was the same doctor.

    That’s all understandable, but there is one word I avoid, like the plague, yet I fully understand the meaning. Unassailable describes a condition that cannot be argued against. If there is a video of a person committing a crime, their guilt is unassailable. Writers often use it in mathematics, law, engineering, and critical discussions.

    Now, hold on. There are some conditions where I know the word legitimately applies. 2+2=4. The math is unassailable. Yes and no. The logic is flawless, but 2+2=4 is not unassailable; it is a correct equation with room for disagreement. Two apples plus two oranges do not equal four planes.

    It seems like this word has many applications, so do I hate it with a passion? Because it is offensive to the reader. It is as if I said, “Hey, I discovered something, and you cannot contradict me, jerk!”

    I can show you why I hate this work with this very sentence. I do not know who will read my words. You could be a serial killer, truck driver, or someone who accidentally clicked on a link. Yet, I have the same goal: for you to be entertained, educated, and enjoy my creation. Yet, there is no guarantee of success. My sentence might even bring resentment, but deep in my heart, I tried my best to present something enjoyable.

    Allow me to make a brief exception with one awful sentence. Jack, and, Jill, went, up, a, hill, to, fetch, a, pale, of, water. Wow, those comas were so annoying. And that sentence? Could I have been any more cliché? Anger is boiling, and words are turning green like the Hulk. Roar!

    Reading the word unassailable feels the same as that awful sentence. Why would I want to insult the people I am trying to entertain? “I am smarter than you!” Nobody likes that attitude. I want my readers to smile, but that word goes against every writing instinct I have. It is like it has a poor attitude reservoir.

    I suppose we all have our little quirks. Grammar mongers dislike improper punctuation and go to great lengths to point out mistakes. Wordsmiths take great joy in using obscure words in everyday sentences. I love the band Rush, which probably makes the people who adore classical music freak out. Oh, well, that’s life, which is an unassailable conclusion.

    You’re the best -Bill

    December 13, 2023

PS, My three hundredth blog!

    Hey book lovers, I published four. Please check them out:

    Interviewing Immortality. A dramatic first-person psychological thriller that weaves a tale of intrigue, suspense, and self-confrontation.

    Pushed to the Edge of Survival. A drama, romance, and science fiction story about two unlikely people surviving a shipwreck and living with the consequences.

    Cable Ties. A slow-burn political thriller that reflects the realities of modern intelligence, law enforcement, department cooperation, and international politics.

    Saving Immortality. Continuing in the first-person psychological thriller genre, James Kimble searches for his former captor to answer his life’s questions.

    These books are available in soft-cover on Amazon and eBook format everywhere.

[yuseirra]

Hello~ I've actually written a huge commentary about those two songs! Didn't publish it here, but I'd like to add onto this now that you've mentioned about it!

+I can't agree more to what you've said... ;v;)b Oh right! The children of the stars line, although he's telling them to aim him.. sounds unusually tender compared to what the lines are saying. He loves his kids, and he doesn't mind getting avenged/killed by them!!; Tells them to sleep well. You can already sort of sense Hikaru's "fatherly feelings" although it's a really weird type of thing to say to his children, it is very like him.

After listening to “Fatal,” I must have written a lot about onk:

Compared to "Mephisto," this song has a faster tempo and is intense in many ways.

I don't know what kind of emotions others might feel when listening to this song, but it feels so desperate... frantic, and almost blind. It has this relentless, driving energy, right?

While "Mephisto" gives the impression that the narrator has given up on themselves and is yearning for someone else, feeling like it doesn't matter what happens to them as long as the other person can survive... Resignation? More like they've let go of themselves. In contrast, "Fatal" has a sense of going berserk. Even the melody suggests that. If "Mephisto" is like a melancholy violin playing in the background, with a slow, dragging step... "Yeah... I've given up on everything... I just want to see you..."—a somewhat damp and sorrowful song...

"Fatal" feels like a headbanging track. It's like the narrator is jumping into the flames. If "Mephisto" feels like sinking to the bottom of the sea, this song feels like it's burning everything down. Wow... It feels like it's about a love that's truly making you burn yourself to death (and literally. If Mephisto was about longing and was slightly passive about it, I think they're actively acting out to die). That's the impression I get. The song is intense. When I first heard it, I felt a lot of emotions. I want to experience those emotions again. It's fascinating how songs can evoke such feelings the first time you hear them.

If the person singing these two songs is the same, it seems like they're not far from achieving their goal now. And I'm confident that it’s the same person.

It feels like they’re so desperate to see someone again, and because of that, you can really feel how much they love that person. It's not just the lyrics; the way they sing the song conveys that too. It’s as if they’re constantly calling out to that person.

This... this isn't Aqua. It could be, but considering how Aqua approaches revenge, it doesn’t fit. Aqua still has a desire to find peace and has many things that are precious to him. Because of those things, he adjusts his plans. "Mephisto" is one thing, but "Fatal"....represents a state where there's nothing left to lose. It feels like the mental state has shifted from "Mephisto" to "Fatal." If I had to summarize both songs in one word, it would be "I want to see you again." But, in the process, they don’t care if they die. From the start, it doesn't seem like they think they're someone who deserves to be by that person's side. It’s more like they just love that person so much that as long as they live, that’s all that matters.

They really should bring this narrative into the work and apply it.

あなたがいないと生いきていけない

Without you, I cannot live on

何なにもかも捧ささげてしまってもいい

I could sacrifice anything for you

This... this kind of story will definitely come up, right? There’s someone who feels this way about Ai!! I’m not sure how deeply they’ll explore this, but with the finale approaching, it might just get brushed aside as a red herring. But hopefully not, right? If it’s addressed, it’ll be quite a memorable storyline, don’t you think? I kind of want to see it. Haha. But who knows~~ It would be interesting if they cover it.

Isn’t this about Hikaru?? In the story, the character who explicitly mentions that they would give their life for Ai is him, right? There can't still be people who don’t think this way, can there? Or are there? Haha, someone please tell me... I feel so lonely... I’m sorry if I keep repeating things that everyone already knows and getting annoying. I just really enjoy understanding and thinking about these emotions. I love deeply feeling and thinking about these kinds of things.

I’m always drawn to these kinds of tragic couples, so I can’t see it any other way. What’s really ridiculous is that when I first start watching or reading something, I don’t go in specifically wanting to find these kinds of couples. But as I go through the story, there’s always someone who dies, or they end up unable to meet each other—there’s always at least one pair like that. Then, as the story unfolds, it turns out they were deeply in love with someone, so much so that they couldn’t live without them! How many times has this happened to me? Haha, it’s so funny when I think about it... I don’t know how it keeps happening... Anyway, no matter how this series ends, I feel like I’ll get something out of it.

I’ve been really anxious about it because I kept thinking, "What if it turns out he’s just a criminal who did something horrible, something I can never recognize as love?" But, it doesn’t seem that way. From what I see, Kamiki just really wants to see Ai and probably loves her a lot. He might just be a pitiful guy... I don’t think I need to worry too much about that. I do get nervous every time a new chapter comes out, though...

I wrote this back in Early August~ I was so nervous still... I think like 50% of it is gone from having seen the most recent chapter.

The guy isn't capable of acting cruel on purpose if it's about his sake, that's how I feel. I'm sure I can draw the hikaai ship with much more ease at heart ;v;)

My friend hasn't really picked up onk for a long time (I think they've read up to vol. 10 or so and they say they're going to read it when the manga reaches its completion. They're WISE) but they know I've been picking up on it lately because I told them the songs for S2 were really good!

They texted me today asking "I've been listening to Mephisto- did Ai and her bf break up when they were just about to become happy together? In that case, this is so cruel."

with no other context and I was really surprised

YEAH... coming to think of it, that is actually true!! But how did they find out??? They're SHARP???

Then again, that song does have that sort of vibe

[olderthannetfic]

That other post is pretty long, so I’m pulling this out into another.

I think this is a really interesting point about how these nebulous qualities are both identifiable (”I know it when I see it!”) and not often found in published fiction...

See...

I don’t entirely think the latter is true.

What I think is that AO3 House Style, Tumblr House Style, etc. have some variations but are, in essence, BL style, at least if we’re looking at the m/m. And once you understand that, it becomes clear both why traditional US publishers are terrible at producing this work and where to go to find more of it.

Big US publishers mostly see queerness as an #ownvoices thing with all of the issues afflicting that movement. In other words, they expect that m/m will be written by cis gay men. Not trans men. Not bi men. Not other queer people. They expect, furthermore, that m/m exists to be Representation™ of an actual queer male identity from their own modern society, and one that they recognize and understand. Those books should exist too, but I think expecting everything to be that is stifling.

What they don’t expect/understand/approve of is m/m that conforms to “chick” genre standards or where the paying market is not mostly men or—and this is both key and terrible—where the main point of the book is something other than m/m. You see this complaint all the time now from various kinds of authors: #ownvoices was supposed to give them a leg up, and instead, the search for pseudo-authenticity is locking them into realistic family drama genres and into only writing lead characters who strongly resemble themselves and the stereotypical life experiences they’re assumed to have.

In the 90s and 00s, many of the m/m books that got published (in English, in the US) were coming from “gay” presses, which were pretty much focused on cis gay men but also covered other kinds of queerness. The genre fiction coming from these presses was very often old slash zines with the names changed, but in its new format, it was nominally for a cis gay male audience.

There are a few—very few—notable examples of sff that is primarily about the sff plot but that also has an m/m romance b-plot and that is from big, mainstream US publishers.

Currently, MXTX novels are coming out in translation, and US and English language publishers are starting to twig to the fact that BL/danmei sells well.

But overall, our regular, mainstream publishers have failed the Tumblr and AO3 audience. We should not look for our commercial m/m books there. Times one billion if we are more romance focused than sff/mystery plot focused!

However

Starting in about 2010, there has been a renaissance in US/English language original BL. It is typically called “m/m romance” (pronounced “em em” and that’s a slash and absolutely not the letter L).

I dislike the terminology because what I want is BL with a stronger sff/mystery plot and not things invariably shaped like romance novels. I hate how market forces mean that the first novel of all the m/m urban fantasy series is romance novel shaped instead of letting the ship be more slow burn, even though the subsequent books strongly resemble their big publisher het counterparts.

Various more indie options keep dying, so this community in 2022 is largely on Kindle Unlimited. (Boo, amazon, boo, I know, but that’s what’s going on right now.) That’s an all-you-can-read program, so books tend to be around 50-80k with many shorter works and not so many 100k+. Many authors release multiple times per year. A lot of them have patreons.

In the initial rise of this wave of English original BL, there were more indie publishers, and certain ones have survived, but as of the 2020s, a lot of the market is self published. I really cannot emphasize this enough:

The good original English language BL is mostly self published.

Forget the stereotypes of selfpub from before 2010: the world has changed radically in recent years, and plenty of big time authors who pay for real editing and good cover art have entered the selfpub space as traditional publishers have gotten shittier and ebooks have taken off.

This stuff was my big “fandom” prior to getting into BTS and spending the last couple of years just reading BTS fic. Alas, that means my recs aren’t really up to date, but it kills me how much of a disconnect there is between this growing niche and most tumblr types who are interested in original m/m work.

Some of the “m/m” market is still fic with the names changed, like it was in the 00s. However, overall, I think a lot of the better selling, more popular stuff started out as original and does a better job of structure than those 00s works.

You guys know what I mean: Some works feel like a mainstream romcom or mystery novel. Others have a noodly structure that you can only get away with in fic where people already care enough to read to the end. Older m/m originals (even ones that weren’t just serial numbers filed fics) did more noodling. More recent works on average feel closer to a big publisher het version of their genre, at least in terms of structure.

This is my hobby horse because I too managed to miss the beginning of this shift in original m/m.

In 2015, I tried out some of the long-running and most famous series and was shocked at how far we’d come from the stuff I’d been seeing only a few years before. In fact, this shift in the market is what finally inspired me to go pro with my writing. I hope it inspires other people from our communities, many of whom I think would do better self published than with a big publisher.

So if you’re an English-speaking American do go buy those MXTX translations, but also check out some of our home-grown BL. Ditto Canadians and others, but obviously, I’m looking at this through my US lens, so it may be more and less applicable depending on what languages you speak and where you are.

The industry conference for this stuff is GRL, aka GayRomLit. You can see which authors have paid to be official author attendees here. Those aren’t all of the big names (obviously, because this is an in-person event, there’s a strong bias towards authors who live in the US, and often ones who live closer to that year’s event), but it gives you a sense of some of the bigger names. Looking them up on Amazon or seeing what Goodreads lists their books appear on tends to find you names of others in this market niche.

I attended GRL a couple of years ago, and it was exactly what I expected: a small handful of male authors, shittons of female authors, many of whom come from m/m fanfic fandom, a lot of female readers there to meet their faves and shop, and a few male audiobook narrators. There was a contingent that had come over from het romance novel fandom, so the vibe wasn’t pure tumblr/ao3, but I’d say it was very tumblr+wattpad. (Or my part of tumblr+parts of tumblr I don’t interact with much, to be perfectly fair.)

My top rec for checking out this world would be Jordan L. Hawk. I back him on patreon and just plain like the dude, for one thing. For another, I know he’s been in some kind of fanfic fandom (we chatted about AO3), and he has that One Of Us vibe. He recently came out as a trans man after a period of questioning and going by they/them briefly, which will be of interest to many readers I know. And most importantly, he has multiple series with different flavors of sff+m/m, some historical. His latest book is a little toothless and fluffy for my tastes, but it has a trans hero treated in a very blasé way, which I enjoyed. It’s about a youtube ghost hunter and an academic who studies the paranormal, which is so exactly my thing! I just wish his other series with the tentacle man was more tentacle porn-y.

Another I might start with is Meghan Maslow. Her Starfig Investigations series is goofy comedy along the lines of Robert Aspirin’s MYTH series. It also has audiobooks that taught me to like audiobooks. While romance is pretty central, there’s a huge amount of world building in these.

Fairly bland m/m contemporaries sell extremely well and are probably the most numerous out of the m/m market, but they’re not what I like, and I’d love to see better labeling for BL-ish stuff with more plot. It’s currently hard to connect those books with customers, and I think a lot of that is because we lack both good vocabulary to describe it and any kind of reasonable index of what exists. (Goodreads tends to be best for finding already-famous things, and Amazon goes ever further towards only letting you find things whose authors paid for advertising.)

A big lack, and one I would like to see rectified, is the lack of 1. Asian heroes and 2. Asian-inspired genres. You’ll get your random kitsune in an otherwise Anita Blake-ish setting, but it feels to me like there’s a disconnect between the original English language writers who are coming from a weeb or cultivation novel-loving background and the authors who more typically end up at GRL. I’d like to see the people coming from more of a “MXTX but originally in English” side of things and people coming from more of a “Bandom AUs made me want to write original m/m” side of things start to build a common English Language BL type consciousness and community.

Anyway, I’ve recced various authors before, and I should be writing, so I’ll stop there for the day. I’d just love to see more of Our Sort check this shit out because the community/market niche/etc. is really cool yet still has huge room for improvement.

I’m super glad Orbit books is jumping on that! Don’t get me wrong! But we don’t need to wait for the big publishers to do this for us. We can do it ourselves right now.

[multiples-fandomswontkillme]

~Metal Family headcanons~

These are like my... general hcs)? which means I didn't include my main hc that Glam, Ches and Vicky are polyamorous, married and started dating after Glam met Vicky, and absolutely everything that implies for the kids and the relationships between each member of the fam. Maybe I'll make a separate post for that or maybe not! Who knows lkfwnlfqnf

Glam

Bisexual

Glam has constant nightmares and ocasional night terrors ever since he ran away home and is an active sleep walker. Ches helped him through the worse ones when they were younger, and learned how to deal with them, always preferring not to wake him up but being with him until the episode passed. Vicky has learned how to deal with them, though she normally asks Ches for advice with it cuz she comes out short sometimes.

He has PTSD. I bet it's diagnosed too, he takes medication and goes to therapy, it doesn't mean he still doesn't have his bad days anyway. He's trying to get better.

Glam has talked to Vicky about his past, his father and his family. This is a direct contradiction of Alina's confirmation that Glam doesn't talk about it with anyone but man FUCK THAT. We love good communication in this house, Vicky tries her best to help him, but there's only so much she can do to help.

Glam enjoys gardening, cooking and making models, he also likes doing his make up, painting his nails and dressing up in fancy, extravagant clothes even if he has nowhere important to go.

He likes taking care of everyone's hair, and constantly helps Vicky brush her hair cuz there's so much of it, Dee when he gets stressed over how tangled it can get, buys Ches hair products so he actually takes care of it, and chases Heavy so the kid actually washes, untangles and brushes his hair.

This one is kind of weird, but I refuse to think any adult in the family is unarmed at any time. Glam owns a taser and pepper spray. They're bright pink and sparkly.

This man cried his eyes out while watching Coco. He's hell to watch movies with cuz he talks and predicts what's gonna happen during the movie, judges them with scores at the end and all.

Vicky

Also bisexual!

Vicky's the one who does everyone's laundry most of the time. She prefers it that way since she's the only one that knows how to wash their black clothes so the colors stay vibrant. (This is based on my gf shaming everyone but Vicky cuz their black clothes always look so muted and almost gray, but Vicky's whole outfit is always the same vibrant black colors, so we decided that neither Glam or the kids know how to wash dark clothes)

She has anger issues, if it isn't obvious. I think she also has PTSD, mainly survivor's guilt due to her surviving the accident her brother died in. She blames herself and cannot bear to talk about it, in some sort of deep denial. If she can't remember, it can't hurt as much, right?

She has scars on the right side of her back and her hip, from the road rash she got on her brother's accident, she never treated it due to grief and it scarred badly. Apart from that, the scar of the caesarean section from Heavy's birth. She doesn't really mind both of them, they happened, nothing to do about them.

She likes watching boxing competitions, brawling matches and motorcycle repairing on TV. Loves doing BBQ's and going to the pool. Also an enjoyer of teasing her kids, kissing and loving her husband at random times, spending time drinking and bonding with Ches and bragging about her family and punching anyone who thinks they're not that cool.

Not particularly a fan of make up, skirts and dresses or any traditionally femenine-perceived stuff. But has been making exceptions due to Glam and Ches being unashamed of being seen as femenine, and actually rocking the looks. The internalized misogyny is kind of slowly dissapearing.

Apart from the guns she carries in each arm (I mean her biceps, have you looked at the size of those?? She strong) she has brass knuckles on her at all times. Glam gifts her new ones sometimes, she loves having multiple choices to punch people teeth in.

Loves horror, thrillers and action movies. Falls asleep during rom-coms and dramas. Ironically, loves gossip and talking shit about people. Enjoys hearing Ches talks about the gossip going on in the nursery home even if she doesn't know who the hell he's talking about.

Rest of the family under the cut!

Heavy

Heavy is a trans boy! He doesn't know his sexuality yet though, he's still figuring himself out. When he's older, i think he definitely dated some men but had better luck with girls.

Heavy has had innocent crushes on some girls on his class before, but they never turn into anything more cuz he's not the best at expressing himself. He follows the bother-the-girl-to-death-until-she-hates-you gimmick, and unsurprisingly, it doesn't work.

I'm sorry to break this to u but Heavy totally had an among us phase, and uses so much reddit and twitch slang... You know he does.

Likes bullying and teasing his brother to death. You know that when Dee had his first romance, Heavy was ALL up in his business being a tease and a bad attempt at a wingman. He means well tho.

He's not squeamish at all. Also has great pain resistance. This kid has picked cockroaches with his bare hands and loves cats, of course the cats have scratched him. He's tough!

Grows up to be the charming himbo he was always destined to be.

Dee

I hc him as demisexual. Kind of inherited his dad's tastes for the takes no crap, intimidating but pretty kind of people.

Can't cook. He tries but he can only do basics like rice, cereal, chicken nuggets or eggs. Complicated meals always burn or don't taste like anything at all. It drives him crazy.

Dee was a quiet and very well behaved toddler before Heavy was born. He never threw tantrums or got whims. After Heavy was born though, and despite the fact he understood his brother was small and needed special care, he started craving attention often and cried and got mad at little things. Typical jealousy of the oldest sibling.

The first time Dee fell in love with someone, he didn't recognize it was love at first. He just thought his interest on the person was born out of curiosity and aesthetic attraction, but as soon as he realized he seeked validation and companionship, that he liked seeing them smile, that he wanted to protect them, that he yearned for more time alone with them and that he wanted more than what just a simple friendship implied, it was an instant 'oh hell no'. He wanted those feelings to get the hell away, but unfortunately, they were there to stay.

Canonically likes MLP, psychological and horror anime like Death note and Hellsing, so I'm deciding he also watched Death Parade, had a FNAF phase, is very into The Walten Files. This guy enjoys any kind of specially dark ARG's and knows a ton of lore of real crime, unsolved cases, ghost appearances and other stuff. Doesn't believe in the supernatural, but sure is entertained by it.

He's a mess at romance. Flirting? His attempts at compliments are hardly flattering. Giving gifts? The best he can manage is jewelry and you can kind of tell he asked his dad for help. Dates? He's so nervous he's silent for most of it, but begins getting comfortable and having fun if his partner really knows how to get him down from his negativity cloud.

Ches

Pansexual.

He's very good with kids. He has the patience of a saint and he's laid-back, chill and fun but still is an authority figure who knows how to put limits. Sure, he's gonna let the kids light up a house on fire BUT hey, now they know everything about fire precautions, burns and how to treat them AND how to get away with arson. What an educational evening, am I right?

Due to certain info from the "Goodbye" official comic, I headcanon Ches as depressed. I don't want to elaborate a lot 'cuz of spoilers, but... God, everything related to his mom fucking hurts, man. How did he deal with all that?

Ches has been Dee and Heavy's babysitter so many times he cannot count them with all his fingers. He learned how to put those kids to sleep almost immediately (Sing Bon Jovi's "This ain't a love song" and any cheesy love song in a slow lullaby style and they're out), which movie were their favorite as kids (Heavy loved 'Monsters Inc.' and Dee never looked away during 'Meet the Robinsons'), how to console them after nightmares (Heavy needed reassurance, sweet words, and to be with someone until he fell asleep again. Dee just had to be tucked in, get his nightlight turned on and kissed in the forehead). He practically raised those kids along with Vicky and Glam.

More than once, Dee and Heavy have slipped and called Ches "Dad". Ches immediately gets his shit eating grin on and answers "Yes, son?" and does a couple of dad jokes just to mess and embarrass them. He's actually very flattered and surprised at how proud of himself he is for being a father figure to both kids.

Has a scar on the left side of his forehead due to a bottle his mom threw at him when he was younger, around the time he met Glam. He hates the scar with passion, it's a permanent reminder of the fact she never cared, that's why he always keeps it covered with his headband. Gets sad about it sometimes.

Ches likes to spend his time with a group of grannies of the nearby nursing home. He genuinely considers them his friends and gossips and hangs out with all of them on weekends. Bingo, billiards, walks in the park, soap opera marathons, you name it. I even designed them, gave them names and backstories... God, i just love the concept too much. I'll make some art about Ches and his granny gang FOR SURE, you're NOT ready for them.

Carries a pocket knife on him at all times. This man grew up on a bad neighborhood and absolutely knows how to defend himself, he can be intimidating when he wants to be and will pose a threat if needed. He's fucking terrifying when genuinely mad. Just cause he looks harmless doesn't mean he is, darling.

That would be all!

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Can I have a drabble with Thrawn ?

I was thinking about a scene, shortly after the death of the emperor and Vader and the death star explosion. He would summon Reader to tell her they are among the last authority figures of the empire alive and although he has everything under control, it will be difficult and he could really use an hand this time.

Bonus point if they hug.

Thank you Darling (may I call you that way?)

A/N: Okay, so we’re going Original Thrawn Trilogy canon with this. Let me see what I can do. And you absolutely can, if you like.

Also, this turned into a thing because I have no sense of control.

Word Count: 1.4 K

You kept your head high as you walked through the quieted hallways of The Chimaera.

Nobody could focus on their duties and none of the officers had it in them to give orders. The shock of information had dumbfounded the entire ship. The second Death Star was destroyed. Half of the Imperial Fleet was gone. The Emperor was dead.

The rebels had done it. It was the beginning of the end.

But, The Chimaera was still there and all waited on baited breath for their Grand Admiral's orders.

You tried to focus on your steps rather than the whirlwind of emotions threatening to drown you. You had always been sure of who you were and where you stood in the galaxy. You were Commander Y/N of the ISD Chimaera, second to Grand Admiral Thrawn of the Imperial Navy. But what did that mean, if the Empire ceased to exist?

You shook your head.

No. Empire or not, you were still a Commander. The Chimaera was still your ship and so long as it kept flying, that would never change.

With new found resolve, you quickened your pace stopping just in front of Grand Admiral Thrawn's office.

You knocked on the door and a moment later, it opened with a small hiss.

Upon entering, your eyes were drawn to the holo projection in the center of the room. It did not take you long to realize the calamity of the scene before you. The Battle of Endor in all it's fiery disaster.

Thrawn stood in petrified stillness, watching the holo in intense concentration; his glowing red eyes illuminated in the dim blue light.

You stepped forward, focusing your attention on the calmness of his form rather than chaos.

"Has the fleet regrouped?" you asked.

Thrawn turned his eyes toward you, refocusing to the present moment.

"No," he said. "This was sent to me from the Accuser, requesting assistance from all Commanders."

"Should I plot a course, sir?"

He shook his head. "No. We're too far out of range to provide any timely assistance. There are others on their way.”

You nodded, understanding the logic behind the statement. Still a question buzzed in your mind, one that was plaguing everyone on the ship: what do we do next?

You kept quiet all the same, knowing if Thrawn wanted to tell you, he would do so, in his own time.

Thrawn turned off the projector, allowing white lights to fill the darkened space. He then reached behind his desk and pulled out a crystal bottle filled with amber liquid and two glasses.

"Join me, Commander?" he asked.

It wasn't and order, which itself prompted it's own question.

"Depends on what we're drinking to, sir."

"To our fallen officers," he answered, pouring a healthy dose into each glass. "And to the new Empire which will rise from the ashes."

He held out the glass, which you took with caution.

"Implying the Empire has already fallen."

Thrawn raised an eyebrow. "Do you believe it will survive?"

You opened your mouth, with a ready yes on your lips, but stopped. Taking a moment, you looked down, examining the ridges of the glass in idle thought.

"No," you said, slowly. "If it was just the Death Star or just the Executor, that would be one thing. But the loss of both and the Emperor is too much. There is no central leadership, and will all the Navy's resources poured in the second Death Star, I doubt there is enough remaining to maintain control over the rebelling systems."

You looked up to meet Thrawn's approving eye at your assessment.

"Of course," you continued. "If there were someone to take control..."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Thrawn's lip as he bowed his head.

"You flatter me, Commander," he said. "However, how many of the remaining Admirals do you believe would willingly follow my orders?”

Your instinct was to say all of them, but again, you hesitated. As your superior officer, you had learned to trust Thrawn's command implicitly, but a quick review of your history reminded you of how rare that truly was. There was a reason the Emperor had left Thrawn to deal with the fringes of the Empire rather than involve him in Core politics.

Each and every Grand Admiral would see themselves as the successor to the Emperor's legacy, not the alien with nothing but rumors to uphold his reputation.

You let out a sigh. "None, I suppose."

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, just as he raised his glass.

"The Empire is gone," he said, solemnly. "Long live the Empire."

You each took a drink. The expensive liquid both burned and soothed your throat on its way down. It was an odd sensation, but one you hadn't realized you needed until that moment.

"I take it you have a plan," you said.

"The start of one," he assured, with just a hint of a smile. "In the mean time, we shall continue to maintain control of our own systems. Whatever resources available, we will refocus into our fleet. With any luck, others may join us, but we cannot rely on that fact."

You nodded, finally feeling as if your feet were starting to settle on solid ground.

"Shall I inform the crew?" you asked.

He shook is head. "I believe it would be best if they heard it from me."

There was a pause as you waited for him to dismiss you, but, no such order came. He just kept looking at you.

It was a familiar look, but one always caught out of the corner of your eye. The kind of look that left your heart racing and blood warm. Now, so clearly directed at you, it was hard to breath.

"Is there something else, sir," you prompted.

He blinked as if coming back to himself. "How long have we known each other, Commander?"

You frowned, slightly taken aback by the sudden change of subject.

"Ten years, more or less."

He nodded, setting down his drink as he did so. "I could tell you exactly; ten years, seven months, and twelve days. You were a Captain at the time."

The warmth in your cheeks spread, forcing you to put down your glass as well.

"And you were a Commander," you said, the memory coming back to you with the ease. "It has been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Yes." The word was spoken so softly, you almost wondered if someone else had said it.

Glancing up, you caught a strange gentleness in his expression. It only lasted a moment, but it was there all the same.

"You don't have to stay," he said.

You straightened in bewilderment. "Sir?"

"The reinstatement of the Empire is a task which will take years to complete," he continued, calmly. "It will take dedication and sacrifice. Only complete devotion will allow it to come to fruition. I plan to announce that any who wish to leave the service are free to do so and return home. Those who remain, will likely never see their home worlds again. It is not to be taken lightly, and I will not have anyone on my crew who doubts their resolve.”

He paused, just as a hint of emotion came into his voice.

“I would not force you to stay, if you do not wish it."

You stared at him, mouth gaping in wonder. Your answer came easily.

"I'm not leaving you, sir."

He blinked. Your stomach twisted.

You had said “you”; not the Chimaera, not the service, you.

You wanted to take back the words, but it was no use. You knew the truth and now so did he. You might be willing to give years of your life to the service, but you would give your entire self to Thrawn.

He watched you with an unreadable expression. Slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal, he walked out from behind his desk.

"I thank you, Commander," he murmered. "I admit, I hoped that would be your answer. I could not imagine the next few years without you with me."

Your breath hitched, just as he stopped only a foot from your body.

He had said "me".

Without a word, he reached out a hand and tenderly pressed it to your cheek.

His touch sunk into your skin making your melt into him. You placed your hand, over his, keeping it there. If this was your imagination, you needed to cling to if for as long as you were able.

He stepped closer, his glowing red eyes gazing into yours as the warmth of his breath brushed against your lips.

"There is something else I must ask of you," he whispered.

"Anything."

He leaned a hair closer, his nose brushing against your own. "May I kiss you, now?"

A small smile came to your lips. "You needn't ask."

With that permission, he pressed his lips to yours pulling you into a slow and passionate kiss.

The Emperor was dead. Long live the Emperor. And long live the one at his side.

[percydarling]

Fred Lives (But does he really?)

Chapter 2 : Shock

His family look at him, expecting a reply since he was seen last with Percy.

He can't say it. He can't.

So what comes out of his mouth is " I'm so sorry."

That's when their expressions change, when they realise what it means, what he's trying to convey to them.

His mum grabs him and shakes him, refusing to believe.

"NO,NO,NO,NO,NO,no,no,no,no"

She repeats it again and again, louder at first unless it slows down to mumbling as if she's trying to convince herself that it isn't true.

Dad almost falls down, but Bill catches him and Dad grips Bill so hard as if afraid that Bill would die too. Bill isn't any better, his face is pale as if he can't believe it either.

Fred can't even look at George and Ginny, he can't even meet his Mum's eyes as he bows down his head.

It's even worse when they see the body.

Mum notices first, it really isn't difficult to, the bright Weasley red hair sticks out among the browns and the blacks. Fred didn't even know that there were people carrying bodies. There shouldn't be so many bodies.

Mum lets out a bloodcurdling scream, that has everyone in the Hall shocked, as she races to Percy. Harry jumps startled and even Fred loses his footing and almost falls but George catches him.

Mum's scream was so deafening, there was a silence in the Hall as everyone stood as still as a statue, and stared at her with pity. It sent chills down Fred's spine over how the scream was full of grief and shock. It scared him to hear mum like that.

Dad goes after his wife, attempting to comfort her but a mother's grief no bounds. Mum has lost her brothers to the First War and now a son to the Second. There is no comfort that Dad could ever offer.

Fred feels guilty, he's only thinking about Mum and not Dad. He has no clue as to what Dad's feeling at the moment. He doesn't think he ought to even ask.

Bill breathes heavily before following them, his eyes still in shock and head down. Fred thinks Bill might feel responsible for it ( eventhough Bill ought not to. He wasn't there) Being the eldest is a bane and a boon, and right now it's the former.

Bill holds Percy in his arms. Fred watches. Bill might have been there to hold Percy when he was born and now he's holding him when he's dead. Irony is a funny thing.

The younger four go together to his body, Ron and Ginny hold hands and George holds his. Fred doesn't know what he would do without George. Probably crash and burn to the ground.

Fred can't meet any of his family memebers' eyes. He can't. It's just too hard.

Hermione and Harry linger behind them as they sit around Percy. Harry was probably going to blame himself. Fred's really tired of everyone blaming themselves for something they couldn't control.

Percy's still dead. Fred thought he might wake up. Maybe some Weasley magic or something but he's still dead.

Fred was there, he saw it happen, he saw Percy die but even then he can't believe it. It's just impossible to think of a Weasley dying. Dad and Bill survived, why does Percy die?

"It's not fair", Ginny mutters as she runs her hand in Percy's curls.

Ginny shouldn't be here to see this. He knows she grew up. He knows she's strong and fierce and lovely. But he also knows that Ginny is young. Maybe not innocent, but she's young.

And the young don't deserve this. They don't deserve the fear and the loss. They deserve better.

Fred failed to deliver to Ginny. He failed to do better. She was never innocent, but now she's not young either.

He agrees with her, it's not fair. But a little part of him is glad that Percy died and not him. It wasn't like that it changed the family as much.

Percy wasn't around for the last 3 years. He wasn't there when Dad almost died or when Bill got the scars. He wasn't there.

Fred was. Not Percy.

Those thoughts make Fred feel horrible but he knows that deep down he and probably other family members know it's true.

George squeezes Fred's hand as he looks at his dead brother.

Mum is still clutching and has Percy's head on his lap as she caressed his face, which has no life. Dad holds Percy's hand, something he should have done when he was alive and not lying dead on the floor.

Bill holds Percy's other hand, rubbing it across him as if trying to make it alive again and give some of his life to him.

"WHERES MY FAMILY"

A holler echoes through the hall.

There's no mistaking the voice. Despite not hearing it in a while, he cannot misremember the voice.

It was Charlie.

Charlie doesn't know.

Fred doesn't know how to go through that ordeal again. He can't tell Charlie. He doesn't want to move from Percy's side either. He's paralyzed in this position.

Ron, his eyes tired and scars on his body. He looks at Percy as if he was a stranger. Fred knows Ron cares. Of course he bloody does. But there is no emotion, no tear, no anger. Ron just stares at Percy. It makes Fred question whether Ron, who wears his emotions on his sleeves, is sad or not.

Ron stands.

Ron (the bravest of them all) calls out to Charlie and then there's this big toothy grin on Charlie's face which... which would be wiped out very soon.

Every slow step Charlie takes, causes Fred to get anxious. He just wants it over and done with. Maybe it's an awful thing to want but he just wants this over with.

"Finally I found you lot, what-"

That's when he notices Percy.

"PERCY"

It's another scream, another grief that won't be healed as fast as we want it to.

Bill holds Charlie as he sobs. Two elder brothers crying for the younger one. They'll probably share the blame.

Charlie doesn't cry. Fred had never seen Charlie cry, even in the worst of situations. Charlie gets a pass because of the circumstances.

Seeing Charlie sob over Percy is even worse because Charlie wasn't present when Percy apologised, he didn't hear his brother's last words.

Charlie didn't even get a chance.

And it makes Fred heart break all the more.

------

Fred lives(bdhr?) - Part1

[issaxcharlie]

We say we're friends, we play pretend (2/2 )You're more to me, we're everything

PART 1 HERE

Pairing: Charlie Gillespie x Fem reader

Summary: Charlie and Y/N were best friends and a couple as teens, after their breakup they meet again 4 years later on JATP and have to work together. Will they be able to recover more than their friendship?

If Charlie knew anything in life, it was that he had to take things carefully. Especially with such strong feelings involved. In general, when you like someone, the least you want is for that person to see you as a friend, but particularly for them, recovering their friendship bond was the most important step.

“You were so cute!” Tori and Owen are looking at photos of the guitarist's childhood on his phone. A photo of little Charlie in a suit grinning from ear to ear while holding a girl as if he is spinning her around shows up.

That memory is one of his favorites. He was always a very loved boy with many friends, but in the case of girls he was not the most popular. His best friend on the other hand was, at least for him, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen and boys were always around her. He knew he needed to find a partner for the dance so that she wouldn't feel guilty or he wouldn't feel humiliated by not having someone to go with.

However, he was rejected, quite a few times. He didn’t want to say anything about the dance to his best friend that week because he knew that she would stay home with him without hesitation. But that day half an hour before, he arrived in a suit and flowers for her, so at least he could have a picture of such an important moment with the person he loves the most, and he was the one surprised.

“It was about time Char, we have to take about 30 pictures before we go. Mom bought you a tie so we can match." She is up and down looking for one of her shoes, not even turning to see her friend who doesn’t know if he understood correctly.

At that moment she finally turns to see him and runs for a hug, Charlie barely had time to raise his arm with the flowers.

“You look so handsome, and the flowers are perfect. Best partner ever, I love you so much C! I’ll be ready in a second.”

She had planned to go with him from the beginning, and thought it was an implicit pact. That realization made Charlie's heart beat a lot faster that day. No matter how many people invited her, she wanted to go with him. He spent the night with his favorite person dancing and singing, feeling grateful for her, this light who always chooses him of all people.

“I looked pretty good in those clothes.” Y/N says as she and Madison sit at the table.

“You always look amazing, but yeah that night was special.” It's also the night that he realized that he was feeling more than friendship for his best friend, but this is not the time to talk about it.

He decides to continue preparing his waffles, than even though it already has like 5 ingredients, it seems something is missing.

Y/N blushes a little and smiles. “Here, handsome.” She hands him a can of pringles that she grabbed from the cafeteria when she saw him making eggo’s.

“Perfect, Y/N Y/L teaching everyone why she's my soulmate.” Everyone at the table begins to complain about what they qualify as the most disgusting thing they have ever seen, while the former couple smiles happily as they secretly link their legs under the table and continue their breakfast.

Little details like that one, or as removing all the products that she would take with milk from her hands because she seems to forget every morning that she is allergic can make a difference.

“You are 22 years old and you are still as careless as when we were children, I do not understand how you have survived these 4 years."

“You were always the one who cared about it and kept me safe, I guess unconsciously having you close my brain says, ‘no worries, Char will take care of it.’ So I’m sorry, I'll be more careful.”

A seriously ill 10-year Y/N on the way to the hospital invaded Charlie's mind, whom quickly shook off the bad memory.

“It’s all good, bright star.”

“What did you say?” Madison asks.

“Bright star. I know Kenny calls her ‘golden star’, but he’s the copycat. I've been calling her like that all my life.”

Y/N just smiles, enjoying the moment. She had not heard those words from his lips for years, and honestly Kenny also calling her a star even If it was sweet, made her remember Charles practically every day, and that didn’t help at all to get over the guitarist.

“You are my brightest burning star.” Madison replies, looking at Charlie with amusement in her eyes.

At that moment the actor understands what is going through his co-star's head and panics.

“So this queen is the one who has you so inspired, I should have realized it before.”

“She’s always my inspiration, period.” Y/N starts to laugh while blushing, and Madison’s attention falls completely on her.

“And I guess ‘Bright’ is a coincidence? And rise through the night, you and I, We will fight to shine together...Bright forever.” The songwriter wants to disappear at that precise moment while everyone turns to see her as if she had a third eye on her forehead.

“But you wrote bright long before you even knew Charlie was part of the proyect.” Owen adds, smirking.

“If you are asking me if I draw inspiration from the people I love, to write... the answer is yes. And yes, of course I love him.” How is it possible for the guitarist to slow things down when she says things like that in front of everyone? All he wants right now is to kiss her. This discovery means that despite the time she still had him in mind, the song cannot have been written for long. Hope is flooding his body.

“Ok but they inspiring each other is the sweetest thing in the world, goals right there.” Tori adds excited, her friends blushing.

All those teasing moments helped them to be more transparent with their feelings, hugging, touching, and basically staying close each time they finished their work obligations, almost as if they were afraid that the other would disappear or as if they were trying to make up for lost time.

“We need a lot more energy, especially from Charlie. Luke lives for music, nothing can give him more joy than being on stage."

"They have been working for 17 hours straight and at least 15 attempts with this musical." Paul tries to reason with Kenny mid-recording of Now or Never, which still does not come out as the director was expecting.

“What was in the recording studio that is not here now? I thought they would show an even greater energy than there after they stepped on stage."

They both turn to each other, as if the light had been turned on at the same time, and Paul takes his phone.

A few minutes later Y/N walks on set, Sunset Curve smiles upon seeing her.

“I wanted to make sure that we are fulfilling the vision of our beloved songwriter. Let's not disappoint her, okay? Let's try it one more time." Kenny shouts before starting to record again.

Instantly the energy is seen a thousand times higher, Charlie more radiant than ever, while Y/N replicates his energy behind the cameras, flooding him with sass and attitude. The young singer also motivates her now friends and unknowingly gave Sunset Curve that extra thing they needed to finally achieve the perfect performance. Kenny and Paul doing a fist bump behind the screens.

Soon their chemistry and energy turned into open conversation. The way they made everyone on set cry the first time they practiced Unsaid Emily or how connected and dreamy they were while dancing to Perfect Harmony when Madison wasn't on set.

But they still weren’t together, at least officialy.

If Charlie was honest, the fear of throwing himself all over and losing her again terrified him. The industry they love so much and decided to work in doesn't let having a relationship be easy, and if things go wrong again, they don't know if it might be possible to fix it again. It was basically a leap of faith.

Nonetheless, he knows he's willing, but what about her?

That morning he enters the set overwhelmed with his situation when he sees an even more overwhelmed Y/N walk by without even turning around, almost running to the recording studio.

“I advise you to give her some space for a few hours. Let's say she’s going to have a pretty difficult day."

"Why? What happened?" Jeremy asks as he and Owen stand next to the director.

“She got a call from the people at Netflix, they have already approved almost all the music except ‘Stand Tall’, the closing song, and her favorite. They will come in an hour to hear her presentation and convince them that it is good enough."

At that moment Charlie has an idea. There is no way that he will leave her alone, if he has the opportunity to help her he will do it and he’ll drag along all the people he needs to achieve it.

"Kenny, do you happen to have the music sheets for the song?"

“Don’t tell me-” Owen tries to ask but Charlie interrumpts him.

“Yes, let’s get to work boys.”

An hour later Y/N is freaking out, and she can't help but wish Charlie was around. Of all the days he could choose to disappear, he chose today.

She walks towards the auditorium, where to her surprise way more people than she expected are present, including most of the cast. But there is no sign of her lover boy anywhere.

Now or never. She takes a deep breath and start playing the keyboard. Her voice is the only thing that accompanies the keys. Everything is going as planned, but she can't help but feel distracted, nervous, and overwhelmed.

She is about to give up this fight internally when a drum before the second verse gives her the strength to continue singing, Owen smiles and winks at her to give her some peace of mind, and just a few seconds later Jeremy begins to accompany them with the bass. She knows whose idea it is and she just waits for him to come out from wherever he is hidden.

"I’m going out of my mind, Whatever happens, even if I'm the last standing I’ma stand tall, I’ma stand tall." His voice finishes waking her up and she accompanies him in the chorus, their chemistry electrifying everyone until every single person is standing, the cast supporting, dancing and clapping while the couple continues to focus on each other, separating out of obligation every so often but taking the opportunity to sing along with Jeremy and Owen who were doing an amazing job too, impacting with their solos.

The song ends and the boys disappear while Y/N talks to the people who came to evaluate her work, who finally approve the last song on the soundtrack that she has been working on for so long and to which she put all her soul.

The very second people outside the cast leave, Y/N looks for who has always been the boy of her life, the one who has proven that even though the years go by, they only need a few seconds to be themselves again, to be everything again. And as soon as she finds him hanging around only with the other 3 members of JATP she runs and jumps on him, entwining her legs at his hips and hugging him from the neck with all her strength, he immediately secures her by putting his arms around her waist.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

The band starts screaming “Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss!” hoping that one of the two will already dare to take the next step, and Y/N stamps her lips against Charlie's, who reacts almost automatically and kisses her back hard, deciding quickly this is the happiest moment of his life. He finally got the girl, or with what just happened, her fierce girl got him.

Hours later both are in Y/N's apartment curled up on a sofa, enjoying being together again.

“Yes, that sexy, beautiful, adorable and talented man is my boyfriend, Charlie Gillespie.”

Charlie chuckles at her random declaration. “What was that?”

“I’m practicing, and I wanted to say it aloud. I’m just so happy right now.”

His heart melts, she’s the most beautiful thing in the world. His brightest burning star.

His girlfriend doesn't give him time to reply, devouring his lips again. After all, she has four years to recover, and as always, he is more than willing to help her.

Thank you so much for reading!

NEXT PART HERE

Tag list:

@siennanoelle01

@reblogserpent

@kiss-themoongoodbye

@writerinlearning

@rachelle3musicals

[queerenteen]

Your top five 🌊 Fanfics? Any fandom works

Running on Air by eleventy7

Draco Malfoy has been missing for three years. Harry is assigned the cold case and finds himself slowly falling in love with the memories he collects.

This is one of the first fanfics I read seriously, and I did it the day before my prelims paper.

I still don't regret it--this is one of the most hauntingly gorgeous things that I have ever read and builds up in a fantastic slow-burn with a shroud of mystery wrapped around it. Cannot recommend it enough.

Until My Feet Bleed and My Heart Aches by reiya

‘…Of all the rivalries in the world of sports over the years, perhaps none has become so legendary as that of Russian figure skater Viktor Nikiforov and his rival, Japanese Yuuri Katsuki…’

A single event changes the course of Yuuri’s life, throwing him into a bitter rivalry with Viktor Nikiforov that spans across his entire skating career. But as the years go on, rivalry and hatred begin to develop into something very different and Yuuri doesn’t seem to be able to stay away, no matter how hard he tries.

Hatred and love are two sides of the same coin and even though everything changes, some things are still meant to be.

This is beautiful. I absolutely adore this au, with an amazing enemies to lovers scenario.

It is a what it could have been, perhaps even more dramatic than the original, and somehow, some things turn out the same anyway.

The Art of Burning by @hella1975

Zuko had never excelled at anything. Azula was a prodigy. Uncle always knew what to say. And Father... Father was strong, iron-like. But Zuko had only ever been good at surviving. Putting one foot in front of the other in a grim show of stubborn determination, gritting his teeth and bearing it. Survival was all he had ever been taught. He knew how to do it. So when he was kidnapped by the Southern Water Tribe, he expected to fight as he always had. He didn’t expect to be taught instead how to live.

In a warring land, the Water Tribe forgave the enemy in an act of defiance. For this, he was torn from them, and this time, his wounds won't heal so easily.

Forced back into nothing but survival, the last person Zuko expected to see was Hakoda's son. Hakoda was a promise of safety. The relentless blue of Sokka’s eyes was a promise of happiness. Zuko could have both if he just reached out his hands, but he found them clutching into fists. After all, he’d been burned one too many times.

But hey, at least between Hakoda and Sokka, Zuko could appreciate the family resemblance of pure, asinine stubbornness.

Can I just say how amazing this fic is?

I went into it for the zukka and instead got an absolute masterpiece, with some of the best character dynamics, plot and stunning writing.

I love it so much and I know that this is another one that I will keep coming back to when it's done.

Anachronism by chellethewriter

Catra clenches her fists. She won’t let it happen. She won’t endanger their future. “We can’t change anything. We’ll just have to wait, and do everything the same way we did before.”

Adora grabs Catra’s shoulders. Her grip is so tight, it’s nearly painful. “But do you realize what that means for us? Playing along. Letting things go the exact same way as before–”

Catra’s expression darkens. “I know,” she says, struggling to keep her voice from trembling. “You’ll have to leave. We’ll have to be enemies again.”

*** Years after defeating Horde Prime, Catra and Adora inexplicably wake up in the past—on the day that Adora first found the sword. If they're going to make it back to the present, they'll have to relive their past from start to finish, pretending to be enemies despite being in love. Despite being married. Despite knowing exactly how the story ends.

But it's not easy, waging war against the person you love most.

Okay, it's not easy to make Catra and Adora's past even more painful but this one really takes the cake.

Going through these horrible, painful events--pitted against the person you love most once again, just to get back to the future you remember?

It is breathtaking, highly recommend.

area cryptid upset no one bothered to inform him of his tragic backstory by crimsonseekers

“My life is a nightmare,” Dabi muttered blankly.

“Nah, this is hilarious,” Hawks said, and while he wasn’t explicitly laughing, Dabi knew that those weird little chirps he was letting out were pointed at him. “Imagine if we go through all this effort and you don’t even have some sort of dramatic background or tragic backstory to justify you being this emo, you’re just a hot topic junkie or something.”

“That’s fucking worse.”

Or,

Dabi has amnesia and keeps reading conspiracy theories about himself in an attempt to figure out who he is, gets the League in on it, and they dismantle organized crime, revolutionize society, and ravage the hero system in the process. Hawks suffers.

Dabihawks is such a good ship and this is god tier content right here. I read this fic and then two days later immediately reread it. Enough said.

(I really shot myself in the foot with the whole top 5 so instead, I'm just giving all the top fics from the fandoms that I have)

Lynchpin by @shanastoryteller

He can’t get Jin Guangyao’s words out of his head.

If he’d only believed in Wei Wuxian, if he’d only been willing to stand up for him, could it all have been avoided?

Yunmeng Siblings get to live happily ever after because Jiang Cheng changes the timeline.

The fix-it fic where the entire cultivation world is saved from ruination with the help of time travel and a good bit of communication.

Company by galori

You’ve never minded eating alone (before.)

Or: Asami and Korra are both intelligent, just in different ways.

Modern au where Asami is the CEO of a company with the stain of her father's legacy and Korra is an ecologist who wants to create and protect to the best of her abilities. Their paths intersect and once they do, there is no untangling them.

Not enough people have read this--everyone go read this now, it is absolutely amazing.

Okay, I have so many more fics that I want to talk about because these are all my novel-length fics but for now, here's my bookmarks (I love them all)

[gingermintpepper]

Gloxinia and Meliodas' First Meeting.

Time Period: Sometime during the Holy War

»»————-　♔　————-««

He remembers the Lord of the Faefolk.

Elizabeth lays limp in his arms.

The world explodes around him, typhoon’s cacophonous touch laying waste to the landscape but he does not feel the slice of the wind. Raindrops pierce through the clouds, bullets of water that seem to attack the thin veil of his cloak but he cares not for them. All he knows is the gellid flesh pressed against his chest, the drooping wings whose feathers seem to swell with water, bright white eyelashes slack from exhaustion, delicate eyebrows devoid of that determined furrow.

He’s running out of options, had gravely miscalculated during his battle with Calmadios and now was left without a place to return to, without a roof with which to weather this storm under. He had no place where Elizabeth could rest and recuperate from her wounds.

Even amongst the wanton destruction Meliodas had wrought in his time in the physical realm, the memory stands stark in the backdrop of his mind. A routine perimeter sweep after they had managed to gain new territory from beating back the Goddess Clan in the south. The normal agenda after such events - visiting the human nests, establishing the new order, weeding out dissenters and surviving pests, setting up scouts; it was all necessary yet monotonous activity so no one particularly fancied running such errands. It was only because Meliodas had drawn the short lot that he had to do the grunt work himself.

He hadn’t expected to find Fairies in the human nest, small creatures with their delicate wings healing humans and helping repair their odd little hutches. He’d not so much as heard about encounters with Fairies since coming into the realm - only knew of the whispers of the so-called Fairy King’s Forest and the great magic that was contained within. Meliodas thought it all nothing more than the mangled stories of drunk demons. He hadn’t felt any significant magic in the physical realm besides the heavy cloud that was the bestial Giant Clan and so he had dismissed even the notion of Fairies as such.

Yet there they were, smaller than even him in their diminutive stature, little faces scrunched in joy and determination even as the nest around them was razed and half ablaze.

And so Meliodas thought, ‘If the Fae are real, then surely their King is no illusion either.’

Zeldris must have heard by now he thinks. Would know that he made good on his word to abandon their people for the sake of Elizabeth and, ultimately, for ending this useless conflict.

Was he laughing at him? Was he gleefully watching his heinous older brother suffer for choosing a lover over the future of their clan only to immediately lose her to his pride? Meliodas alone had made the decision to defect while surrounded by his troops and three Commandments. His confidence in his strength had cost him dearly, but with Elizabeth at his back, he had felt invincible.

The rain continues to pour around them, but Meliodas cannot feel its freezing touch. Elizabeth’s warm blood is beginning to seep through her clothes. He doesn’t want to hold her tighter, fears that squeezing her will only make her bleed out faster. What good is his strength if he cannot help those most important to him in their times of need?

Lightning tears the sky asunder, thunder racing so close to its heel that the world around him seems to quake. He’ll have to land - he can’t risk attracting the bolts with Elizabeth in his grip. He is a demon but he can’t help but pray.

Prays that the chill descending on Elizabeth’s skin is only the rain. Prays that Zeldris finds some way to end the conflict too. Prays that he hasn’t ruined the only thing that could save Elizabeth’s life.

It surprises him even now. The ease with which the Fairies revealed the location of their home to him. Meliodas was quite aware that they knew him to be a demon. Even without knowledge of the rank or class that he occupied, his magic alone was nothing but purest, deepest black - yet, even as they trembled with their breaths caught in their throats and their little fingers halted in their actions, they dutifully told him what it was he wanted to know.

He remembers thinking then that the Fairies were a weak bunch - that they were a naive people who surely teetered on the brink of extinction for the easily exploitable trust they so readily gave.

Then came the fog.

He’s not surprised that even during this tempest, the fog is thick.

The last time he entered, the mist showed him illusions that confounded him for hours. The road disappeared beneath him, he’d ended up on a mountain and then at a lake and throughout it all quiet laughter echoed in his ear, disorienting him. Angering him.

Today there is only the quiet of deep, deep fog and the dampened splashing of rain as it struggles to cut through haze.

Meliodas lands on the muddy ground and takes off sprinting. He slips in an errant puddle, the ground slick and treacherous but even then he does not let go of Elizabeth. The air’s knocked from his lungs as he lands on his back. His shoulder burns but he cannot heal himself. He does not know what effect his miasma would have on Elizabeth in this weakened state. He does not want to find out. With trembling fingers, he adjusts her, frowns as the muscles beneath her fair skin refuse to twitch even when he lets his touch linger on the plush flesh of her lips, her cheek, the puncture in her stomach which gushes, gushes, and was he always able to glimpse the pink of her stomach? Was it wrong that he found that healthy colour as beautiful as the rest of her? But her skin is cold, cold too cold and her blood runs hot and Meliodas curses even the rains, roars his frustration so the lord of the lands knows that he is in no mood for games.

“Gloxinia!”

A part of him wondered if the Fairies had conned him; if they had only pretended to be shy things and had taken the opportunity to lead him to his death instead of guiding him to the Forest like they claimed they would. He’d think much higher of them if that was the case.

As it stands, Meliodas only wishes to tear the heads from their breakable bodies for the tasteless jest. Already, he’d found himself at the bottom of a lake, in which swimming in any direction only dragged him further down, a mountain trail which had led to him being apparently attacked by some manner of beast and a desert which stretched for so many hours that Meliodas had begun to sweat through the leathers of his gear. Terrible caterwauling the likes he had only heard in the deepest annals of the Underworld dogged his steps, and when the screeching stopped, the laughing began.

In each direction he was met with nothing but a wall of fog so thick that he could not even see the colour of his shoes and with each step without a discernible goal in sight, his resentment only grew.

And then, oddly, he caught the strong smell of flowers.

An unmistakable flash of red like spider lilies blooms in the corner of his periphery.

The tumultuous rain quiets to a mere whisper and the fog dissipates leaving only a dew laden field of bright, bright flowers.

The Fairy King is no less spectacular the second time around, celestial wings aglow with multicoloured magic which seems to glitter even in the midst of this gloomy, terrible squall. He stands with his hands at his side, thin lips pressed into a fine line. He is unarmed, alone. Unimpressed.

“You have returned,” he says dully and Meliodas does not have time to be offended at the lack of respect.

He tightens his grip on Elizabeth’s thigh, does his best to keep from snarling. “Heal her!”

A perfect eyebrow threatens to scrape scarlet hairline. “I beg your pardon?”

Meliodas growls, refuses to rest Elizabeth against the forest floor yet cannot risk jostling her for the sake of emphasis, “She hurt herself protecting me. I want you to heal her.”

Gloxinia’s neutral expression becomes a faintly bemused smile. “Is that a request or a threat, Demon Lord?”

Meliodas glares (and Elizabeth is growing cold in his grip, cold, cold, he is running out of time-) “Both, Fairy.”

The fog begins to creep in not unlike storm clouds on the placid horizon. The sound of thunder begins to descend upon them, red and purple flower buds disappearing beneath the cloak of the Fairy King’s enchanted mist. The fae smiles and it is a cold, cruel thing which sits comfortably on cherubic features, “Then I bid you farewell.”

Meliodas feels the wrath overflow, feels it in the way his vision goes black at the edges, in the way he can hear Elizabeth’s failing heartbeat. Anger at Gloxinia for refusing him, for dooming Elizabeth to death. Anger at himself for being unable to protect her, for failing her, “I will raze this forest to the ground, Gloxinia! Help her or I will slaughter every one of your kind!”

And that despicable Fairy only looks down at him, golden eyes more damning than any bolt of heavenly lightning, “It matters not, Demon Lord, she will already be dead.”

Then he is alone.

Elizabeth’s heartbeat grows so frail that Meliodas cannot hear it over the rain that has rushed in. Fog blinds his eyes, anger stifles his mind and the breaks and creaks in his bones finally overwhelm him. He crumples, mud splattering all over Elizabeth’s once white battle silks. She will die. She will die and it will have been his fault. Is this how Zeldris felt he wonders? This despair - this deep, gaping emptiness as the warmth of his lover cools to ice beneath his numb fingers.

Meliodas has never cried. It is a foreign concept to one as high born as he but his heart sinks to his stomach and threatens to slip free from his chest altogether. He bends his head, furrows his brows, squeezes Elizabeth’s flesh as he listens to her slowing heart.

‘Please,’ he wants to whisper. ‘Please, please have mercy on a sinner. Just this once.’

A pungent scent like foreign herbs fills his nose -

“[Droplet of Life]”

There is a glow, some bright unfathomable light and Meliodas sits up like he’s been burnt. Elizabeth’s heart suddenly beats in her chest, loud and melodic and it is the sweetest sound Meliodas has heard in years. He looks up to find cold eyes looking down on him, the Fairy King’s red hair spilling over his shoulders like reeds against some sheer cliffside.

He frowns, squints at Meliodas then appraises Elizabeth. Without so much as another word, he straightens himself and makes a gesture with two of his fingers. The fog lifts entirely, revealing a twisted up pathway between massive, primordial boughs. Flowers of every specie litter the ground preceding the entryway and Gloxinia turns his back on them. “Spend the night here,” he says and though Meliodas twitches at the unmistakable authority in that light voice, his gratitude and surprise renders him mute. “This storm will rage for four days and five nights. Regain your strength then leave.”

And then he disappears into the forest, leaving Meliodas and Elizabeth in the stillness of his eden.

[dramioneasks]

Hey! I’ve read & loved so many fics I’ve found on your blog! I haven’t asked before, so if I do it wrong please just ignore this.

This is vague, but I’m looking for a new fic suggestion. Anything is helpful—I feel I’ve looked through everything. I like slow burn, angsty, raw emotions, PTSD & hurt/comfort. Ideally after war. Supernat. creatures are sometimes fun too. No prior rom relationships between D&H tho pls. Do you have have a suggestion? No rating in mind. Wild cards are great too! Thx again for the work & dedication you bring to the community!

Here are some darker, angsty-er fics:

I Will Not, Cannot Go by odairrieres - M, 41 chapters, Words: 364,252 - After running away from the shadows of the war and finding a new life and fiancé in muggle London, Hermione is faced with a ghost from her past who refuses to let her go on living a lie.

Blood Traitor by Zalia - M, 92 chapters - Draco Malfoy has been living a lie to protect the girl he loves. He has inherited the Veela gene and on his next birthday he will become the first male Veela for three hundred years. Canon, (except the epilogue of HPDH).

Static by galfoy - M, 21 chapters - The Order rescued Draco and Lucius Malfoy after Lord Voldemort turned on them. All the safe houses are full, and Hermione Granger is the only one who can take them in. Will she agree after having suffered a drastic nervous breakdown?

Untold Stories - storyofeden - M, 11 chapters - Witches and wizards set upon repairing Hogwarts after the war. In a step towards rehabilitation, they try to eliminate some of the more…problematic rooms of the castle. Hogwarts, however, fought back. Much like ghosts, the castle will not move on if there is still unfinished business. Tired of her job at the Ministry, Hermione Granger returns to Hogwarts when Madam Pince retires. Little does she know that she may be embarking on her own journey of rehabilitation.

Bittersweet and Strange - UndiscoveredQueen19 - T, 15 chapters - “Look at me, Granger,” Draco said quietly, dangerously. “Tell me what you see.” So Hermione looked. The scars that crisscrossed his face were jagged and deep. They had probably taken years to fully turn white. Standing mere inches away from him, Hermione noticed for the first time that his right eye was clouded with a white scar as well; probably an effect from the scar that slashed through his eyebrow and across his cheek. The skin that wasn’t marred by the scar tissue was pale and clammy, and his eyes were shadowed with grief and pain. It was true; he really did resemble a monster. But Hermione could see desperation in his eyes, hurt and loneliness lining his face, and it was those emotions that made him very much human. “I see a man who was cursed to wear the face of a monster,” she said, “but who still has the heart of a man. I don’t know what you did to make Voldemort mark you so, but I certainly hope it was worth it.” *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Trapped to share the same cursed fate in a world ruled by Voldemort, Draco and Hermione find that their differences are what make them similar and that their flaws are what make them whole. Dramione AU with a Beauty and the Beast twist.

Dragon in the Dark - GracefulLioness - E, 31 chapters - The battle is won, Voldemort is dead, but the war is far from over. In the new Death Eater regime, Draco Malfoy does what he must to survive and keep his mother safe. Now a highly trained assassin, Draco has learned to think of his targets as inhuman beings, but when he is tasked with killing someone from his past, he can no longer hide from the horrors of the world around him.

Encyclopedia of Solace by littleornaments - E, 10 chapters - She felt fabric sag over her ears, stinking of decades worth of anxious sweat. She never thought it would be placed on her head a second time, much less that she’d stride towards the Ravenclaw table afterwards. The war had gutted the library, and though many books survived, countless tomes still needed repair. If anyone could have fun in a library, it was Hermione Granger, and it certainly didn’t involve Malfoy’s feline nose hanging about every night. DM/HG. Post-war.

Find A Way To Live On by LitheLies (Vlora) - M, 48 chapters, Words: 195,298  - Hermione has every reason to move on from her time at Hogwarts, to accept an honourary N.E.W.T. score and any job she so desired. It isn’t like she needs the grades, not with her accolades and her status as a war hero. But perhaps there’s more to her eighth year at Hogwarts than the sense of accomplishment. What if she’s not ready? What if she was simply afraid to let that part of her life go? What if The Brightest Witch of Her Age is simply burning for nothing, bright for the sake of brightness, clever for the sake of cleverness. Everything is too easy and too difficult, all at once, and she just wants – well, what does she want? It’s been years since she’s allowed herself such a thought. (AU Eighth year, Dramione.)

- Lisa

[essayofthoughts]

📕

Put “📓” or some other version of a book emoji into my inbox and I’ll explain the plot of a fanfiction that I haven’t written but daydream about.

From what I see of CR fandom there's ... well frankly, not a lot of thoughts about Cassandra de Rolo, which is a shame because she's fascinating, but there seem to be a few specific trends for her. Some people want to give her a chance to be awesome and adventure on her own, which fine, I kind of get but also I think after the five years she had she'd want to unwind and relax and be safe more than a lot of things. Even when dealing with anger and all (with Percy's help, given some of the Wrap Up comments) I don't think that's necessarily the route she'd go. The other trends I see for her are often specifically romantic - and there's two trends I see there. People who ship her with Kynan, due to some of the Wrap Up comments from Matt, and people who ship her with Kaylie for... I don't know what reason. Some combo of Lesbians and, from what I could tell "it'd piss off Percy and that'd be funny" which I don't necessarily believe and certainly do not find encouraging ship motivation.

Sufficeth to say, I do not find either of these particularly compelling.

I've written a small fic about Cass before (here) and one day I'd like to write something that builds on it. Specifically, I want to explore how she might interact with Desmond.

No, not the mapmaker, that's Tyriok.

No, not the person they saved outside of Westruun from the orcs.

No. No. No.

The carriageboy Percy maimed.

Yeah. Him.

See, there's a few things I think that have the potential to make that interesting. Firstly, we're told Desmond is around 18 - which is to say, older than Kynan, around the same age as Cass, and likely around the same age Percy was when the Briarwoods attacked.

(Percy's last words to Desmond before knocking him out, "I want you spend the rest of your life making up for what you allowed to happen", suddenly take on a whole load of other meaning when you consider that, imo.)

He's a Whitestone native, he's not an inherently bad person. Percy attempts to apologise once they return, but gets repeatedly spoken over because he pauses, presumably trying to find the right words to apologise ("I'm sorry I maimed you, I was not entirely myself and may have been under the influence of a demon but that's no excuse and I do not know that I can ever make amends to you for the wrong I have done you" is not an apology that's likely to fall easily from anyone's lips, let us be honest here). He does ultimately try to ensure Desmond gets a position of work - which he may otherwise struggle to find, given his maimed hand, and again, which it is only fair Percy attempt to rectify given his responsibility.

But ah, this is all Desmond and Percy, let me move on to Desmond and Cassandra.

They're of an age. They also both lived through the Briarwoods occupation in pretty close proximity to the Briarwoods - Cassandra as their prisoner and Desmond first as the carriageboy of one of their new nobles and then as their carriageboy. They've seen both the Briarwoods capability for kindness, for protective anger, and for their cruelty and brutality - including towards them. They murdered Cassandra's family; when she helped Percy escape they were shot at and she was shot down under their orders. They abandoned Desmond when Vox Machina attacked; on realising he was their prisoner they sent two invisible stalkers to kill him.

They also were twistedly parental to Cassandra and saved Desmond from Tylieri's treatment. These two undoubtedly have complicated, messy and often unclear thoughts and emotions regarding the Briarwoods. Desmond was offered a job as a courier between Whitestone and Emon but after Musician's Nostalgia he's never heard from again. He may have been killed during the Conclave's attack, if he was still in Emon - or he may have been sent off already. The wiki assumes he lives; we don't know for certain. But I like the idea he lives and I like this specific idea, so I run with the assumption he survived and either made his way to Whitestone or was part of the refugees VM evacuated to Whitestone.

And I like the idea that he ends up in service to Cass, basically as her manservant and personal assistant. Percy wants to see Desmond employed. Cassandra is being left in charge of Whitestone and all the things Percy, in his particular messy way, is not good at dealing with, which is to say the aftermath of so much of what he does.

So Cassandra, partially perhaps as a pointed comment, keeping Desmond as her personal servant - so Percy cannot forget what he has done and what he has left her to deal with.

I do not think Desmond would ever think particularly kindly of Percy. I do not blame him. No matter how much I love Percy as a character and think him well constructed and find him fascinating to explore - I would not blame Desmond in the least for being bitter and angry regarding the man who maimed him, never apologised, ensured he was given employment and just left the handling of that to his deeply traumatised younger sister.

There are many legitimate reasons to criticise Percy and Desmond, in this circumstance even more than canon, would have every cause to see those.

But I also think he'd have a lot of reasons to empathise with and understand Cassandra. I think their understanding of the complexity of their personal relationships with the Briarwoods would make them less judgemental of one another's difficult decisions during the occupation; their understanding of the pressures of the occupation and the grief Whitestone and the families within it bear for what happened - they lived in and amongst it as Percy did not.

I think they could connect on an interesting and deep way.

I also think neither is particularly prone to trusting, given everything. I think they'd take a damn long time to admit their trust for each other let alone anything else. If I wrote it, it would be a painfully slow burn.

But... I like to imagine it. I like to think up how they'd slowly be drawn closer just by working together and seeing each other every day and understanding one another's quirks. I like to think about the steady, quiet peace they build because neither has much care for sudden loud noises or explosive anger. For how their understanding of one another builds reassurance; for how that means they stand firm for each other in tentative friendship and empathetic loyalty. I like to think about the way they act towards each other, starting as the formal standard of ruling Lady and personal manservant and how that shifts as they use that to shield one another from things they know they dislike; Desmond given leave when Percy comes to speak to Cassandra, Desmond interrupting with some small important distraction when Cassandra gets caught in panic or anxiety or a memory. Quietly, persistently, helping each other, and it seeming only as work.

But it's too persistent for just work. It's too consistent for work.

But of course - they cannot just admit it. They have little reason to trust, for all they very clearly trust each other within their set dynamic.

This story, if I ever wrote it, would unfold slowly, small thing weighing upon small thing until the pressure is insurmountable and impossible to ignore.

It's not my usual style, that kind of steady slow pacing. But one day, I'd like to try it.

[dizzydancingdreamer]

The Servant and The Prince | Four

Mama Mia, here we go again lovelies!

Description: This is very much a Cinderella trope because I cannot help myself and I am in love with Loki, chapter four

Pairing: Loki x Female!Reader, third person as I may adapt eventually with an OC

Warnings: anger, mentions of abuse (not graphic), mentions of death (not graphic)

Tags: angst, fluff

Word count: 6.2k (oh god)

Previous | Next

Master List

Y/n’s heart thunders as she gazes up at the glittering golden gates of the castle. If she was not so bogged down with bags she would throw a hand over her brow— a futile attempt to keep her eyes from burning out of their sockets. Do they really have to be this glittery? She thinks they are marvellous, that is not the problem. The problem is that she is not marvelous. Not in the slightest. Not worthy of such magnificent, splendid, rich architecture. She glances down at her simple dress— the loose green threads hanging from the side of the garment— she had meant to fix those— is this really where she must stay? Surely there must be a stable somewhere. A barn for animals like her.

“Come on you churl—” Estrid hisses, her demon-esq nails digging into her arm where her step mother’s hand curls over sleeve— “you are making us look bad. At least pretend to have some couth.”

Estrid drags her forward for a moment, ushering her— all but kicking her— through the blinding gates before losing interest and rushing to meet Anna. Y/n bites her tongue. There are many things she could say. It is almost strange just how many retorts rush to her tongue. They race through her skull, infecting her mind like a sort of mould. Unlike with the bread back home she cannot seem to pick away at it— she cannot make the bad spots go away.

Perhaps if they had not left her to carry all of their things then she would not be taking so long. Do they really believe the princes will spare their diamonds a glance anyway? They are sure to be able to smell the fakes from miles away!

Y/n blinks a few times at the roar of fire that swells in her chest, encasing her very lungs in flames, almost stumbling over the marble stairs beneath her. It feels as though if she does not scream right now— if she does not say everything on her mind, unleash this pent up resentment— then she will surely cook from the inside out. It bubbles, simmers, does the thing pots do when they begin to sizzle— like they are screaming but she is not screaming; she only wishes she was. But she has never wanted to scream and she has been through so much worse. What is one little name, one hand yanking her arm? It is nothing but still she is ready to let the flames engulf her and burn the entire city.

It is terrifying— this kind of all consuming rage.

Estrid turns back towards Y/n, who is still stumbling over the steps, always the faithful servant, and her step mother scoffs. Estrid mutters something under her breath that she cannot hear. An insult, no doubt. It does not reach her ears. There is no way she would have been able to hear it anyway, not over the sound of the flames disintegrating her bones and blood and flesh from the inside out. It makes her want to scream louder— harder, make the castle walls crumble the same way she feels like she is— loud enough to hear over the roar.

Can you not hear it? Do you not care? She can taste the words as they beg for mercy on her tongue, wanting nothing more than to die on the cobblestone before her, spat out in a string of venom like they are meant to be. Can they not see that she is burning to the ground?

She barely swallows the words— she can hear them crying as they pass her throat and she almost changes her mind. She almost sets them free. It is all she can do to bend her neck at her step mother, wonder if the flames are visible in her eyes, and try not to cough up smoke right here on the castle steps. That would be very unladylike— a dishonor on her family. Oh— wait— no it would not be. Her family is dead. She can vomit as much smoke and flames as her little, burning heart desires. She has no one left to bring shame to. Gods, she is so terrified.

Why she is terrified, she does not know. She has never been scared before— not like this.

She was scared of the dark for the longest time. She used to see shadows on her walls and under the waves in the wash basin and against the trees when her mother would make her fetch the cat before bed. She used to think that was true fear— the night. The shadows. The wash basin. But then the morning sun would come and fight the shadows— then her mother would empty the basin— and before long there was nothing left to be afraid of.

But then there was no mother to empty the wash basin and suddenly she was afraid of death and the dark. Surely death must be the greatest fear one can have. Right? The all consuming nothingness, the longest sleep, the unknown. What could be scarier than the unknown? Than losing the people she loves the most and being left to wonder where they are and what they are doing— if they can even do anything— and are they okay? Please, someone just tell her, are they okay? She is not okay.

Darkness and death— death and darkness. At least those were always the scariest things and at least she had overcome them— both of them. There is nothing scarier than those two things. Except, apparently, herself. That is all there is left to be afraid of. Not Estrid or Anna, not pain. Not him. Those are all things she has survived. Overcome. Enjoyed. There is only herself to be afraid now, and the overwhelming, unbearable anger unfurling in her chest and arms and neck and skull. She is terrified of herself.

She is terrified of the anger.

“This way ladies— your chambers are this way!”

Y/n blinks— certain her eyelashes are singed and the blur in her vision is from the smoke in her eyes— and finds that she is no longer on the marble steps but in a long hallway. Pillars rise to her left, showcasing an expansive forest and a smudge of blue that must be the ocean. It feels so close— she can see the waves cresting with white foam so it must be. She can smell the salt, like it is right next to her. She can almost feel the surf lapping at her toes, cooling some of the burning tingle. She would do anything for it to rush up her legs. Soak her dress. Make her skin sticky. She would take the stickiness over the relentless flames. There is no time, though, to take her moment of peace. No time for stickiness. There never is.

“Are you deaf?” Estrid’s hand presses down on her spine, right where the bruises are from the last time the two came in contact. “Move! I will not take kindly to getting the worst chamber because of your dawdling.”

Are the bruises purple? She wonders. Perhaps they are red and black— like molten lava, shifting under her skin. She does not voice her musings aloud, of course. She swallows those thoughts alongside the rest of them. She can feel the precise way they fall on top of their partners, each wasted syllable mushing into the last. They fill her aching belly all the way, pressing on the hollow dip of her throat. If her thoughts were food she would never be hungry again.

Of course, she does not say any of that. Instead she bows her head, eating the flames as they rise. She is so full already though. “I am very sorry, Milady.”

Estrid scoffs. “You should be. Henry should have drowned you at birth had he known you would be so slow.”

At the sound of her father’s name her head snaps up. Estrid is already walking away again, hurrying to meet her impatient daughter. Anna taps her heel against the marble. Click, click, click. Each tap makes her head pound harder. Soon she cannot hear the clicks anymore. Her father would never do anything of the sort— her father was kind! They are not looking at her anymore. They cannot see the smoke billowing from her ears. They cannot see the blackness she feels flashing across her vision. They cannot see the hate. Just like she cannot see the bruises. Are they purple? Are they scarlet? What would her father think of them? She cannot see the bruises but she can feel them. Hot and itchy and painful. Can they feel the hatred? Are they just ignoring it like she is ignoring the volcanic bruises?

Probably. And they are not the only ones. Y/n weaves through the crowded hallway, dodging women of all shapes and colors— quite literally, she narrowly passes a woman with purple tinted skin— all of whom spare her not even a glance. It makes her feel invisible. It makes feel like she can finally breathe. It makes her angry. She is breathing the smoke again. Every face that passes her that does not look at her makes her charcoal lungs ignite even more. Her only solace is the all too familiar feeling of being split in two. The anger is not wholly her own— it is his as well. She can feel him in her chest, that aching part of her anger where he demands to be seen.

Is he mad at her?

She stops dead in her tracks. Just like that, her own anger is gone, replaced with something ice cold and unbearable. It starts in her hands. Her wrists begin aching— freezing— as the ice flows up through her veins. She thought the fire was bad. She takes it all back in this moment— she wants the flames again. The ice is in her chest now. She can feel it creeping closer to her heart. She wants the anger back. Her anger. Why would he be angry with her?

Does he hate her? She can no longer feel her heart beating— the ice has done its job. It is after her throat now, climbing higher and higher. What would it feel like to throw up shards of Ice? Nevermind, she does not want to know. She had wanted to scream before. She had wanted to burn the kingdom down with her voice and words and screams. Now she cannot even whimper. Her tongue is frozen. Her knees hit the floor— she does not feel it. Maybe it does not even happen, maybe her eyes are just frozen now and playing tricks on her. They make her feel as though she is falling— pull the ground from under her and send her vision spinning— but perhaps she is still standing. Still following. Still invisible.

Why would he hate her?

She watches as feet pass by her, heels and boots of all colors all slowing when they cross her path. Well, maybe they are slowing. Maybe that is just her mind continuing to play tricks on her though. She would not be able to tell the difference right now— if there is one, that is. She cannot look past the soles of the shoes, cannot meet the eyes of those passing her. She is stuck— her neck which was so hot only moments ago now stiff. To think that a simple thought could send her reeling in such a grand way as to literally floor her. It is almost impressive, actually. If she could feel anything other than the crushing, ice cold weight on her shoulders then perhaps she would laugh.

To think that a nameless, faceless man could make her feel such torrential and devastating emotions. Anger and sadness. Longing and desperation. It is unreal the things he makes her feel. Otherworldly things. Impossible, tragic, wonderful things. There is no way that any of it is real. She must be losing her mind. She wishes she was losing her mind. Her chest zaps where the emerald ring hits her sternum, tied to a thin strap of leather around her neck, the ice melting for a fraction of a second. It taps against her skin as her hands meet the marble floor, a gentle reminder that this— he— is real. Gods. A measure of the anger sparks back up and this time she knows that it is entirely her own.

When she was a little girl she used to watch the dust devils in her neighbours corn field. Her father would watch with her sometimes. One of those times he explained what was happening. He told her that wind only spirals like that when the cold air meets the hot air. When that happens— and the temperatures collide— they begin to fight. Imagine them like two rivals, her father had said. The cold air grabs the hot air’s hair. In turn the hot air kicks out at the cold air’s knees. They keep doing that— kicking and shoving and biting and pulling— until finally their limbs are but a blur. That is all a dust devil is, my girl— two rivals fighting. She had not thought to ask him what happens when the cold air and the hot air are not rivals— she had not thought to ask what would happen if the hot air and the cold air were actually lovers. Would the same thing happen? Those little dust devils? Would it be better?

Would it be worse?

Much like most things in her life, she does not know the answer to that. All she knows is that she can feel the air— be them rivals or lovers— punching and kicking, kissing and touching, in her chest and it hurts. All she knows is that if he is real then he better come and get her right now before her body caves to the icy fire tornado that is swirling in her lungs. She is going to implode.

“My dear—” a warm hand lands on her shoulder and it is like magic the way her thoughts are silenced, leaving behind nothing but a harsh ringing in her ears— “are you alright? That was quite the spill you just took.”

Whoever is speaking to her has a voice that is like honey and silk. It wraps around her, soothing every ache in her weary body. The hand rubs a circle into her shoulder, not letting her go, and she begins to thaw, the ice around her eyes and throat and heart melting away in seconds. Not back to the anger— no, that is long gone, a mere thought in the back of her mind— but instead to a new feeling. She is neither ice nor fire— she is springtime. She is warm and calm, her fingers flexing against the marble like small creatures emerging from hibernation. She curls them a few times, relishing in the blood as it returns to her hands and the way it does not feel as though it is burning her. It is not fire, it is just blood.

“Do you think you can get up?” The soft voice is right next to her ear now and she closes her eyes for a moment. It sounds so familiar— so gentle. She never thought she would hear that voice again. “I think maybe we should go to the healers— just in case, my dear.”

She can smell it now— the yeast. The berries. She takes a deep breath in and she can taste the strawberry jam on her lips like she is eight years old again. Her father used to always sneak her an extra pastry after dinner. They would split it on the back porch, their fingers sticky and their laughter twisting into the twilight. Her mother must have known— she was meticulous. She was so aware of the things around her at all times. She was beautiful and kind and made the best jam in the entire realm.

“Mother?” The word slips off her tongue instinctively. Naturally. She cannot stop it because, for a moment, it is as though she is right next to the woman she misses most. It is as though everything is okay again.

Y/n lifts her head— she finally can, her neck is no longer stiff with ice— her eyes landing on a woman with flowing golden hair that twists and curls against her chest. It is not her mother. Her chest squeezes. She knows that it should not— it was never going to be her mother and she knows that— but she cannot help but feel deflated. If there was ever a time for a miracle it would be right now. Preferably a miracle that makes the best strawberry pastries and gives hugs that feel like taking a warm bath. She shakes her head lightly, clearing the thought and the mist that has begun to gather in her eyes. It is not the time for sentimentality.

The woman— the woman who is not her mother— has soft blue eyes— iridescent almost— that bore into her own. There is a ring around her pupils where the blue turns to a darker coal. For a moment it looks like the ring is pulsing. The longer Y/n looks into her eyes the deeper she falls into them. It does not feel as much like drowning as one would think. It is a softer kind of falling— it is as though the woman can see every inch of her soul with a simple look. Her aroma strengthens, changing slightly. The yeast is no longer present— that was only ever her imagination— and now there is a strong, flowery scent. It is strangely intoxicating.

She has to blink a few times, turning away for a taste of fresh air, her gaze falling to the woman’s flowing silk gown. It is a delicate ivory number with beautiful embroidery all over the bust. Little flowers. Perhaps that is where the scent is coming from, wafting off the garden around her collarbone. She really is springtime.

The woman laughs and the flowers sway, moved by a breeze of breath and glee. “Oh my darling, I think you just confirmed my thoughts. Let's get you up, alright? See if we can find someone to take a look at you. Your head must be pounding.”

She is like an oasis in the desert. Y/n has never been to the desert but still— this is what she imagines it would feel like. Gentle and easy, like a cool breeze or a patch of shade. It would feel like the soothing touch of this woman’s hands as she pulls her body from its heap on the ground, wrapping an arm around her waist to keep her from toppling right over again. Her legs feel unstable and her knees are shaking but everything is okay. But oasis’ are just figments of the imagination— or at least this one is. They are doomed to fizzle away eventually, taking with them the joyful shade and leaving behind the scorching heat.

As the golden woman begins to turn with her, no doubt pulling her in the direction of the supposed healers, there is an ear piercing screech.

“There you are! You were supposed to be following us you dense child.” Estrid is in front of Y/n in seconds, her narrowed eyes locked on her and the familiar, gut wrenching sneer on her scarlet lips. “It is like you never listen on purpose— you just mill about in your own little world. Always about Y/n, never about anyone else.”

The fire from before— the scorching heat— begins bubbling in the pit of her stomach. It splashes like tar, slowly coating her insides in that all consuming hate. She bites her tongue, clenching her jaw. She can still feel the woman’s hand on her shoulder. There is still a piece of the oasis and she clings to it. But even that is being consumed— the touch melting into the lightning in her veins. She is definitely going to explode.

Her step mother takes a step towards her but halts, her eyes darting to the floor where they stay for a long moment. When her neck snaps back up she is positively fuming. “You dropped our things! Why you ungrateful little brat, I—”

In less than the blink of an eye she is no longer looking at her step mother but rather at the back of a blonde head, her hand laced with a hand so soft she would think it an evening glove.

“This young woman has tripped.” The blonde woman’s voice is calm still but holds no more of that gentle tread. Her hand squeezes softly, a contrast to her firm tone. “I will be escorting her to the healers to see what has happened.”

Estrid blinks, her eyes darting away from Y/n and up to the new woman. When she does her entire face goes pale, as though she has seen a ghost. How odd.

“Your Majesty.” Estrid bows her head, her knees bending slightly in a curtsy.

Your Majesty? Y/n’s eyes drift back to the gown— the marvelous ivory silk. It is as though all the little details begin appearing in that moment. The high thread count, the intricate stitching at the waist and bodice, the gemstone bracelet on her dainty wrist. That bracelet alone must be worth more than her entire life. Sapphires and rubies and emeralds. She wears it as though she has no idea how much it is worth— as though she has no idea it is even there at all. She wears it as though she is royalty and she has many more of them in her room.

Oh no— no, no, no.

The blonde woman turns back to her, her crystal eyes softening marginally from what she can only imagine was an icy stare moments ago. “Come on, dear. I will take you to my healer.”

Y/n shakes her head, her eyes wide. Her spine aches as she does. Her mouth feels like it is filled with cotton. She cannot speak but she has to. She has to refuse.

“No, no, your Majesty—” She copies Estrid’s greeting, she does not know what else to call her— “I am alright, truly. I do not wish to burden you further. I will—” She pauses, woozy all of a sudden, the salty breeze ten times stronger— “I will be fine.”

The woman’s crystal eyes narrow but not in the sharp way her step mother’s usually do. “My child, I insist. You do not look well.”

Y/n can practically feel Estrid’s stare burrowing into the side of her face. She can feel the bruises on her back— perhaps purple, perhaps yellow. It does not matter. If she does not go now then they will surely be black in an hour. Less. There it is— there is the fear she had been missing. She wobbles slightly on her feet. The salt air mingles with the pine trees. It is intoxicating— it is deadly. She is going to pass out if she does not move. She shakes her head at the woman, hoping there is something in her eyes that conveys the danger she feels.

“I am alright,” even she can hear the pleading tone in her voice. “Please.”

The woman— the Queen— stares at her for a moment. It is only a few seconds, the coal ring around her pupils pulsing gently, but it feels like days. It feels like a lifetime. She purses her rosy lips, taking a deep breath.

A hand— one much more rough and hot— wraps around her other wrist. “Your Majesty—” Estrid’s nasally voice is high pitched, like she is attempting to hide her cruel intentions— “my daughter just needs to sleep I think. I can take over from here.”

Y/n forces a smile to her lips— one that tastes like metal and blood— like betrayal— hoping it is enough to convince the queen. She adds a little nod in there for good measure. It is all about appearances. For a moment she thinks it is actually going to work. The Queen’s shoulders sag gently, her chin dipping down in a partial nod. It is actually working— maybe she will not get punished too harshly. She will pick up the bags and hurry to their room and stay as silent as a mouse and everything will be fine. Right?

Estrid squeezes her wrist harder— enough to make her bones whine in pain— and she can feel the on her face grin falter. It is for only a fraction of a second, the corner of her lips peeling down in a grimace that she cannot suppress, but it is enough. By the time she has painted the fake smile back on her face the Queen is at her side, that silky hand curling around her shoulder, gentle but firm enough to pull her away from her step mother. Y/n does not know if she would rather thank her or cry.

“I am afraid I truly must insist. As a Queen—” She stresses the word, her title. This is no longer a suggestion; it is an order— “it is my duty to ensure that all my guests are properly taken care of. It will not take long; just a quick check up.”

The Queen’s hand ushers her a couple steps down the hallway. Estrid follows, her brows pulled together dramatically. “But your Highness, I—”

The Queen holds up her hand, an elegant and dangerous gesture, her kind face cracking under the weight of her furious eyes. She does not even try to conceal the rage swimming in the crystal pools. She does not have to— she will face no repercussion for her anger.

“But nothing. She is to go with me and that is final.” Her burning crystals glance down to the bags, all of which are still spilling over onto the marble, draping the stone with bits of lace and silk, none of which look nearly as exquisite as the Queen’s gown. “I will send someone to gather your belongings and return them to your chambers. Now, if you will kindly excuse us.”

With that she is spinning, pressing her hand gently against Y/n’s back and leading her back in the direction she had come from. She can feel Estrid’s glare on her neck, burning holes in the back of her head. If stares were able to kill then she would be laying in a heap on the marble again, she just knows it. Soon, though, they turn a corner and she can no longer feel her step mother’s lethal gaze. That does not stop her heart from racing so hard that she wonders if it will jump out of her chest. It does not stop the vomit from pooling in her throat. She should feel relieved—grateful— but all she can think about is the pain. Both the pain she is in now and the pain she will be in later.

“It was okay really,” she mutters. It is a last ditch effort, one that is destined to fail before it is even out of her mouth, but she has to try anyway. “I am okay. I think I just slipped.”

She did not slip— she lost it. She does not know quite what it is but she knows whatever it is has been lost. Her sanity. Her grip on reality. Her damn mind. Any and all of them, now gone.

The queen stops, turning her bright blue eyes on her once more. She sighs, her smile understanding. “I think if you had slipped then you would have gotten back up.”

The Queen’s tone is pitying, her fingers gentle on her hand, and Y/n drops her eyes to the ground. She resents it— all of it. She does not want pity. “I needed a moment is all.”

A hand presses under her chin, bringing her gaze back up. There is no more smile on the Queen’s face— only a firmness in her eyes. She does not look so much like a Queen here; she looks like a mother. Her mother. She can see some of her own mother in the faint lines near her eyes and the cupid's bow above her rose petal lips. She has to bite down to keep the ache from her throat at bay.

“That was not a moment, my dear. I was there. That was quite a few moments. You were ready to let those girls trample you, were you not?”

“I— I just—” she swallows hard, trying to make her words work. It seems like she cannot string a sentence together for the life of her. Like her entire vocabulary has vanished— “I needed a moment, your Majesty. That is all.” All she can do is repeat herself.

The Queen narrows her eyes, her thumb smoothing over her jaw before she finally releases her. “Frigga.”

Y/n’s heart stutters and she has to cover her cough from the way all the air whooshes out of her lungs. “Pardon me, your Majesty?”

“Please, call me Frigga.”

This time her heart does not just stutter; it stops completely. She presses a hand against her chest, taking a tiny step backwards. She cannot breathe again. The smile on the Queen’s— Frigga’s— face is too kind. Too gentle. Too much. This is not a trick, she is not trying to get her in trouble. She is not telling her to shut up or to hurry up or to grow up. She is just being kind. No one is kind to her. Not even when they want something from her. What could the Que— Frigga, Y/n, her name is Frigga— possibly want from her? What could she give her that would mean anything more than what she already has? She sucks in a breath, sounding quite like a dying animal in the middle of the thankfully empty corridor. It is too much— it is all too much.

“No, I could not. You Maj—”

Frigga grabs her hand again, her warm skin stilling her own, clammy hands. “Calm child. It is alright. You are alright” Her words are slow, her tone a low murmur. It works wonders on her nerves. It is magic. “Frigga. Please, nobody here calls me anything formal. You should hear my sons.” The side of her mouth quirks up, her tone becoming teasing, “mother, where is father? That is all anyone around here says to me. I am not used to such formalities. I would prefer Frigga, my dear.”

Y/n takes another breath, nodding her head.

“Y/n—” she whispers back, not sure what else to do besides introduce herself back— “my name is Y/n.”

Frigga’s smile grows, nodding as well. She makes it feel like this is a normal exchange— like they are just two new friends meeting for the first time. “That is a lovely name.”

The Queen turns after that, pulling her once more to continue walking down the grand hallway. They move in silence, Frigga no doubt trying to give her some room to breathe. It is surprisingly easy to just be there with her. It is serene. She stares out past the pillars as they walk, her eyes dipping back to the faraway shoreline. Now the water is sparkling in the high afternoon sun, the cresting waves catching the light and bouncing it back and forth amongst each other. It is as though each wave that passes winks at her before smoothing against the sand. She cannot tell if they are saying hello or goodbye. Perhaps neither. Perhaps they are just acknowledging that she is there. She bows her chin gently, acknowledging them as well.

She does not know how long they walk for, her attention too focused on the blinking shore, but soon Frigga is pulling open a heavy wooden door— one that has the most intricate carvings on it’s frame that Y/n longs to stare at in depth—and tugging her in behind her. She has no idea what she is expecting— maybe a herb closet and a long table for practicing healing— it is a healer’s closet after all— but whatever it is, what she sees is not it. She is not expecting the most exquisite room in all of existence.

The first thing her eyes fall to is a wonderfully large pool of water sitting in the middle of the room. It must be the size of her entire bedroom, which granted is not that large but in comparison to her own tiny tin basin at home this is pure luxury. The sides of the pool are golden and tiled with colorful gemstones. She cannot even name all them, not recognizing half of the stones. They catch the light pouring in from the expansive balcony, sparkling against each other. There are steps leading up the side, promising entry into the luscious looking water. Altogether it is hypnotizing, calling her name until she is taking a few stuttered steps towards it. As she gets closer she can smell the fragrant oils, much more rich than anything she is used to.

“Oh my.”

“It is quite something, I will admit.” Frigga laughs from behind her, meeting her next to the edge of the tub. She dips her hand into the water, submerging the expensive bracelet in the water without a care. “It was a present from Odin for our first anniversary. I was just as shocked. I did not leave this room for weeks. I even slept here, can you imagine that?”

“I think I would as well, if I were you. It is stunning.” She, too, dips her hand below the water. She almost gasps at how warm it is— at how soft the water is. “I have never seen anything like it.”

Frigga pulls her hand from the water, shaking the droplets lightly from her skin. She turns back to Y/n, her crystal eyes sparkling with joy. “Perhaps later— only if you would like, of course— you could try it.”

Her mouth falls open, her own hand, still swirling through the silky water, pausing. “Oh no, your Maj—” Frigga purses her lips, her eyes crinkling gleefully— “Frigga, I could not.”

The Queen laughs again and she can hear the way her own mother used to giggle. “Of course you can my dear. In fact, you must! But first let us eat.”

Y/n’s brows pull together— what about the healers? Is that not why she is here?

Frigga must notice her confusion because she lifts her hand to her face, the Queen’s fingers now scented like rose petals. “I have found that the best medicine is a full belly, would you not agree?”

Instantly the tears well up in her eyes again. They are not from sadness this time— nor from longing— instead they are from the relief she feels coursing through her body. It is so foreign that she does not recognize it at first. It is neither hot nor cold. There is no pressure on her chest alerting her to it. In fact there is nothing. She feels nothing. It is exhilarating.

She does not notice the first tear fall until Frigga’s thumb catches it. “Thank you.”

The Queen sighs, her smile faltering. It is still there but barely. “Come, child.”

Y/n follows Frigga to the balcony, passing under some gem coloured curtains and into the warm sunlight. She almost freezes in her tracks, the memory of the last time her back was in the sun still fresh on her mind. Her mind falls back to the man, her nose filling with salt and pine which leaks in from the gardens below. She can feel his hands on her back, crawling over her hips. She does not wonder what color her back is this time— be it purple or yellow or molten red— it does not matter anymore. For some reason the thought of him makes it not matter anymore. He makes it better.

Frigga turns on her heel, her eyes lighting up, her hands shooting out to grasp Y/n’s shoulders. It is all she can do not to reel back from the suddenness of the action, wobbling slightly but smiling. She, in turn, reaches for the Queen’s hands, steadying herself on her silken skin.

“I completely forgot my dear, I told my son to meet me here for afternoon tea. You do not mind, do you?”

Y/n’s breath catches in her throat, her memories surging again. She can taste him on her lips for a brief moment. A short, silly moment. She pushes him down, shaking her head lightly to clear her thoughts. That would be impossible.

“No, of course not this is your home.”

Frigga squeezes her shoulders. “Wonderful!”

As the blonde woman releases her, moving to sit in one of the golden chairs on the balcony, there is a voice that sounds from the door. It is deep, impossibly so, and sends shivers racing down her spine.

“Mother, are you in here?”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Tag list: @crystal-siren

[lillotte17]

Bird Nest

Continuation of my post-canon drabble things!! Who is ready for some Emotional Whiplash?!

~

Domesticity is not something that Zhou Zishu has much experience with.

Even before becoming the Four Seasons’ Manor Lord and the Leader of the Window of Heaven, his family had always kept servants. He has never been like Jing BeiYuan, who seems to like nothing more than luxuriating amidst finery, but he has never had to concern himself with the everyday tasks of cooking and cleaning and doing laundry, either. He knows how to look after himself well enough, when he has to, but his standards of ‘well enough’ are not especially high. He was always content to make do with the things on hand, and wait for his fortunes to shift towards something better. Or to simply drown himself in wine until the state of his surroundings and his body no longer mattered.

It has never bothered him before, but in these last few days spent in the cold dusty ruin of the World’s Armory with Lao Wen, he is beginning to notice the gaping holes of his inadequacies.

He does not know how to take care of someone.

He knows how to protect someone, how to fight off enemies and hide from pursuit and outmaneuver any opposition. He knows how to treat a simple wound or a fever when someone is suffering. He knows how to care about someone, but after words of affirmation and patience and physical intimacy, he is at something of a loss.

When they had been staying at the Four Seasons Manor with Chengling, he could wave off the fact that he was not doing most of the mundane work of keeping them all fed and healthy because he had a disciple to train and poison burning through his veins, and later, an injured shoulder to contend with. He had focused more on their defenses, and taking stock of their food and medical stores. Making sure that the secrets of the Manor had remained hidden and safe, so that Chengling could inherit them once he was ready.

But now the Manor is gone, and there is only the mountain and the armory and Lao Wen, and Zhou Zishu…is not entirely sure what to do with himself.

The first three or four days had been lost to fear and grief, clinging to Wen Kexing’s limp body and pouring as much of his internal force into him as he could before slumping over in exhaustion. Once he had come back to him from the brink of death, the two days following had been surrendered to hands and mouths and ravenous devotions. They had spent most of their time in various stages of undress, lounging about on the random assortments of tattered mats and blankets they had made into their bed, neither one willing to venture far from the other’s line of sight.

The fifth or sixth day finally had Lao Wen declaring that he felt grimy past the point of endurance, and sent him puttering about the maze of bookshelves and farming equipment in search of the tools to shape the armory into a livable space. Rong Xuan and his friends had come here to train, so there were still some useful things here and there. A few chipped bowls and a dusty teapot. A moldering wash basin that is not yet beyond salvation and a small stew pot with a rusting handle. He had swept and bustled and rearranged things in nearly a frenzy, and Zhou Zishu had not done much more than keep him company and carry and few things when he was bidden.

It had taken the better part of the day, but now they have a dining area, a cozy nook in a well-lit corner for reading and writing, and even a few battered screens set up for privacy while bathing or changing clothes, if they feel so inclined. It nearly feels like a home, even if everything they have is in some state of disrepair. They heat enough water to wash themselves, tend to their outer robes as best they can, and sit down to their first meal of ice and snow in nothing but blankets. It is not especially filling, but then again, their bodies do not seem to feel hunger as they did before, either.

Wen Kexing seems buoyant with his successes, his damp snowy hair glistening in the soft light of their little table lamp.

“How long do you suppose it will take the others to come dig us out?” he asks.

“It is hard to say just how bad the avalanche was from in here,” Zishu hums thoughtfully, “Even if they find the markers you left and follow you here, I am afraid it will take a few weeks at the very least. Transporting large amounts of men and equipment through the mountains is slow going even in good weather.”

He smirks at him.

“Why? Are you sick of me already?”

“Impossible,” Wen Kexing laughs with a dismissive wave of his hand, grinning from ear to ear. “It was more of a practical concern. If we are trapped in here for months, we might survive it well enough, but there is no telling what state we will be in without access to any sort of grooming tools. The old monster did not exactly tell me what to expect if the technique succeeded. Will our hair keep growing? What about our fingernails? Are we going to look like horrible mountain beasts by the time they finally come for us? Your poor dumb disciple will start crying in fear again.”

“Chengling will cry when he sees us no matter what we look like,” Zhou Zishu sighs, exasperated yet fond. “But I would assume that since our bodies are no longer using food to fuel themselves in the typical sense, that our metabolisms have slowed, or possibly even stopped. Even if our hair and nails keep growing, it will likely be some time before we become terrifying.”

“Hm,” Lao Wen nods in acceptance, “What will we do about keeping clean, though? Luckily, we do not have to concern ourselves too much with dirty dishes, but what about our clothes? What about ourselves? Water can only do so much on its own.”

“I did not expect you to be this squeamish about a little dirt,” Zishu chuckles.

“Ah Xu,” Wen Kexing says flatly, “It is hardly going to be ‘a little dirt’ after several weeks. You should know by now that to touch and be touched by you is one of my life’s dearest delights, but if you truly intend to forego soap and cleanliness for an entire month or more, I am not sharing a bed with you. For sleeping, or anything else.”

Zhou Zishu arches a brow at him in disbelief.

“Would you care to know how long it had been since I had a bath when we first met?”

“Just because I could tell you were beautiful beneath all of that filth does not mean I was willing to bed you before you got a chance to wash yourself,” Lao Wen huffs, “I do have standards.”

Zishu makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, but his expression is still doubtful.

“Ah well,” Wen Kexing sighs, deciding to sidestep the obvious but unspoken opinion about what his standards are, or lack thereof, “There must be something in here we can use. Maybe there are stores of rice in with the grain and farming supplies. I doubt it would be safe to eat, but if we cook it, the water leftover might still be good for washing… And Rong Xuan was married. Perhaps his wife left something behind.”

“Perhaps you mother did.”

Lao Wen tenses in reflexive discomfort, as he still does at any mention of his past, but then the moment passes and he smiles.

“I doubt my parents would have come here very often,” he tells him softly. “They supported the idea of the armory, but neither of them were that invested in becoming martial masters themselves. They wanted to heal people. But…it would be nice, if we found something of them here. If they left something behind that we could use to make a life together.”

“You are good at this,” Zhou Zishu compliments him sincerely, gesturing to the living space they have already arranged, “I never would have thought this place could feel even half this hospitable. You did a good job with our manor too, before it was destroyed. Chengling barely knows how to boil water, so I know you must have helped him with more than you claimed. The Valley Master is truly a man of many hidden talents.”

“I was only the leader of the ghosts for eight years,” Wen Kexing reminds him, bitterness seeping into his smile, “Even if the old chief favored me for my ruthlessness, I was still more of a servant or a slave than a ward. If I am good at building a life from ruins now, it is because I was never given an option to do otherwise.”

“Lao Wen, I-”

He holds up a hand to halt his apology.

“You do not have to be sorry,” he says, “Not for what happened, and not for making me talk about it either. We have eternity to share together, so I imagine all of our old wounds will eventually be dragged out into the sunlight at some point. It is not the easiest thing to discuss, but…I want to tell you. I want to tell you everything.”

Zhou Zishu puts his hand over his on the tabletop, squeezing his fingers in reassurance.

“There is no rush,” he reminds him, “As you said; we have time. I will be here, and I will listen when you are ready.”

He chuckles softly.

“Of course, those things are easier to talk about while enjoying a jar of wine together, like we used to,” Zishu sighs wistfully, “Of all the things we are going to give up for this life, that might be the most difficult for me to part with.”

“But Ah Xu, we brought the sweetest wine with us!” Wen Kexing grins, leaning towards him over the table.

“…You mean in your flask?” Zhou Zishu blinks at him frowningly, “We cannot drink it anymore, even if you brought some.”

“I have been drinking this wine every day,” Lao Wen insists, eyes curving upwards as his smile deepens, mischievous and extremely self-satisfied. “This is a taste I would not sacrifice for anything.”

Zishu’s brows furrow in consternation, sensing a ruse, but not certain what the endgame could be yet.

“…Do you not want to know where the wine is?” Wen Kexing asks sweetly.

“If I ask, will it end this silly game any faster?”

“Hm, perhaps. That is entirely up to you.”

“…Where is it?” Zhou Zishu huffs out with a grumble, looking terribly put-upon.

“Here!” Lao Wen exclaims happily, placing one long finger directly against Zishu’s lips.

Zhou Zishu catches his hand on instinct, fighting a losing battle with the urge to roll his eyes.

“You are utterly preposterous.” He informs him evenly.

“I am also hopelessly charming and completely inescapable,” Wen Kexing agrees without the slightest hint of shame. He moves his finger to lightly trace one corner of Zhou Zishu’s mouth. “You, on the other hand, are both delicious and intoxicating. If were not trapped inside, I would whisk you out beneath the moonlight and drink you in until both of us were dizzy with sensation.”

“Do these types of brazen declarations actually work on people?” Zishu wonders.

“They worked on you,” Wen Kexing points out with a shrug, still smiling like a fool.

Zhou Zishu lets out long-suffering sigh, seemingly defeated, but he meets Lao Wen’s gaze without hesitation. A few heartbeats pass, and he turns his head slightly, just enough to brush the barest whisper of a kiss across the tip of the finger still hovering near his cheek. He smiles at the surprised silence that follows, pulling the hand in his grip closer to him, deciding to press a kiss into its palm as well.

Wen Kexing’s eyes on him are molten.

Zhou Zishu laughs.

“Well, I think we both know what works on you.”

“Ah Xu,” Wen Kexing exhales his name with a stuttering breath, a thread of supplication weaving through his voice.

Zishu’s expression softens exponentially.

“Alright.”

~

Zhou Zishu wakes up the next morning with a mild soreness that is becoming typical. His freshly rinsed clothes from the day before are folded neatly near the bed, along with their battered little washbasin and a damp handkerchief so he can wipe himself down before dressing. Wen Kexing is sitting at the narrow table in their reading nook, the sun sifting in through the high windows painting him with sweeps of warm golden light. His hair is still unbound, softening the angles of his face as he pours over the open book in front of him. A comb is loosely clasped within his left hand, seemingly forgotten.

Zishu takes the time to admire the scene in silence. He thinks again about what it means to take care of someone. To make a life from the ground up with nothing but your bare hands and your sincerity. To build a home within the walls of someone else’s heart.

He is still not certain he knows how to go about it, but no one said that the first step had to be the largest one.

It takes him a few minutes to quietly sweep away the traces of sweat and other things from the night before and pull his robe on. He is certain that Wen Kexing must have noticed, but he seems to be engrossed with his reading. Without waiting for acknowledgment or invitation, he pads across the room to pluck the wooden comb from Lao Wen’s elegant fingers.

“You won’t be able to read properly with your hair falling in your eyes like that.” He says it more brusquely than he meant to. His mouth twitches downward briefly in discontentment. That was not how he wanted to begin this.

For his own part, Wen Kexing simply turns his head slightly to blink up at him, a mix of warmth and mild surprise on his face.

“Are you offering to help me look pretty, Ah Xu?”

“You hardly need my help with that.”

Lao Wen shifts in his seat a little, as though he is so pleased with the compliment that he cannot quite hold it in.

“By all means,” he tells him, trying and failing to hold back a wide curling smile, “If you want to touch me anywhere, I would be that last person to stop you.”

Zhou Zihsu laughs.

“This I already know,” he says, leaning over to poke at one of the round mouth-shaped bruises along the side of Lao Wen’s throat.

Wen Kexing hisses and pulls a face as Zishu moves to sit behind him.

“And here I thought you were going to be tender with me,” he quips lightly.

Zhou Zishu stills for a moment, a portion of Lao Wen’s silvery hair already gathered in his left hand. He fiddles with the comb and stares and the shoulders of the man in front of him. His expression slides back towards uncertainty.

“I am.” He says finally. Wen Kexing reaches back and pats his knee. He can tell that he is smiling by the tilt of his head, and somehow it seems to ease the tension back out of his shoulders.

Without another word between them, he beings carefully running the comb through Lao Wen’s hair. He does his best to be gentle, but there are a few places with some especially stubborn tangles. Wen Kexing makes a low pained sound as he tries to pull the teeth of the comb through them, and Zhou Zishu pauses once again.

“Have you ever combed someone else’s hair before?” Wen Kexing wonders.

“…No,” Zhou Zishu confesses.

“Not even your shidi’s?” Wen Kexing presses, sounding surprised, “Didn’t you raise him once our master passed? Qin Jiuxiao was still too young to look after himself at the time, was he not?”

“We had servants at the Four Seasons Manor,” Zishu reminds him, “I was the new leader of a struggling sect. I was not going to spend time doing something that could easily be allocated to a maid. I helped him with his studies and I trained him in martial arts. He came to me with his troubles, but the more mundane chores of childrearing were handled by other people. I had too many other things to look after to go out of my way to make sure he was groomed every morning.”

“It was not a condemnation,” Wen Kexing says softly.

“I know.” He sighs.

“Do you wish you could have done more for him, now?”

“I…don’t know,” Zhou Zishu admits, “I don’t know if there was any more I could have done for him even if I wanted to. I was only sixteen when I became responsible for him. I barely knew how to run our sect, let alone how to be someone’s father figure. As his older brother, it was my job to keep him out of trouble, so that is what I tried to do. He had a good heart. A pure heart -like Chengling- and he was just as silly. I tried to make sure he never got his hands dirty the way I had to. We used to dream of the day the Window of Heaven would no longer be needed, and we would wander the jianghu together. Maybe, if that had happened, we might have had the chance for more moments like this.”

His hand trembles slightly and he tugs the comb harder than intended.

“Ai,” Wen Kexing winces, “Start closer to the bottom. It will be easier to get rid of the knots higher up once the ends are free of tangles.”

“Mn,” he acknowledges. “Sorry.”

He glances down at the comb in his hand. A crisp bouquet of carved wooden flowers in a dark cherry lacquer. Almost violet. He runs his thumb over it thoughtfully.

“Did you find this in the armory?” he asks, “It’s a woman’s comb, isn’t it?”

“Ah, no, I brought it with me,” Lao Wen says. His tone is casual, but almost abnormally so. Zishu squints down at the comb again to see if there is anything peculiar about it. But it just looks like a comb.

“Did it belong to your mother?” Zhou Zishu hazards a guess. “I thought the only thing you managed to take with you when the ghosts came was the hairpin.”

“…It belongs to Ah Xiang.”

Oh.

“When she was little, I would help her get dressed and do her hair up in the ugliest little buns you ever saw,” Wen Kexing continues in something of a daze, “I am sure I pulled her hair so many times, but she never complained. She was too scared I would throw her out. When she got a bit older, she would scold me when her braids were sloppy, but she wouldn’t let any of the girls from the department of the unfaithful do them, either. She only wanted me, and to this day I don’t know why.”

By this time Zhou Zishu has managed to tie back a portion of Lao Wen’s hair so it is no longer falling in his eyes. He thinks about attempting the usual little twist he wears it in, but it is already a bit crooked as it is and he suspects that would be beyond his abilities. He smooths the hair back from his forehead one last time, gently pulling a few strands loose at the sides to frame his face the way he likes it.

“She loved you.” He tells him quietly.

“I loved her, too.”

“I know.” He squeezes his shoulder.

“I found the comb in with my things when I woke up after…after…” Wen Kexing’s breathing becomes erratic, and Zhou Zishu wraps him up in his arms, pulling him back against his chest. Kexing refuses to meet his eyes, but he eventually seems to calm himself, reaching up and holding onto Zishu’s wrists for dear life. “I don’t know if there was some sort of mix up in the rush to leave Ghost Valley, or if Ah Xiang left it for me on purpose. Maybe she thought it would give her an excuse to come back, if she wanted. Maybe she just wanted me to remember all those early mornings when I used to do her hair for her. Or maybe… Maybe she thought I would forget her if she didn’t leave something behind.”

“She knew that she was going to miss you,” Zhou Zishu says, pressing a kiss into the crown of his head, “She wanted to make sure that you would miss her, too.”

A child takes after their parent, after all.

“I…was not as nice to her as I could have been,” Wen Kexing says thickly, “At first, it was because it was too dangerous. If the other ghosts knew she was precious to me, they would go after her as soon as it looked like I might be any sort of threat to them. I had to keep her at a distance to keep her safe. But later… Later on, I think I just forgot how to be kind to someone. And so, I was always making her worried that I would throw her away…”

“She knew,” Zhou Zishu soothes, “She knew your intentions. Who else could know you better?”

“You know me better,” Lao Wen sighs. “She was a bit too silly to understand me completely. Her heart was better than mine. She deserved better than me.”

“You raised her well.”

“Not well enough.”

They sit together in silence for a while, each lost in the memories of the children they could not save. There is grief, but there is understanding, too. The wordless empathy of touch. Zhou Zishu holds Wen Kexing in his arms and sees the ways their hurts fit together in perfect likeness. How just to know someone who knows him, someone with whom he freely shares his words and his space and his time without resentment or restraint, has allowed them both to become more of the people they had always wanted to be. And that…is a kind of caring, too.

Perhaps the most important kind.

The rest will come later.

“Lao Wen, I am afraid if you don’t get up, your hair will need combing again,” Zhou Zishu says after a long time has passed. He makes no move to relinquish his embrace, however.

“I’m not getting up,” Wen Kexing says stubbornly, “You can just comb my hair again for me later.”

“Oh?” Zhou Zishu laughs softly, “I thought I wasn’t very good at it.”

“You are not,” Lao Wen tells him bluntly, “But I’m spoiled now. You have to brush my hair for me every day.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

Zhou Zishu smiles, and holds him that much tighter.

“Alright.”

[kurowrites]

In Agreement - Chapter 6

More of these two being disgusting and in love. Argh.

--

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian asked.

“Hn?” Lan Wangji replied, more a sound than an actual word. He was lazily stroking Wei Wuxian’s long hair, gently untangling the knots that their earlier, rather vigorous activities had caused as he did so. He was feeling a wonderful kind of exhaustion, one that made him perfectly content to stay where he was and not feel the need to move for the foreseeable future. And since he had Wei Wuxian right here with him, a heavy weight against his chest, there truly was no need to move at all.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian repeated, now sounding rather more contemplative than questioning. “Do you like me, Lan Zhan?”

The question made Lan Wangji pause and frown. It surprised him to hear such a question from Wei Wuxian. What did Wei Wuxian think he was doing, here in bed with him?

But no, he realised after a moment of reflection, his hasty judgement was unfair. After all, there were many couples that had been brought together by an arranged marriage, and it did not always follow that these couples fell in love or even felt affection for each other. And even between  couples such as these, children were born on the regular. Which more than implied that bedroom activities and romantic feelings where not always things that went hand in hand.

Lan Wangji had assumed that Wei Wuxian was implicitly aware that Lan Wangji would never have sexual relations with a person that he did not also have in his heart. But perhaps such things should not simply be assumed.

Something in his heart twisted painfully. Did Wei Wuxian think that Lan Wangji would seduce Wei Wuxian without liking him? Of course, Wei Wuxian was terribly alluring, and his shameless, curious nature always made bedding him a... pleasurable experience. More than pleasurable, if he was honest. But there was more to it than that. Of course there was. Lan Zhan would not have felt tempted to bed Wei Wuxian had there not been… something more between the two of them.

He genuinely enjoyed any time they were able to spend together, from eating breakfast to preparing to go to bed at night, and if he was forced to make a decision, he would rather give up sex forever than the time he spent with Wei Wuxian. It would be an easy decision, too. For all that their bedroom activities were thoroughly enjoyable, Wei Wuxian’s company was not something that was replaceable by that or anything else.

And quite clearly, Wei Wuxian was not aware of that.

He sighed quietly at his own foolishness, and reached out to take hold of Wei Wuxian’s hip. He drew him closer, lifted Wei Wuxian’s leg to place it over his own hip so that they lay as close to each other as possible, tangled in the sullied sheets of their marital bed. He brushed kisses across Wei Wuxian’s face, and quietly delighted in the way Wei Wuxian’s eyebrows fluttered as he did so. He delighted in the way he turned towards Lan Wangji and silently asked for more affection; affection that Lan Wangji was perfectly willing to give.

“I would not let anyone this close that I did not like, Wei Ying,” he started his explanation, and Wei Wuxian chuckled lightly.

“Ah yes, the infamously untouchable Second Jade of Lan,” he teased, poking Lan Wangji in the cheek with a finger.

“Hn,” Lan Wangji easily agreed. “Only Wei Ying.”

Lan Wangji thought that he could spot the first signs of a blush colouring Wei Wuxian’s cheeks, but Wei Wuxian hid his face in Lan Wangji’s chest before he could be sure.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian complained. “Don’t say such things!”

Wei Wuxian was a fool, Lan Wangji decided. How he could think that Lan Wangji was not irredeemably in love with him was beyond Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji would never even look at a different person from here on out.

“Wei Ying,” he said, with all the intent he could muster. “I like you.”

Wei Wuxian’s fingers twitched against Lan Wangji’s skin, but he did not reply.

“I have told you before that you are worthy of respect,” Lan Wangji tried again. “I would never disrespect you like this.”

“Oh, you would not?”

Apparently Wei Wuxian had found his voice again and raised his head to look at Lan Wangji with one eyebrow lifted critically.

“I distinctly remember someone disrespecting me very thoroughly just a short while ago, making me beg and plead for my release while he was teasing me in the worst ways.”

“You did not enjoy that?”

Wei Wuxian lightly punched him in the shoulder without any real intention to harm him.

“That’s not the point,” he complained.

“So you did enjoy that.”

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian cried.

“Wei Ying. I want to make sure.”

Wei Wuxian was quiet for several moments, looking at Lan Wangji with an unreadable expression on his face.

“I like you too, you know.”

This time, it was Lan Wangji’s turn to be at a loss of words.

He took a deep, steadying breath, trying to control the sudden, overwhelming emotions expanding in his chest.

Ah, this man did things to him that he would not ever be able to express in words. No poetry or song could ever do the feelings battering against the confines of his chest justice.

“I did not know that,” he eventually confessed out loud. “I hoped.”

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian exclaimed. “And you still bedded me? How shocking!”

He wriggled out of Lan Wangji’s hold and for one terrifying moment, Lan Wangji thought that he had offended Wei Wuxian with his honesty. That Wei Wuxian would leave. But then Wei Wuxian straddled him and sat on his abdomen, just in the right position to look down on Lan Wangji.

“Lan er-gege,” he said, frowning down at Lan Wangji severely. “I cannot believe that you hoped I would like you. You are the most handsome man in all of the cultivation sects. You are the shining light, the pride of Gusu Lan. Before you married me, you were one of the most eligible bachelors anywhere. How could anyone not like you?”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji sighed heavily. Still, he could not resist the temptation to put his hands on Wei Wuxian’s waist and squeeze lightly. His skin flickered in the low candle light, and it looked beautiful and inviting, almost unreal. How was he not to touch Wei Wuxian, when he was right there? “Wei Ying. Being respected for my abilities and being liked are two different things. There are many people who respect me, but who do not like me. In fact, many people who respect me do not particularly like me.”

“Lies!” Wei Wuxian accused him petulantly. “Who could ever not like Lan Zhan?”

And therein lay the problem, Lan Wangji though. The people who referred to him as Lan Zhan might like him – which was all of two people. As for the rest, those who called him Hanguang-jun and bowed deeply when he passed by, things were more complicated.

Not that Lan Wangji cared much about these people and their opinion. In the world of cultivation, respect was a valuable currency. Being liked by many people rarely translated into any kind of currency, however.

And if he was entirely honest, it did not matter to him whether he was liked or not. As long as this person here, this person currently in his arms, liked him, all was right. Wei Wuxian was what mattered to him most.

“Who could ever not like Wei Ying?” he therefore returned, and saw Wei Wuxian flounder just as he had expected.

He carefully sat up, letting Wei Wuxian slip into his lap, and reached out to cradle Wei Wuxian’s head in his hands and give him slow, gentle kisses.

“Thank you,” he said in between. “For liking me.”

Wei Wuxian made a protesting noise, but let himself be soothed by another kiss.

Lan Wangji held on to Wei Wuxian, breathing in the smell of his skin and the sound of his voice as he laughed, protesting about Lan Wangji’s breath tickling him, and let himself be happy.

Oh, what a foolish man in love he was.

---

Later, when Lan Wangji had dozed off and all the candles had burned down, Wei Wuxian lay in the dark, cradled in Lan Wangji’s embrace, and found himself unable to sleep.

Lan Wangji often did that to him, Wei Wuxian had come to realise.

“You foolish man,” he whispered quietly to the sleeping Lan Wangji. “You hoped I would like you? When I have been looking at you with desire for so long? How could you not have realised? Jiang Cheng keeps telling me to stop making bedroom eyes at you. But I cannot and will not stop, Lan Wangji. That is how much I like you.”

Lan Wangji, still asleep, snuffled once and drew Wei Wuxian closer to himself, stilling again once he was apparently satisfied with Wei Wuxian’s proximity.

It was truly a crime, Wei Wuxian mused. Lan Wangji needed to stop being so unconsciously affectionate and adorable, or Wei Wuxian would have to find a way to survive without sleep for the rest of his life.

He pressed a kiss to Lan Wangji’s temple, and then let his eyes fall close, ready to be swept away by the gentle murmur of his pleasant dreams.